“Ladies and gentlemen, reprobates and convicted felons, live from Spire City, it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for… the death of Nightshadow!”

Hoarse cheers erupted from the two hundred or so hardened criminals that had packed into the old warehouse for the night’s festivities, and within the glass bubble that served as her prison, Helena Tseng, aka the superheroine Nightshadow, let out a muffled growl of anger. Her routine patrol through the slum of Miller’s Lane had been interrupted by a child’s cry, luring her towards an old baby carriage rigged with knockout gas, and next thing she knew, she was waking up on a thin layer of sand, glass walls surrounding her and a power inhibitor collar about her neck keeping her shadow manipulation abilities suppressed. Her prowess with the blade, bow and unarmed combat were of no help either; the former had been taken from her, and she couldn’t employ the latter thanks to the black leather straitjacket buckled tightly about her athletic figure and keeping her arms bound beneath her breasts. Meanwhile, a legbinder sheathed her calves from ankles to knees in unyielding leather, while her mouth remained sealed beneath a panel gag, reduced every curse and defiant boast to meaningless grunting. Thankfully, her costume remained untouched by her captors; black silk doublet, dark pants and domino mask all intact and in place, but that was small consolation in the face of her helplessness, for none of the assortment of belts, straps and buckles had budged an inch in all her struggles, frustration stoking the flames of her anger even higher.

It was a bad situation, one of the many such perils the beautiful Asian woman had experienced over her superheroic career, and one not improved by the endless prattling coming from the master of this obscene ceremony. “That’s right, my friends. Tonight, we draw the curtain on one of those costumed do-gooders who’ve plagued us for far too long, and all thanks to a trap of my own devising,” the Maestro boasted, basking in the applause from his audience. Like her, Thaddeus Jacobson III was born into privilege, several generations of oil money making his family one of the richest and most influential in all of Spire City. At fifty, he was a billionaire many times over, so it was even more of a shock when he liquidated those considerable assets, denounced his own family name and took up supervillainy as the Maestro. No one was quite certain why, but as someone well-insulated from the world by a vast fortune herself, Helena suspected that the old man was simply bored, and capturing damsels and placing them into fiendish deathtraps offered far more excitement and adventure than a life of lavish wealth normally provided. He was certainly committed to it, embracing each and every old villainous trope with the sincerity of a new convert practicing his faith, and while he might not have grown that handlebar mustache specifically for his new vocation, he was more than happy to twirl it all the same. “Behold!” came his shout of glee, hands pointing dramatically at the huge steel shipping container suspended above his prisoner, a series of steel pipes feeding into the top of the glass bubble. “I present to you… the Hourglass of Doom!”

“MMMPGGGGHHH!” Nightshadow screamed, the mystery of the sand lining the floor of her prison finally solved. Grunting, she strained against the confines of the straitjacket, leather giving a mocking creak in reply, and long dark hair flipped about in her struggles. “MMMMPPGGGHHHH!”

“As my charming captive has no doubt realized, when I use this remote,” said the Maestro, hefting an old-fashioned remote control, complete with a big red button, “the valves at the end of each pipe will open, letting sand pour down into the bottom. It’s a proper hourglass, so it will take a full sixty minutes to be filled and our dear damsel to be drowned beneath.”

“MMMPGGGHHHHHH!”

“Now, I know some of you are asking why I simply don’t dump the entire load on her all at once. Or for that matter, why don’t I just shoot her?” A disapproving rumble emerged from the Maestro’s throat, and grey eyes gave his audience an unforgiving stare, as if daring them to contradict him. “Let me remind you who I am. For unlike that unwashed wretch Doctor Pandemonium, or that graceless thug the Demolisher, or that degenerate freak Mindwarp, I possess both class and standards. I am the Maestro, and that means I do things properly, including giving my victims a sporting chance. Any Miller’s Lane gangbanger with a 9mm and a Dr. Phil sob story can simply shoot someone, especially if they’re bound and gagged like this. But a true villain makes dispatching their enemies into an art form, and in this way, we get to savour every delicious moment of tension. Will the beautiful Nightshadow ever manage to escape? Will virtue manage to triumph over villainy once again? Will her teammates track this place down and come to her rescue, and if so, who? I believe that the lovely Fireborn will be first to arrive on the scene, and rest assured, I have plenty of traps and surprises in store for her as well.”

A tidal wave of catcalls and filthy suggestions greeted the prospect of the redheaded superheroine’s arrival, and Nightshadow thrashed like a wild beast in her bondage in answer, beautiful features crimson with rage. If any one of them so much as lays a hand on Rachael, they’ll all die screaming for it!

“Now, let’s begin the game!” the Maestro proclaimed, and with a dramatic flourish, pressed the button. With the grinding of metal, the valves opened up, and four thin streams of sand began pouring down around Helena.

Brown eyes went wide with terror. “MMPGGGHH! MMMPPGGGGHHHH!” Desperation gave her strength, and again the leather straitjacket creaked and groaned, refusing to give way. “MMMPPPGGGHHHH!”

“Try to keep your head above the flow, my dear, there’s no sport if you simply succumb. Now let’s see what happens as the sands of your life run out…”