"Ack!"

"Ugh!"

"Eh!"

"Mmmm!"

"AHHHHHH!!!" Toews screams from the top of her lungs as she emits a thick blast of yellow energy straight at her target.

The Pro 12, or should I say Pro 8, are now training for their big battle against Luis. Toews is in her own training room where bullseye targets are suspended from the ceiling for her target.

John is there as well, but he is not necessarily training; he is sitting at a desk near by to the right, working on some type of medium-sized machine.

The ruler of the NHL stares at the blown up target with wide eyes and a frown. The bullseye is not completely torn apart, just the half that is connected to the ceiling remains along with somewhat of the middle. Let's say 64% of the target is missing.

"John!" Toews turns to her right to face the Islander. "Can you compare my target with my previous target I practiced on when I was normal?"

Without saying a word, John looks up from his work, holds out a remote control, pressing on it, and goes back to his work.

The Blackhawk turns back to see as the target she requested beginning sliding into view from the left, halting next to her just-blown-up target.

The target that just came in is completely gone; the only part that survived is the tip. It does not take rocket science to figure out that Toews is lacking on strength.

"I-I-I..." Her voice trails off as she extends her hands at the comparison in disbelief. "I can't believe this. What's going on, why can't I blow up targets just like how I used to before?"

"Let us see." John gets up and lumbers over to the distressed lady with a small, boxed-shaped, metallic device in his hand. He places the device right below Toews's collarbone, waits for a few moments, then pulls it away from her.

He scrutinizes the screen that is on the box. "Hmmm... Juxtaposed to your magnitude of energy before this calamity of you transforming into the opposite sex, the magnitude of your power's strength has plummeted prodigiously: 68.32243147 percent to be precise." He gazes back up at her.

"What?" Toews jaw drops with huge eyes. "My powers aren't as efficient as before?!"

The Islander nods his head slowly. "That's one aspect to put it in. It elucidates why you went way off when undertaking to orate in Spanish. I perceived, when you fancy to orate in a certain language, you would of course orate in a contrasting one, but that language you orated in is from the selfsame language group of the language you yearned to orate in. But this very day, you orated in Zulu instead of Spanish..." He crumbles his face, like as if he saw something disgusting. "You were far off, smells, far off. Not even close."

He looks to his right to see the targets. "And that also elucidates your lack of strength with striking these targets. Your flow of energy has reduced dramatically."

"But how do I get it back up? How do I get my strength back?" Toews asks frantically, clutching her fist with her other hand.

"To be candid with you, I do not have an inkling. But the most reasonable technique from experience and observation is for you to transform back into a male."

"Ugh..." The ruler of the NHL leans her head back in distress. "We have got to solve this problem...like now." She straightens back up. "Can we just go fight Luis now and get all this over with? I really want to turn myself back to normal...!"

"I'm occupied at the moment; avail yourself the time I necessitate to go through your paces combating with the aggregate of strength your body attains." John turns around and begins strolling back to his desk.

Toews stands there motionless, watching as the Islander sits himself back down, takes a swig of almondade, and gets back to work. She frowns with furrowed eyebrows, making a decision in her mind. "No."

John perks up at her with raised eyebrows. "Come again?"

"No," she repeats sternly. "I am not going to wait around, especially wait around for you to get done with whatever you're doing." She points to the mess of metallic parts that is sprawled on his table. "We got a battle to fight, and I want to fight it now." She then points to the ground with a grave look.

Toews's mentor purses his lips, not happy that he must stop in the middle of his work. He then lets out a sigh. "Don't be irrational, kid. You necessitate supplementary time to prepare--you're not adequate yet to take up Suárez."

"Who says?" Toews bellows, strutting up to John. She then slams her hands down on the table's surface, completely taking John's attention away from his work.

She leans toward him and growls: "I am the right hand ruler of the NHL and I can decide whether or not I am prepared for this battle. I know what I am capable of and I know what to do and what not to do. I say that we fight and get this over with right now."

She straightens up and crosses her arms. "Guy or girl, finished or not finished, time's not gonna stop ticking and nether is Luis going to stop attempting to take over the leagues. It's now or never."

John stares up at her, looking like as if he is trying to keep his frustration from exploding. He clenches his jaw with a frown and furrowed eyes, mulling over whether to protest or give in. He then takes another gulp of his almondade and plops it down on the table. "Fine," he forces out.

"But if we come to naught, it's not my culpability. And I'm conveying my work."

"Fair enough." Toews then spins around and begins making her way out of the room. "I'm going to tell the others that we're going into battle." She then makes a left turn and exits the room.

---

The Pro 12 are now standing in front of Luis's headquarters.

It is sitting on the foothill of Cerro Catedral; it is blended with the scenery due to its gray, stone walls stacked up to make a two-story tall building; in the front is a wooden door.

Toews is in front of the group, staring at the door in deep thought.

"Um, Jonathan, if we come in here, how can Buster here fit inside?" Chris asks from behind her.

The Blackhawk looks behind her shoulder, spotting Chris pointing to the massive guinea pig with his thumb. "Ummm..." She narrows her eyes. "We'll keep him outside. For now." She looks up at Buster. "Okay?"

Buster makes some squeaking sounds while twitching his nose.

"Is that an 'okay' or 'no okay?'" Sidney asks with a frown.

"You'll be okay out here, riiiiight?" Jay exclaims, throwing himself on the lower back of the guinea pig. "Don't you worry, you big fluffy thing!"

"Love, love!" Tony throws himself on Jay, hugging him tightly.

Toews sighs, looking back at the door. "How should we go in? Intrude? Knock?" She turns John, who is on her left, looking for an answer.

John is too busy working at his portable desk, probably ignoring her on purpose.

"Tocar," Guillermo suggests. (Knock)

"Chmeeps!" Müller adds in, like as if it'll help.

"Okay..." Toews hovers her fist over the surface of the door. "But before I do, let's assign roles:"

She turns to look at her group. "Okay, Sid, John, and Chris, you guys are going to fight. Tony, Ochoa, Thomas, and Jay, you guys are going to help free the ones who are in hostage. And I'll fight."

"You shouldn't--"

Toews shoots John a fierce look.

The Islander gets the message and looks back down at his work.

"Alright, let's do this." She faces the door and gives it three, good knocks. She then steps back with her eyes glued on it, waiting for the door to open.

Finally, the door opens and Juan pops into view. His eyes light up. "People! Hehe...!" He rubs his hands together with a growing smile. "I'm bad!"

Chris just makes a disgusted look. "Who are you?"

"You can call me 'El Juan.'" the Colombian replies coolly, pointing to his chest with his thumb.

The Pro 12 exchange awkward looks.

Luis then comes into view, staring down at him. "No, I'm El Jeffe Chupacabra, you're just Juan!"
He pushes him out of the way.

He then faces his visitors. "Hello!" He makes a huge wave at the good guys. "What may I help you with, hmmm...?"

"We'll like to introduce you to your doom," Toews replies matter-of-factly. "After we explain who we are."

Notes