[b]SONJA SIMPSON, THE SPIRIT OF SAINT LOUIS[/b] "Thomas, c'mon, don't go scaring the new kids," the tall, thin woman said from the corner, using her long fingers to shuffle a deck of tarot cards. She wore a smartly pressed pantsuit and, of course, her ever-present sunglasses. Some Leaguers speculated there was something horribly wrong with Sonja's eyes, while others joked that she just had a really bad hangover. The latter would not be an inaccurate assessment most Sunday mornings, but the truth was far more mundane- she just liked the way they looked. That, in essence, was a good portion of what you needed to know about Sonja Simpson. She walked over, smiling brightly, laughter lines at the corners of her mouth, hand extended. "Welcome to our home. I don't know if you've been told, but this is considered a polite greeting." She demonstrated a handshake with Destiny. Extradimensional beings, bizarre creatures from other worlds- these weren't exactly new things to her. Sonja was considered fairly blue-collar among most sorcerers- no ermine robes, no thees and thous. Just talking plainly and openly. Of course, she wasn't the least bit taken aback when Light and MC wandered off to look around the building. Everything was new to them, of course they wanted to explore. "Little ADD, aren't they?" she laughed to Thomas. The man had grown on her over the last six months, especially his crazy lab, which looked like the end result of a fight between a glassblower and a crocodile. She had helped him research a number of magical problems here, and even just come to shoot the shit. "Still nicer than some of the others. Remember a couple months back? That kid in Evanston somehow summoned Leraje into his basement? It took a week to get all the brimstone out of my hair." She laughed, before looking around to see if the lab was empty and leaning in closer. "Listen, Thomas, I'm glad I got a chance to talk to you. I've been really worried. My power, it's been slipping lately, the last few weeks especially. My magic has become incrementally weaker. Not huge, but I can tell, you know? And it seems to be speeding up. I know exactly what it is- my people are losing faith in me. I've been helping you fight demons here in Chicago, I've been working with Olympia dismantling gangs in Cleveland and Milwaukee, I've been helping to train the newcomers. My sponsors at Barclay-Hoffmeyer are happy for national press, but I haven't been doing enough for home and it's bad juju, man." She realized she was pacing anxiously, stopped and looked sheepish as Thomas listened patiently. "I mean, I know there's a much larger picture. The Outfit, Legion, all of that. But I feel guilty, like I'm not doing enough." She realized she was babbling and shrugged. "I'm sorry to dump all this on you, Thomas, but I just really don't know what to do here." ---- [b]SIXGUN[/b] There was a piece of metal inside his skull. It probably wasn't metal, but Ben Brady, better known as Sixgun, was still a little anxious. Unlike anyone else in the room, he remembered a time when surgery involved a shot of bourbon and a hacksaw, which had been on his mind when Pariah had informed him of the implant. Somehow, in some way far beyond the man's limited understanding of modern technology, it enabled his handlers to see and hear what he did. [i]Christ, I hope they don't watch me take a piss,[/i] he thought, then wondered if they could hear his thoughts as well. Maybe? He had no idea what any given piece of machinery could do. So much had changed since his death, back in 1888. With a start, he realized that Marconi was speaking directly to him. No surprise he had caught the man's eye- the white seersucker suit, Hawaiian shirt and chocolate-brown snakeskin boots saw to that. Not to mention the Panama hat. It had made sense to dress loudly and ostentatiously. One would expect an undercover agent to be muted and quiet, to do nothing to draw attention to himself. So naturally, he had decided to be as eye-catching and boisterous as possible. "Fletcher Ross, sir," he said with a broad grin and a Southern drawl. He had worked very hard on the cover identity with Pariah and Strix and a few others. The seed of the idea had actually come from Father Ochoa, who suggested that coming across as a backwoods type might explain some of his difficulties with technology. Even without knowing of Sixgun's displacement in time, Pariah had liked the idea, reasoning that the South was far enough away to make him reasonable as an outsider while still close enough to be considered a possible ally. The identity had been painstakingly built up and all the documentation needed for the fictional Fletcher Ross to pass muster. A rap sheet from the Mississippi Attorney General. Records of a sentence at Parchman Farm. Driver's license. All the good stuff, if anyone cared enough to go digging. "I done most of my previous work in Biloxi. The Vegas of the South, casinos, strip joints, all the good stuff. There were some good ole boys down there that called themselves the Dixie Mafia. And if anybody needed to get got, hell, they all knew: Fletcher Ross is your man." Sixgun tipped the Panama, chuckled to himself. "Then them goddamn supers showed up, and the goddamn liberal government sets to taking the whole thing apart, and all the sudden nobody knows who Fletcher Ross is anymore. So I decides I'd best be taking my iron up north way, cause I know you fellas are hurting and could use a hand." He gave a wave to the bikers he had arrived with- the Road Kings Motorcycle Club, founded and headquartered in Indianapolis. "Now, I had a good workin' relationship with the members of the Biloxi chapter of this fine in-stew-too-shin, so I figured they might see their way clear towards letting me tag along. Course, had to show 'em what I can do first," he said with a wink. He twitched open his jacket just enough to reveal the butt of the revolver holstered in there, a nickel-plated M1917. The .45 wheelgun was obsolete now, having been built in 1917, but to Ben it was another piece of incredible futuristic technology, picked because his preferred weapons were too distinctive. "See, down South, we have a hard time getting our hands on those fancy machine guns and rocket launchers. Every bullet counts, sir, so you gotta know how to shoot straight. And believe me, sir, ain't nobody shoots straighter than Fletcher Ross, these boys'll tell you," he said with a thumb jerked back towards the Road Kings. The bikers nodded mutely- the day before, Ben had thrown an entire deck of cards in the air and put six bullets through the ace of spades before it even hit the ground. Brady finished his story, smiling broadly even as he tried to figure out if his story had been accepted. If they saw through it, Ben knew what he had to do. Six bullets in the M1917. Six important targets in this room- Marconi, Music, Fontana, Chunk, La Sombra, and of course the Witchfinder. If they moved on him, he'd try to take at least a couple of the head honchos out before inevitably going down to the dozens of armed men in the room. He'd prefer to go down shooting and bring a few folks to Hell with him. After all, he was pretty sure he was headed there, and it'd be nice to have company. Sixgun smiled broadly, even as he tried to will anxious sweat to stay under his skin.