Karate-Guy clearly knows you’re packing magic, so a surprise attack isn’t likely to work. You could offer to help him if he spares you, but with current time constraints you doubt he’d listen. Besides, if you’re going to be eliminated then it won’t be while you’re pleading on the ground. Fuck that noise. In a single movement, one practiced by countless games of flip cup, you spin the plastic cup around in your hand so that the top is facing the floor.
You were right that Karate-Guy was prepared for you to shoot magic, and had a counter in mind for when you did. What he was not expecting, however, was a red plastic cup exploding upward in a forceful stream of beer, directly at his face. The angled shot strikes true, hitting him square in the nose and soaking him in beer. The cup ricochets away, still overturned and flying off in a direction you’re too occupied to trace.
“Son of a bitch!” Karate-Guy yells, grabbing his, likely broken, nose as it begins spewing blood. He would likely lay one hell of a smack down on you for that, but in the commotion you have leapt up from the ground and taken off in an unabashed sprint. Bravery is well and good, however there is something to be said for a well-timed tactical retreat.
As you run, you notice the dust is clearing and the ground has become littered with groaning people holding destroyed costumes. Evidently, the thick of battle was not a fun place to be. On the upside, at least it means you probably don’t have a whole lot of competition left. With an increase in gasping for air, you press on, seeing more and more destroyed costumes. Your eyes scan about for Victoria, however you’re unable to locate her in the chaos. Unless her cheerleader outfit was from the Sunnyvale high school team, you’ve got a sneaking suspicion she isn’t doing too well.
Concern for others flies out of your mind as a body crashes down only a few feet away from you. It’s a pudgy man in a white bathrobe, and clutched in his hand are the tattered remains of a red headband.
“Karate-Guy?” Your voice seems to echo off the floor, and your confusion is evident. You’ve only been running a few moments, what could have already happened to him?
“I’m Ryu,” he says, groaning. “You idiot.”
“What the hell happened?” You choose to ignore his insult, but you can’t help noticing that a lot of people are calling you stupid today. This is not a trend you’re a fan of.
He wearily points over to the left, where you can see Not-Superman ripping apart a cowboy’s costume while the six-shooter fires vainly into the big blue “S” on his chest. “Got me when you ran off. He’s all over the place. The rest of us don’t stand a chance.”
As if to prove the point, at that moment the cowboy begins to shimmer, and moments later he is nothing more than a young man in a torn coat. Not-Superman lets out a hearty laugh, then turns his eyes about. Unfortunately, they land squarely on you.
“Wizard,” he calls, ambling toward you at little more than a saunter. “I didn’t expect you to survive this long.”
“It’s only been around four minutes,” you yell back.
“Exactly,” he replies.
Karate-Guy slaps the ground and gets your attention. “Hide, cast some spell to get away. We’ve all attacked him and nothing works. He brushed off my hadoken like it was a light wind. There’s no way you can beat Superman.”
“Quite right,” Not-Superman agrees. You’re about to ask how the hell he heard that, then you remember that super-hearing in one of his many, many powers. So is super-speed, which means running away is probably not going to be a viable strategy this time.
“Shiiiiit,” you say. “Guys, I’ve got a dude in a Superman outfit bearing down on me. Any ideas?”
“You’re a wizard!” Jim yells through the phone. “Summon Kryptonite!”
You hear a scuffling as someone struggles to take the phone away from him.
“No!” Circe yells. “Listen, you’re a wizard, he’s right about that - damnit, Jim let me talk – so what you should do is-”
“I’m telling you, just magic up some kryptonite. Everyone knows he’s vulnerable to that!” You get the feeling Jim’s overenthusiasm might be stemming from the fact that he feels like he’s finally able to contribute.
“That won’t work,” Circe objects. “Give me the fucking phone right now. Wizard, you to blast him, because- DAMNIT!”
The curse word and a not-so-subtle crunch are the last words you hear before the connection cuts off completely. Not-Superman lets out his laugh again. That annoying, douchebag of a laugh that grates more and more on your nerves with each occurrence.
“Such helpful friends you have,” he says, still chuckling. Not-Superman is only ten feet away now. You know he could close that gap before you even blinked, yet he seems to be taking his time, truly enjoying the sense of impending doom that is rippling through you. “Feel free to try either one. It will be exactly as effective as every other idiot’s attempt to attack me so far. I’m fucking Superman, and everyone knows Superman’s only vulnerability is kryptonite. I somehow doubt your skillfull enough to conjure something like that.”
He’s coming toward you. Running is out. So is staying hidden. Even if he didn’t have an entire suite of sensory powers, you couldn’t bear to turn your back on this asshole. No, now is the time for do or die. You’ve got one shot, so make it count.
It's blasting time