[i]Yeah, sure, relax.[/i] It would take a metric ton of weed for Volt to relax in a place like this, and even then the lighting would probably freak him out. He took a gulp from the beer that the tender had slammed in front of him. His face scrunched at the less than terrific taste, and he idly wondered if the barman had poisoned it out of spite. He could just see the head lines now – [b][u]Leagues Newest Member Falls to Bartender. Nobody Surprised.[/b][/u] But no, the only criminals here were the American macro-brewers who made this travesty against grain.

He listened in silence as Ryker and Sonja chatted, again be surprised at how easy they traded identities. It was an odd thing to hear, back across the pond a secret identity was something that heroes protected zealously, except British Bulldog, otherwise known as Barry Stuart, who had always been in it for the fame and fortune and told the press his real name almost the day he revealed himself to the world. It could just be the cultural divide, like American ostentatiousness versus British reserve, but he realised it was something more important than that. Sonja Simpson and Ryker Charleston weren't just happy to be The Spirit of Saint Lewis and Hot Rod, they were proud to be heroes. They were willing to stand up and own their choice to don costumes and fight for the little guy, because it was a choice they had willingly made. For Tommy Springsteen though, being Hi-Voltage was a penance and a punishment. It was him paying for the death of a friend and the shirking of responsibility. It was a trial he knew he could never escape, and just because he was good at it didn't make it any less of one. 

He was aware that he'd been awkwardly quiet for a while now “So, the League huh? What do you folks reckon they'll have us doing then? I'm pretty good at getting cat's outta trees myself, but I doubt they brought me all the way to Chicago for that.” It was a pretty poor opener, he knew, but it was also a valid point.