Peter opened a small control panel next to the emergency phone and punched in a four digit code. I knew without watching his fingers that the code was 0513 — May thirteenth, my birthday.

The doors closed and the elevator began its descent.

Peter turned to me. "How did you know that would work?" he asked. "The 'light years' thing, I mean."

"I know Doctor Impossible," I said. "The only thing he cares about more than overthrowing Metropolis Black is proving that he's smarter than everyone else. I knew he would launch into one of his stereotypical lectures and get so wrapped up that he wouldn't notice us leaving."

"Wicked!" Peter exclaimed. "You're like a telepath in this world. You know everyone's strengths, weaknesses, and secrets. Cool!"

"I know not in what sense the temperature is relevant to thine most masterful deception," Hamlet added, "but I am in accordance. Thy knowledge is most fruitful and profound, my lady."

Peter pulled a face. "Who was talking about the temperature?" he asked.

"Why, twas you, young sir," Hamlet replied. "Even now you made mention of a chill in the air."

"What? Nuh-uh."

"He's referring to your use of the word 'cool'," I translated.

"Does 'cool' not imply a temperate condition in which the air does not exude quite a spring day's warmth but has yet to make the arduous descent into the cold of winter?" Hamlet asked.

"It can also mean 'great'," I explained. "In this context. Any positive response, really."

"Ahhh," Hamlet said. "Cool."

Peter smacked himself in the forehead.

The elevator dinged, and a disembodied female voice announced, "Sub Level five."

Our hodgepodge trio disembarked, maneuvered down a short hallway, and rounded a corner. We arrived at a set of reinforced steel doors. I noted the surveillance camera watching us from above as Peter entered another code into yet another control panel.

The doors opened.

Peter ushered us inside and quickly bolted the doors behind us.

I turned in a full circle, soaking up our new surroundings. I was hit with an undeniable and situationally inappropriate urge to fangirl.

We were inside the vigilante headquarters. And it was exactly as I'd imagined it.

Two walls were lined with multiple display cases full of badass weapons and high tech communication devices. Everything from tasers, to bolas, to throwing stars, to nunchucks — if I could describe how to use it, the heroes had it.

A live digital city map hung from the ceiling in the center of the room. It updated in real time and illustrated in minute detail the location and severity of every explosion, robbery, and riot.

There were four work areas topped with state of the art computers and police scanners. Each sported a limited-edition action figurine of the corresponding vigilante.

But perhaps most impressive of all was the far wall, which was made up entirely of floor-to-ceiling surveillance monitors. Every corner of downtown Metropolis Black could be observed from inside this room.

"Shit..." Peter murmured. He pointed to one of the monitors. "Looks like Doctor Impossible and friends are giving the heroes a run for their money."

The live footage showed the heroes and villains in a nasty brawl of snap kicks and flying fists. NightHawk, Lady Silk, and Knives were completely outnumbered and systematically being forced toward the elevators.

"I'll be right back," Peter told me. He disappeared into a side room that I knew the heroes used for changing into their costumes.

"We don't have long," I said. My skin rippled in a tremor. "A few more minutes and they'll be down here. I don't have time to write a malfunction with the elevator let alone an ending."

"Your dread is understandable yet unnecessary, my lady," Hamlet told me. He took my hand and squeezed it. "Until the life departs from my body, you shall have the protection of my blade."

Despite the dire situation, my heart gave a feeble leap in my chest. "Thank you," I said. "And please, call me Cristina."

"Cristina," Hamlet repeated. He graced me with a debonair smile. "It is an honor and privilege to address thee thusly." He raised my hand to his lips and planted a light kiss on my knuckles. "Admittance pains me, Cristina, but I fear I do not grasp in full the foreign sorcery that makes possible this theatrical display." He motioned to the dozens of monitors. "It is magic?"

"In a way," I answered. I savored the warmth of his touch, and I squeezed his hand in return. "It's called 'technology.' Science and innovation. Through these screens we can observe what is happening in multiple areas of the city without actually being in harm's way." I pointed to the losing battle taking place in the lobby five floors above us. "Unfortunately, harm seems to be coming for us, regardless."

My stomach twisted as I watched Knives being thrown to the ground. Three of Doctor Impossible's lackeys were restraining NightHawk while a fourth tied his hands.

"Fuuuuuck..." Peter groaned. He pushed his way between us, forcing Hamlet to release my hand.

I scowled at Peter. "Subtle," I deadpanned.

Peter's distracted gaze was fixed on the same monitor Hamlet and I had been watching. "We're gonna be trapped down here!" he cried.

I glanced at his change of clothes. Rather than his Ebay Spiderman costume, he now wore navy track pants, a bright red Nike hoodie, and neon red sneakers to match.

"Trapped?" Hamlet repeated. "What mean'st thou?"

"Look!" Peter cried, pointing to another monitor. "They're getting in the elevator! Doctor Impossible and his goons will have us barricaded in here in a matter of minutes!" He muttered a string of obscenities that caused Hamlet to frown and shake his head.

"By your speech, I understand this to be not 'cool'," he said to Peter.

"You're damn right it's not cool!" Peter snapped. "How could this be cool?"

"Frightened art thou?" Hamlet inquired. "With the goodly skill thy possess that I did presently witness in the cathedral above, I would'st believe that little exists on this plane that may cause fear in thee."

"Oh, I'm afraid," Peter retorted. "Very afraid. I'm literally scared to death that you're never gonna shut the hell up!"

