[b]SONJA[/b]

A nagging voice in the back of her head whispered [i]that was unfair and you're being rude to a valued friend[/i], but she didn't care, she was already tired and keyed up. She ignored Hot Rod's apologies, though the same voice told her she'd have to make it up to him at some point. She simply stormed into Styx' room and began the interrogation. When the sorceress proposed a pact, she leaned back in her chair, briefly considering it. Magical pacts were devised at some point in the far and distant past, their seriousness respected even by the worst dark magic practicioners. However, there were any number of dodges. The classic one was deliberately vague wording- as long as you kept to your exact words, you couldn't be held as an oathbreaker. She would have to be careful.

"Alright, I'm willing. But I have conditions that need to be fulfilled first," Sonja warned. "One, I want you to understand that in exchange for League protection, you are to provide us with all the current information you have on Legion. Members, locations, intentions, abilities, dispositions. In as much detail as possible. Two, you are to renounce all use and study of black magic for the rest of your natural and unnatural life. In return, we are prepared to protect you from Legion and will intercede on your behalf with both the federal government and the State of Illinois as regards whatever crimes you have committed. If you're satisfied with these conditions, we may clasp hands and enter the pact." Sonja rested her hand on the table, as if challenging her to an arm wrestling match. [i]I'm taking sole responsibility for this one, Thomas,[/i] she reassured Destiny in the other room, beaming the thought directly into his head.

-----------

[b]SIXGUN[/b] 

"Gawd damn and a half," Sixgun muttered to himself. "This is one hell of a collection of desperadoes." 

And indeed it was. According to the placards somehow had thoughtfully placed on the table, more than forty different cities were represented here. Some of the biggest names in organized crime were present. Sixgun, under Pariah's tutelage, had gone through a who's who of organized crime figures, but never expected to see them all in the same room. Roman Maine, for one, and Christian Donovan. Between the two of them they represented most of the crime on the East Coast. His eyes widened as he saw El Rey come in, a familiar face from Phoenix, accompanied by his personal scientist El Tecnico. Bad. Sixgun's immediate thought was to blend in with the Road Kings once again, but the Indianapolis chapter he had familiarized himself with was currently chatting with those from Tacoma and Memphis. No way he could hide among them, especially not in this white suit. He edged behind a tall Korean gangster, hoping to make himself invisible. While he was confident in his mask back home the last thing he wanted was to be recognized here. Especially not here. All it'd take was one gunshot, one accusation, and this would turn into a massacre, the like of which would probably destroy half of Chicago given the presence of metahumans. Like Bomber Man. Didn't they guy tear up downtown Austin a year or two back?

The atmosphere was already growing sour, as bitter rivals found themselves in the same room. Sixgun looked away from the sight of Road Kings trading insults with the Cossacks MC, to see a Philadelphia mafioso coldly staring down his counterpart in the same town's Greek mob. Unless Marconi and Music could get them all to agree on something, tensions could very easily boil over.

Sixgun gave a poke to Wire, who seemed ill at ease himself. The man's body language seemed defensive, much like his own. Maybe he had also recognized someone here. Trying to make sure El Rey and the Panamanian could not see his face, he whispered to his partner. "This place is a powderkeg, man. Fletcher Ross got hisself an idee, though." He unobtrusively pointed out one individual seated at the table, a man who was very familiar to him indeed. "You seein' this fella in the black turtleneck? The one with the rent-a-cop types with rifles behind him. Serge Ionescu. Calls hisself Argus, after the giant with a hunnert eyes. I'm thinkin' if things go south, he's the guy to protect. The Bosnians will watch after Music, and Marconi has more men than anyone, not to mention La Sombra is watchin' his back. But this fella Argus is some kinda spymaster, see? Got informants and wiretaps and drones, that kinda thing. A knowledge broker. If anyone here has hard intelligence on Legion, it's Argus. So we keep him alive at all costs, get me?" His point made, he took a watchful position, jacket opened just enough that he could easily reach his revolver if need be. The .45 would be all but useless on some of these people, but it was better than nothing.