[b]SIXGUN[/b] Already a direct assault on the Outfit, and already Sixgun was considered in the top ranks of muscle. It had been quite a night, and it looked to be just getting started. Trying to put Bender out of his mind, and realizing that he was going to need to watch his back around the Bosnians now, he went on over to the Road Kings president and reclaimed his jacket and weapons before snatching his Panama hat off the ground. "Alrighty, gents," he said, looking over at the expert assassins he had been teamed with as he checked the load on his revolver. "Time to be a-hootin' and a-hollerin' down at some kind of voodoo lab. Best be loadin' up, yeah? Look forward to seeing how y'all operate up here in Chicago," he said with a toothy smile, still thinking of the look in Bender's eyes as he had rolled around trying to squeeze his throat back open. "Show the way, Tony," he said to the capo. Something then occurred to him. If the League had been called out, who was going to back him up in case of danger? No one, probably. Pariah probably wasn't too happy with how he had handled Bender anyway. Maybe support had been withdrawn altogether. Maybe he had been left to his own devices. This was going to be a long night. ---- [b]SONJA[/b] The VTOL lurched heavily as it approached the besieged prison, the sheer size of the battle below enough to displace massive amounts of air. The Windy City was living up to its name, a literal breeze blowing through the streets, pushed by explosions and fire. Sonja felt her stomach drop as Zenith mentioned a dampening field for supernatural beings. Right as she was thinking about how she could be useful in the rear lines when Zenith ordered the top-tier sorcerers to go in as well. Oh crap. Apparently that included her, from what Olympia and Destiny and several others had said. Sonja didn't feel top-tier. Her tricks were just that, spells best suited for a stage or a parlor, the absolute basics of magic. Granted, she did them really really well, but still. It was like comparing someone who knew how to throw a single type of punch to someone like Bruce Lee. And at a time when she was already on the downslope. This was going to be rough. Still, she had advantages, she knew. Volt and Hot Rod would be watching her back, as always, and of course she'd look out for them. Sonja smiled at the new girl, Cord. The teenager had been brave enough to come along to this Hell- the kid was definitely earning Sonja's respect just for that alone. "Stick close, Cord," she whispered. "You watch my back and I'll watch yours, and we'll get out of this in one piece. Or two. Or, uh, three, I guess," she said with a glance at the girl's shadow. The VTOL bumped again, this time making contact with the ground to disgorge its passengers outside the walls. Sonja flicked her wrist, and the Stan Musial baseball bat slid out of her shirt cuff into her hand. She had some confidence in this weapon, at least- its power depended less on the enchantments Thomas had placed on it as a safeguard and more on it being a symbol of hope, goodwill, and righteousness- raw emotional power contributed by two million St. Louisans and concentrated into one Louisville Slugger. This simple piece of hickory could deflect bullets, shatter concrete, overturn trucks. The field might dampen its force somewhat, but even so the bat would be a formidable weapon. Hope can't be quenched, not completely. Holding the bat, long fingers crossing over the sweat stains and autograph of Baseball's Perfect Knight, Sonja felt a hell of a lot better as she ran towards the melee at the prison walls, hoping to batter through and aid Olympia. The air suddenly turned freezing cold to her left, and Sonja threw herself aside before where she had been standing congealed to a formation of snow and ice. A stray shot, not aimed at her, she thought as she rolled on the ground. To her horror, she landed on something soft and fleshy. Covered in Spandex, not fatigues or prison oranges. One of theirs. Sonja looked down, sadly seeing the smoking hole where the man's left eye had once been. The poor bastard hadn't even made it inside the jail. She recognized the costume. Bluegrass, a young and excitable man who had protected Nashville. Sonja remembered him as somewhat ridiculous, a little klutzy, the very face of wounded dignity. But nice, always holding a door for someone or trying to organize a canned-food drive. A man who believed in heroes. With a pang, Sonja realized she didn't know Bluegrass' real name. She was going to find out after this, she resolved. That was it. It was only going to be Bluegrass. No one else was going to die on her side. Not today. Not ever. She cracked her neck, twirled the bat in her hands, loosened her wrists. "Welcome to the International House of Pain Cakes. My name is Sonja and I will be your server today," she muttered, taking off towards the walls at a dead sprint.