[b]SONJA[/b]

She chuckled as Destiny brought up their recent tussle with the demon Leraje in the suburbs. "Thomas, I gotta hand it to you, most magicians confronted with an actual Marquis of Hell would say, 'Golly, here's where I get to prove what a great sorcerer I am!' and start whipping up some kind of elaborate spell. You, though? You just hit him with a shovel. Villain Takedown of the Year." 

Sonja grew more serious as she pondered his advice. Thomas was smart, and more than just a gentleman- he was a gentle man. Out of the entire League, he probably was the most interested in helping people in ways beyond the whole "punching criminals in the face" bit. "Well, a sabbatical won't work," she said, mulling over her options. "There's too much going on in the world right now for me to take a break. That wouldn't be fair to my teammates. A power booster seems impractical and too much a crutch. Maybe if the problem gets worse, but only as a stopgap measure. And I'm not going to the Fellowship. I enjoy my independence." She ticked options off on her fingers. "Obviously I can't ask the League to do more in my hometown, we've got a full plate as is. Drawing power from my surroundings- that sounds like an excellent idea, and I have no objection to learning a new skill. I'm not going to skate by forever on my charm and good looks, so might be good to learn some more practical magic."

She tried to sound more diffident than she felt with the last item. "Dragan Music is in Chicago, eh? Man, that guy. I have to give him some credit- no powers, but he's been giving the Saint Louis heros- me and Red Scorpion and Dervish and Cutlass- the runaround for years now. But obviously if Pariah says no I can't do that." Behind her sunglasses, she winked at Thomas. The gesture may have been lost, but plausible deniability was key. She didn't want him to know any specifics of what she planned to do. "You've given me a lot to think about, Thomas. I think I'd better be going, though- I haven't gotten any dinner and I'd like to meet a few of the new members." She gave the senior sorcerer a smile and a quick hug, then wandered off on her long legs, her heels clicking on the floors.

Already, wheels were turning in her mind. If she was going to take down Music she was going to need some help. While she would trust any other member with her life, there were only a few she would trust with a dollar, and even fewer she would trust with a secret. She set off for the common room, hoping to find at least one of them- a certain lanky Scot whose real name she didn't know.

---

[b]SIXGUN[/b]

"Well, sheeeeee-it," Sixgun- or rather Fletcher Ross- said, looking over the Bosnian giant known as Bender. "You's a big-un, sir! You guys really want to be sure you're getting your money's worth, don't ya? I respect that. Besides, always was a fan of backyard rasslin'."

As Fontana led everyone out of the house and onto the grounds, Sixgun could hear Pariah trying to whisper fighting advice through the implant. He tuned it out, trying to focus on his own. He was a reasonably good fighter, he knew. Even Mike Johns had some praise for his abilities- grudging, reluctant, minimal praise, true, but praise nonetheless. And he had fought big men before. So he had this under control, right? Right? 

As long as they didn't see through him and shoot him. Which seemed like a distinct possibility.

Finally, they stepped out into the cool air, the lake just visible in the gathering darkness. He nodded as the watching men formed a circle around them, a movement unchanged since school days. "Hey, Mr. President," he said, waving over the president of the Road Kings MC. "Mind hanging onto my stuff?" Sixgun shucked off the white jacket, carefully folded it, and handed it over to the biker. While it was true there was no honor among thieves, the man had enough basic decency to not run off giggling with another man's property. Next was a pearl-handled switchblade knife, and then the .45 revolver came out of Sixgun's waistband. He did a few fancy twirls, this way and that, before holding out butt-first to the man. Some habits were hard to break. Finally, he reached up for the spotless Panama hat, slowing pulling it off to hand to the biker to hold.

Except Sixgun didn't hand the hat to the biker. Instead he spun on his heel, whipping the hat through the air like a Frisbee, right into the Bosnian giant's face. The half-second of blinking confusion that would buy him saw Sixgun hurling himself forwards, then covering the last few feet in a baseball slide across the cool grass, one snakeskin boot lashing out.

One weakness of being as huge and musclebound as Bender was the inevitable strain on the joints. Especially the knees, supporting as they did such an enormous amount of weight, it wouldn't take too much additional pressure to cause a very painful injury, if not a break. And on the ground writhing in pain was exactly where Sixgun needed this man to be.

Never fight clean.