The dim lighting of the villain's humble surroundings, a rather meager cellar space that he had "appropriated" from some poor, unsuspecting homeless man who had been squatting here for some time before the well-dressed gentleman now before us had acquired it via heavy negotiations, mostly dealing with a nail-riddled baseball bat and a canister of gasoline. A box of matches may have played a role in there somewhere as well, but who can say?
Ripper, the maniacal engineer of human suffering (as he preferred to be known as, but the moniker wasn't quite sticking yet), was busy poring over a series of newspapers, chuckling to himself as he flicked through the pages.
The funny pages were top-quality, lately.
Although, the most hilarious story he had encountered lately was not one he had perused in the newspapers, but rather picked up on the twenty-four hour news broadcast: Black Wasp's little mishap at the bank with the South Solus Gang. 'Strange,' he had thought to himself at the time, 'In all the time I've spent ruining lives and blowing up orphanages, I've only run into that bug-eyed bitch a handful of times, and now it seems she'll be out of commission. What a shame. She was the most entertaining hero out there...'
That being said, he now realized that Black Wasp's pacification had left open a large window for him to sneak out of, set off some explosives, and run back to hiding. He doubted any of the other heroes were as crafty as she, as she was the only one that was able to track him down and haul him in after he'd taken off running. She was good, fun to toy with, fun to tango with. He wondered, now, what she was up to, what with the spinal injury and facial reconstruction via Warpath.
"Ah well," he said aloud, sweeping the pile of newspapers off of the splintered oak table he stood at. "I guess I should get started." With that, he hauled a stack of folders onto the tabletop, letting them topple unceremoniously all over the place. He opened up the first one he touched, looking into it with giddy attentiveness.
What he had acquired were the various files of metahumans on record in the Solus City penal system. "Card Shark...lame. Hmmmm. The Fool...too unoriginal. Ooooh...this one looks interesting. Bit on the dwarf-y side, though." This would continue for several minutes until he was satisfied, picking the most suitable candidates for his new scheme.
Five dossiers were splayed out before him, showing him the faces, names and sexual preferences of all the people he wanted on his team. Twirling a revolver on his index finger, he whistled a cheery jingle for a local ice cream chain, contemplating how and where he was going to find these cretins.
"Welp, no sense wasting time here," he said, holstering the pistol and walking up the stairs leading to the cellar door. Throwing the heavy wooden contraptions open, he stepped out into the dying light of the late afternoon, the air cool and brisk. He took the time to lock up his hideout, his eyes shifting around to ensure no one was about to encroach upon his quarters before walking off into the sunset.
"Yoooooooohooooooooo!" he called to no one in particular.
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