[b]Tak Province, Thailand[/b]

There were no streetlights below, no houses out here. The heavily wooded hills passed silently and invisibly below. This was well and truly the hinterland, the isolated stretch of the border with Maynmar, miles away from the nearest town. They were far removed the wholesale carnage in Bangkok, Chiang Mai, Pak Kret, other urban centers. Looking at the starry sky above and the trees below, one could almost believe that this was a country- a world- at peace.

The Pretty Lady hated that thought. 

“We're five minutes out,” one of her black-clad aides informed her, his voice easily audible over the quiet sound of the aircraft. She nodded her head. Unlike her fatigue-wearing assistants, she was clad in the latest casual haute couture. Blouse by Dior, jeans by Givenchy, boots by Gucci- all of it utterly impractical for jungle combat. Angela Mannheim didn't care. The clothes brought her gratification and that was all that truly mattered in the world. 

“Give us an overview,” she ordered the man who had spoken. She was perfectly aware of the situation they were headed into, but wanted to gauge the handpicked team she had assembled. Ten men and women from the Asian branch of Intergang, former members of the triads, yakuza, kkangpae, dacoit. Killers and thieves.

And true believers.

“Our intelligence indicates that this is the largest poppy growing and refining operation in Thailand. The flowers are of little interest to us- heroin is long since over- but the facilities can easily be repurposed for growing the herbal components of Miralco or Venom. Doing so with this operation and the other smaller outfits in the area would almost double Intergang's yearly output. The current owners have a force of around one hundred combatants with outdated conventional weaponry and limited training. They either accept a deal or the consequences of refusal.” The aide spoke in a clipped, almost bored voice. Like he was commenting on the weather.  

Angela nodded in approval. “Well said. And now friends, let us pray.” She dipped her too-large eyes to the floor, and the others immediately followed suit. Good. She would've killed anyone who hesitated.

“Oh, the Elite, hear our prayer. Grant unto us the strength to instantly gratify our basest of desires, the will to make others suffer that we may prosper in the smallest of ways. Deliver us from the sins of conscience and selflessness, let us not be blinded by temperance or mercy. Instead make us cruel, make us indifferent, make us covetous. For only in these things will we find everlasting reward at your hands. In Cain's name we pray, amen.”

The aircraft was suddenly filled with the ping of small-arms fire bouncing from the armored hull, then rocked by a nearby explosion. The Pretty Lady grinned. “They're trying to fight us after all. That's adorable.” She tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “Get us lower. Drop me off at one end of the compound, the others off at the opposite side. We'll meet in the middle.” The pilot obediently dropped to a hover about thirty feet off the ground. The small-arms fire grew more intense- Angela could hear shouts and see men grouping together on the ground. Perfect. 

From her purse she pulled the sterling silver box in which she kept her pills, pulled one out with a perfectly manicured finger, popped it into her mouth and swallowed it. She felt that familiar rush- she had missed it so- as the Miralco took effect. She could feel her skin hardening, power flowing through her carefully toned muscles. One hour of power. Time to use it. 

She didn't even bother opening the door of the aircraft, instead tearing it aside like tissue paper, an obstacle to be conquered before falling the full distance to the ground and landing on her feet. Unfolding herself to her full seven feet, The Pretty Lady took a moment to smile as she felt the assault rifle rounds flatten against her body, her perfect, perfect body. Her surgically-enlarged eyes took in the armed men and women rushing towards her. She smiled with luminescent white teeth. There was nothing she could not do.

Her long legs carried her forward in a casual stroll, into the group of heavily armed militants. They were nothing to her. A sweep of Angela's fingernails and one woman stared in shock as her intestines spilled to her feet. A man tried to grab her around the waist- his arm was quickly separated from his body. Another turned to flee, Angela grabbed his belt and tossed the man carelessly over her shoulder, his screams fading into the distance.

It was the beginning of a good night. 


[b]Chihuanhuan Desert, Mexico[/b] 

Vig had mostly lagged behind the group, watching their rear. Stealth was never really his strong suit. He had made the concession of removing his spurs because jangling when he walked wasn't likely to be much help, but there wasn't much he could do about his revolvers. So he had followed behind, making sure no one came up behind them as they worked through the facility and keeping a watchful eye on Bloodsport- he trusted that one about as much as a rattlesnake. 

When they came to the large room, Vig had leaned casually up against the wall, hat pulled down low. Unlike most of this posse, he had seen this sight many times before. This was just a regular day for him.

And then hell broke loose. 

Still leaning against the wall, not bothering to look out from under the brim of his hat, Vigilante launched into action. His rope was already flying through the air, obeying the subtle commands of wrist and finger like a living thing. The loop of the lasso looped around one of the sentry guns, and with a hard yank its line of fire redirected directly towards one of the other guns, shredding it completely. Vigilante fought his instinct to get the civilians out of the cages- ironically for the time being they were much safer in there rather than having them run around in the crossfire. 

Vig sighed as bullets and fists flew. “Welcome to the Weird and Wild West, y'all,” he commented to his fellow Leaguers. He leaped onto the railing, holding tightly to his rope with one hand and drawing a revolver with the other, and swung down into the main room. His revolver spat six shots as he swung along the arc of the rope, aiming for the rampaging Venom soldiers. He knew from experience the hulking monstrosities would not feel any pain- nothing less than an outright kill shot to the head or heart would stop them from coming and so he made that his goal. 

He dropped to floor at the furthest extent of the rope swing, putting him- not coincidentally- in front of Bloodsport. Vigilante felt some responsibility for the fact that they were now fighting this man. He twirled the empty revolver, holstered it as he looked Bloodsport directly in the eye.

“I hope the Legion has paid you well, Bloodsport. Funerals are mighty expensive these days.”