"I beseech thy forgiveness."

I began pacing in front of the wall of screens. I found the monitor that displayed the view of the entrance to HQ and watched with mounting trepidation as Doctor Impossible approached the door. His goons had NightHawk, Lady Silk, and Knives bound and gagged, and were pulling the trio along even as they struggled.

Doctor Impossible tried the door handle. It didn't budge. He looked up at the camera and gave us a malicious smirk. He made a show of tapping his finger against his temple.

One of the Doctor's lackeys appeared by his side. In his hands he held a translucent gun covered in buttons and dials and filled with a blue gelatin-like substance.

Oh. No.

"What the actual fu—" Peter began. "What is that thing?"

I swallowed against the bile rising in my throat. "It's a fusion reaction device," I said, my voice hoarse.

"A what?!" Peter exclaimed.

"A plasma gun I wrote for him," I confessed. I watched via the monitor as Doctor Impossible adjusted one of the dials on the device. "He's going to slice through the door."

"Bullshit," Peter countered. His voice rang with conviction, but his eyes were full of uncertainty. "That door is engineered out of five-inch-thick reinforced steel."

"It doesn't matter," I said. "The fusion reactor is designed to harness the energy of atomic nuclei, then heat the plasma inside the chamber to the temperature of a supernova. The beam it emits can cut a hole through the fabric of spacetime."

Peter expelled an exasperated breath. "English for dummies! Please!"

"That gun will make melted butter out of a steel door," I offered.

Panic mounting, we watched as Doctor Impossible aimed the fusion device at the HQ entrance and pulled the trigger. A blue plasma beam erupted from the nozzle, and a seam appeared in the steel surface of the door — no more than a hairline crack at first, but as the heated plasma continued to burn through the metal, the crack grew.

"We're fucked!" Peter exclaimed. He spun around, facing me with wide, horrified eyes. "Why did you write him a gun like that?!"

"I was researching fusion reaction, and thought it sounded like a weapon he'd have," I disclosed, my voice very small. I held up my hands in a useless gesture of apology. "I'm sorry."

"What is done, is done, and cannot be undone," Hamlet said. "Thou ne'er wished the physician to be victorious, didst thou?"

"No! Of course not!"

"Thus, thou must have gifted the heroes a measure for combatance," Hamlet surmised. "Delve. Delve into the recesses of thy memory. What was't?"

"The emergency exit," I whispered.

"What?" Peter asked. "Vigilante HQ doesn't have one of those."

"Not yet, no," I agreed. I wagged my finger at him as the half-baked concept began to come back to me. "But the Batcave had one, so I thought you guys should have one, too. I wrote it. It exists. But...only as a rough draft."

The hum of the fusion gun was growing more pronounced. A quick glance at Doctor Impossible on the monitor showed me that we had maybe two minutes until the entrance was breached.

I darted across the room to the weapon display cases. Locating a row of throwing stars, I turned the center star counterclockwise until I felt a catch. I heard the mechanical whirl and click of a lock unhitching on the opposite side of the room.

The surveillance monitors in the center of the wall swiveled and parted like graphics in a video game, revealing a hidden doorway.

"Holy shit!" Peter exclaimed. He bounced forward and poked the door, as if to confirm it was real. "I never knew this was here! None of us did! Looks like your rough draft came through!"

"I wasn't concerned about whether or not the exit would exist," I told him. "A draft is a draft, regardless of polish. I'm concerned because I don't know where it leads."

Peter stared at me blankly. "Huh?"

"The destination hath yet to be determined," Hamlet summarized. "And as such, to venture through this door may find us in fair Verona or, just as likely, the ninth circle of hell."

"Exactly," I said. "It's a toss up. A risk assessment."

The humming on the other side of the HQ entrance grew louder. It would be only a matter of seconds before Doctor Impossible and his goons broke through.

"Choice be not our present luxury," Hamlet declared. "Through the door we must venture, heedless of perilous epilogue."

"Then let's go!" Peter cried. His eyes darted back and forth between the HQ entrance and the mystery exit. "Cristina can't get caught. Period."

With a decisive nod, I grabbed the handle and yanked, leading the way through the rough draft doorway. Hamlet and Peter followed close on my heels.

The heavy door slammed shut behind us, and we shuffled several paces in total darkness. I saw a narrow ray of light up ahead and stumbled toward it.

We emerged onto an elevated walkway between two stone towers. Gone was the subterranean, post-modern hideout. An overcast afternoon sky hung above us, and as I turned, I saw that we were situated on the foremost wall of a great stone castle.

"What the—?" Peter murmured, his eyes wide.

I gazed around in silent awe. To the east lie a vast body of water. The evening breeze carried the distinct scent of salty brine. Rolling gardens of impressive foliage were situated to the south and west. A wide moat of dark water surrounded the structure on three sides. The lofty towers and countless turrets pointed to the heavens as if in accusation.

This castle was a fortress of all-too-familiar Renaissance architecture. My jaw slackened. "I know this place."

"As do I," Hamlet stated. "We are rightly cursed to the ninth circle of hell, as feared."

"This is hell?" Peter asked.

"Ay," Hamlet replied. "For 'tis the castle Elsinore, mine home."

"Your home?!" Peter exclaimed. "As in, the sixteenth century?"

"Just so," Hamlet confirmed. He glanced at me, his expression grim. "Welcome, friends, to the rotten state of Denmark."

~ * ~