[b]The Fortress of Doom[/b]

Once the chamber settled down, Angela Mannheim could feel all eyes on her, especially those of the council. Good. She liked being the center of attention. Her entire life had been a pursuit towards being looked at.

She stood, unfolding to her full height of seven feet, back straight, chin held high and aloof.  “I do not intend to defend myself,” she said without preamble. “A defense would mean I have done something wrong, and I have committed no sin. The sin instead would be meekness. The sin would be lack of vision. Those sins are on the heads of my accusers,” she said, turning her huge blue eyes on Sin Tzu's emissary- the coward hadn't even come in person. “We are a criminal organization, founded by criminals. Let us not pretend otherwise. To do so is self-deceiving, cowardly, and blasphemous.”

She looked next at China White. “And as for you. Selling Katie? What are you, some Gotham City corner pusher? This is what you want to do with the resources of the Legion. Have some pride, woman. Set your sights a little higher. Miralco and Venom are the way of the future, the means of conquest. I am not without forgiveness, though- you've done well enough running your territory. There's a place for you and your people in Intergang if you accept the True Faith of Crime.” 

She turned back to the Council. “As I see it, you can continue to throw crumbs to the good little boys and girls like China White and Sin Tzu. But for an organization devoted to conquest it's counterproductive to punish those with the drive to conquer. Thanks be to the Elite, Amen.”

With nothing further to say she sat back down, looking positively bored.


[b]The Watchtower[/b]

Thirty minutes before the meeting.

Vigilante had only been to the Watchtower two or three times before. He preferred to skip most of the parties and rarely strayed away from Warpath. Not that he didn't trust his Rough Bunch to handle any situations. The truth was he often didn't really feel like part of the League at all. Sure, he was an official member, but he had gone through none of the formalities. No Academy, no apprenticeship, no fancy headquarters. No superpowers, just a man with guns and grit. 

Time was that was enough. Back when they were called “mystery men” instead of superheroes. Back in the days of the Seven Soldiers. And the Sandman.

There was something he needed to do.

He had had a decent enough sandwich in the mess, then gone to one of the Watchtower's many small chapels. It was quiet there, no one else in attendance. Still in uniform, he respectfully removed his hat. He had never been religious, he felt unsure what to do next. Light a candle, maybe? His ancestors had lit incense, maybe that would be more appropriate. 

The fact was that Jake Leong had never so much as met Wesley Dodd. Hell, if they had passed each other on the street Vig wouldn't have recognized him. But he was one of the old guard. While they hadn't been members of the same organizations, The Sandman had more than once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the original Vigilante and of course Jake's great-grandfather Stuff. They had tackled Fifth Columnists, spies, racketeers, crooked politicians, mad scientists, warlords. Their adventures were the stuff of legend. Greg Sanders and Wesley Dodd had been friends, he knew that for certain.

And now he was gone. 

Vigilante didn't know why, but that thought gave him a vague sense of unease. Something was changing in a huge and fundamental way with the passing of the old man, and for a moment he felt a tremendous weight on his back. As though the death of the Sandman had opened some kind of floodgate.

Slowly, almost unconsciously he found himself speaking out loud. A poem he had learned years and years ago.

[i]The Cowboy has always been a dying breed- 
But he takes his dying slowly, perched upon his steed- 
The prairie is his prison, his church his wife- 
You can take away his sky 
You can take away his life- 
Yet where does he go when the range is all closed? 
Does he retire to his bunkhouse in depressed repose? 
No- he climbs back in that saddle- if just to bide his time 
The Cowboy knows- a good death is hard to find.[/i] 

It wasn't much of a tribute for a man he had never met. But it would have to do.