[b]SIXGUN[/b]

Ben nodded to himself, then decided he had heard enough. It was pretty much as he expected- Marconi was thinking self-defense, while Music was thinking in grander terms. Still staying low, he placed one of the micro-cams just beneath the window- it wouldn't see anything, but the sensitive mic would be able to pick up the conversations occuring within. Somehow. Maybe it was magic. He crept away from the window until reaching what was obviously the better-worn path leading to the compound's gate. Hands in his pockets, whistling softly, he made no attempt to look like he was trying to hide, even giving a friendly nod to one of the patrols he passed.

Sixgun let himself out of the compound, making a beeline for the the nearest El station. Pariah had picked it carefully, close enough to be reached by a short trip, but too far away to be watched by the Outfit. After all, who in this neighborhood would use public transit? 

He found the trash can he had been informed of, reached to the small ashtray atop the metal cylinder. Digging his fingers into the butts and black grit, he dug until he found the hidden catch that unlocked the device and lifted the entire tray out. Looking to see if anyone was watching, Sixgun reached into his pocket and deposited the vial labeled Apex into the small chamber beneath. Ben deposited the ashtray back in its proper place, carefully brushed the butts and sand to look undisturbed. "Alright, folks, I left the vial at the drop," he whispered. Did this implant thing even work like that? Could they read his thoughts? Christ, there was a bit of metal inside his head. That couldn't be healthy. "Also, start looking into superhumans for hire in the Midwest, the ones that haven't thrown in with Legion. Music is lobbying for superpowered muscle and it looks like he might get his way. Let's get an idea of what we might potentially be up against."

On his way back to the compound, he stopped at a convenience store and bought a pint of cheap whiskey, a pack of cheap cigarettes. In his day you went to a proper tobacconist- even the smallest town had one- and carefully blended different leaves, then rolled them in paper when you felt like a smoke. None of this machine-made prepackaged stuff. He might give those away, too. 

Letting himself back into the compound, he headed back for the guest house. "Don't never say Fletcher Ross never came through for y'all, gents," he said with a wink as he tossed the whiskey to the men guarding Fontana's room, continuing to walk back to his own chambers.