A few years ago, in the hierarchy of the criminal underground, it was all they could talk about.
"....they found his mask...."
"....It was in a ditch...."
"....had some .44 magnum holes in it...."
"....I paid off my guy in the FBI to test the blood on it..."
"....they said it was his...."
Spectre, the one man everybody from the highest of mafioso, to the smallest of bank robbers could trust to get the job done, had died. Or, more accurately, disappeared. All they found was his mask. Shot up, with his blood on it, and nobody else's. It couldn't be true, could it? He had survived everything, from jobs gone bad to the occasional betrayal, he had made it out under his own free will.
But, as they say, all good things come to an end.
It had been going on four plus years by now, but the man had gotten bored. Severely, cripplingly bored. Normal life wasn't for him. He tried, and was able to pull it off for a while. But after a while....
Wait, let's back up for a minute. How did we get here?
At that point, in 2018, the criminal work had gotten taxing. That's strange to say when you're only 32 at the time, but having done it professionally since 18 and in a non-professional capacity even longer.... all the running around and all the wounds and everything else start to catch up to you. You wonder "why am I starting to get creaky in my early thirties" when you should be focused on trying to send a perfectly placed .308 through some poor bastard's skull.
So... how to get out?
Well, it took months of planning, timing, some .44 magnum rounds, a slit finger to produce some blood, and a perfectly made copy of his infamous hockey mask with the crudely drawn skull on it.
In between jobs, before anybody could contact him, the heavily scarred man rushed off and placed the desecrated mask copy out somewhere where it would take a while for somebody to find it.
And then... the waiting game.
A few months passed. He took no phone calls, settled down in a seedy apartment in the middle of nowhere, and waited...
Eventually, it was found. By a boy, probably out playing in places his mother wouldn't let him go. The authorities got a hold of it. While it wasn't major news for more than a day, everyone in the criminal underground knew. And that was all he needed.
He could get on with his life, almost. But one more thing....
He was hilariously recognizable in public. Having seven scars ripped across your face will do that to you.
He had to poke around a few hospitals, but eventually, he found a surgeon that would get rid of most of them. Said surgeon was fully paid under the table to do the job, and to keep his mouth shut about who he was operating on. He didn't need that one getting out. All the scars were removed except for one - his favorite - running from the end of his left eyebrow, down the bridge of his nose, stopping just above his upper lip.
That's it. It's done. He can live a normal life now. Spectre is gone, dead in the ground. Sure, he missed the people he had made friends with, the Juris, and Benimarus, and Roxannes, and Biancas of the world. But they would move on, they had more important things to worry about.
And so, on it went. For four years, until....
The itch. It applies to athletes who can't stay away from their sport, but not to career criminals.
Right?
The life was getting boring, and FAST. He didn't have a day job, he didn't need one. He spent most days in the seedy apartment, lounging around or keeping in shape. There's only so much of that you can do before that little voice in your head tells you to go out and do something. Eventually, that voice ate away at him for so long that he couldn't take it anymore.
The real mask was actually on a shelf in his closet. It looked at him every day when he went to go get clothes. All it needed was a good polish and it was ready to use.
How he was going to come back is a little more complicated. He couldn't just start trying to get in touch with people. Those connections would be severed until they knew he was back.
Fast forward a month, and he was sitting in the back of a dingy, beat-up van, loading a Remington 870CS shotgun with some 12 gauge slugs, listening to the driver go over how they were going to pull off this robbery.
"....lastly, what should we call you?"
He went down the list. They saved him for last. These guys ran together all the time, but they needed an extra while they found a way to get their regular crew member out of prison. He was 'new', at least to them. They were way too small time to know who he was, how well renowned he used to be.
"...and you, in the back? What do you go by?"
"....Spectre."
They arrived. The door was kicked in. Shouts of "ON THE FUCKING GROUND!" were bellowed out by the leader. The man in the hockey mask with the crudely painted skull on it was bringing up the rear. That rush was coursing through his veins.
God, he missed this.