Thargor

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The tiny bartender watched the man walk in. He looked almost as large as Gal, more muscular and even a darker shade. Lady Sharon was darker, but not by much. His English was precise though, studied.

"Sir, welcome to Ladies by the Lake. I am Narshawn, and I will be glad to serve you, but may I ask that you try our offerings before I bring the bottle?" Dropping a whole bottle, when someone might not care for it was not her style.

"We have several that rate the same proof: Fulton's Reserve, Everclear, Grappa di Verona, Goldschlager. All highly flammable. Should I bring a sampling?"

She did not want to offend, only be polite, smiling with her tiny teeth.

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President smiled back at the tiny bartender, exposing a large set of brilliant white teeth. The smile reached his glowing eyes and a chuckle burped out of his throat.

"Please then Narshawn, if I may call you that, bring a bottle of each. It takes a much greater quantatity of alcohol these days to even notice any affects than it did when I was a young man. You may call me Adon, my dear." He said, lifting a card out of one of his red leather jacket's many pockets.

"I hope that you will accept payment from the United States Government, I haven't been around for quite some time so I lack much hard currency, at least that of which is legal tender on this world." He said with a chuckle, wiping off some more gunpowder.

The brass door to the bar opened slowly, the light from Paragon's questionably clear skies not shining through its glass. The obstruction was clear in a moment as a giant of a man ducked slightly under the doorway and let the door come to a close. The hilt of a large broadsword dinged the top of the doorway, but it stayed securely strapped to his back. It had been a close fit, but President Black had managed to get through it without going sideways. Being muscular was not always a good thing, a damn nuisance in his own opinion.

His dark African skin almost appeared purple in the light of the bar. His eyes were two glowing orbs of light, the true color of his eyes too hard to guess at. His greying eyebrows lifted as he eyed the place, taking in details and noting the exits as was his habit. He had been told this was a good place to get a drink... It reminded him of some of the pubs his son Jamael had made him go into London.

A gust of white looking flame leapt up from his body as he made a move to the bar, several thousand nanites disintigrating from his supply. Soon he would have to visit the scientists again. He was using them up too quickly these days.

The elegant, shining bar gained a smudge from President Black's hand as he eased himself slowly into a stool. Not many chairs could easily handle 700 pounds of pure muscle added with the weight of a 120 pound broadsword. A smile shot across his face, covered in a not so trim beard. The stool didn't even give a creak at his weight. His facial hair grew even more grey as gunpowder was added to it, his gloved hand running through it.

"Bartender, I'd like whatever is your strongest proof alcohol and bring me a litre of it," he said. His voice was strong but kept at an even level, his clipped, precise language that of a foreigner.

"Any specials?" he asked as an afterthought.

And remember, Bastion is not part of the surviving eight... Citadel is =P

But I do believe the Surviving Eight does indeed imply to the world's (at the time) greatest heroes. Sort of like the main justice league members in DC comics. Everyone else is considered "B-Team" status or lower. And what media wants to focus on the B-Team, eh?