The Acolyte headquarters…
As they often did when not on a mission, the Acolytes were lounging around the rec room. Victor, a large, feral man with a grating voice, was sitting in a tattered sofa, absently flipping through channels on the television. Poitr, a young black-haired Ukrainian, was sitting at a gaming table, across from Remy, a roguish looking Cajun.
"Comrade," began Poitr, looking across the table. "You have won the past five games in a row. I think you are cheating."
"Cheating?" Balked Remy, in his heavy Cajun accent. "Moi? Why would you suspect that?"
"Huh, I don't know." Droned Victor from across the room. "Maybe because you call yourself 'Gambit,' and you have an obsession with playing cards that boarders on a fetish… You tell me."
Remy solemnly put his hand over his heart. "You wound me, Homme. You cut me real deep."
Victor looked over and snorted. "I may if you don't cut out that French crap…" With a grunt, Victor returned his gaze to the television.
"We will play again, Comrade," Poitr continued in a warning tone. "But in this game, I will deal."
"Fair 'nough." Remy casually tossed his cards across the table.
As Poitr attempted to shuffle the cards, St. John, the young Australian fire-controlling Acolyte, ran into the room. His visored cowl was pulled back, and he wore a loose orange gi over his usual metallic attire. "Guys!" He yelled out. "Guys, c'mere!"
Victor pointedly ignored the interruption. Poitr looked back with some interest, and Remy casually leaned forward on the table. "'S'up, Homme?"
"Just check this out," answered St. John with a grin. The young Aussie closed his eyes for a moment, and then let out a blood-curdling scream.
Victor winced and looked back. Poitr drew back nervously, and Remy raised an eyebrow.
St. John's scream deepened, and several sparks appeared near the flame-throwers he wore on his wrists. The sparks circled the Aussie, and then abruptly exploded into a ring of flames. As St. John opened his eyes, he was encased in tear-shaped flickering aura, and his short orangish hair was swept upwards by the rising hot air.
"Okay," St. John asked with a wide smile. "What am I?"
"Johnny Storm?" Remy suggested.
Poitr gestured weakly. "Comrade, you are on fire."
Victor shook his head and sat back in his couch. "Our teammate, unfortunately…"
St. John shook his head. "No… I'm a Super Saiyan!"
Remy remained unmoved.
"No, Comrade," corrected Poitr. "You are Super Villain. We all are. That is why we wear metallic armor and take orders from a man bearing a cape and helmet."
St. John weakly pointed to his hair. "Yeah, but… But…" The flames abruptly went out, the boy's hair fell back to normal. "Oh, just never mind…"
Poitr blinked a few times as his dejected teammate sullenly walked away. Then, with a shrug, he resumed shuffling the cards.
Sitting back up, Remy shook his head. "Dat boy needs to stop watchin' so many cartoons…."
Poitr nodded and began dealing. After a moment of silence, he stopped and abruptly raised his head. "Wait… That was it? That was the entire sketch?"
Remy looked around and shrugged. "Guess so, Homme."
Victor snorted. "Pretty weak, if you ask me…"
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