A new favorite movie quote.

Lets see the species!

As System 8 wakes up again, I am going over the races.

Some are not going to change at all.
Who could change Lodis? Not me.



Some are simply getting better clothes.
Shen tries jeans!



A race or two are getting bit of a genetic makeover.
Taiossu demonstrates what has happened to Jinnarians.



And one race in particular was torn down and redone completely.
Example: Lin the Wegonian. I have a lovely animal species in the Jinnarians. I didn't like the idea of two.



Yay for finally posting something. I was getting lazy.

Knowing Starts the Battle

It sucks to be Jason most of the time. Let me demonstrate:

"Hey, what do you think of my girlfriend?

Jason: Really?

I'd like you to be honest

Jason: Are you sure?

Yes, I'd really like to know.

Jason: Okay. But you did ask. She's trouble. She'll break your heart. You want my advice? Move on now and save yourself the trouble. She has a nasty look to her that I didn't like.

How do you know that? You can't know that!

Jason: I keep telling you! Sometimes I just know stuff! And if you ask me, I'm not going to lie to you. I don't like lying. I don't like it when people do it to me, and I'm not going to do it to you. If you want someone to only tell you what you want to hear, then don't ask me.

This isn't about the truth! It's about you being jealous!

Jason: No, it's really not! Why would I be jealous of a relationship that isn't going to work out?

Why do you want bad things to happen to me?

Jason: I DON'T!"

This is an actual conversation we have had. Verbatim.

And so it goes round and round like that. No one believes him, bad things happen, and people get mad at him for it for some reason when he's right. Something about that is terribly unfair.

There are things he knows. And he's not lying. He has no reason to, and is against lying in general. Just because you cannot see it, doesn't mean he's wrong. We're all sorry you can't see it too. But that's the way it is.

(P.S. The couple did split up. She did break his heart. Jason was right. He usually is. However, this was *after* the guy who asked basically cut off friendship over it. Oops. So maybe there's a lesson to be learned in all this: Lie if you want to keep friends. Certainly works for everyone else.)

System 8

This art is not mine. I just like it.

I made a solar system once. Twin stars, several planets. Did an RP there. The thing got lousy reviews partially becaue some folks wanted the game to be about them, partially because I just wasn't ready to put these worlds under the constraints of numbers.

So here's what I want to know:

Did anyone like it? Was there a redeeming quality in it? Be this quality in the premise or simply in the races themselves? If you didn't think it was utter garbage, please let me know.

I am under internal pressure to fire up the worlds again. But I can't right now. Not when I look out at what I did and see only something people hated. I would be rid of them if I could.

Unfortunately, to destroy those places would be to destroy myself completely. That's what it is to be truly attached to something.

I would love for snow to fall on Chryses again. For the trees to grow on Wegon and Neplene. For the sands of Isep to warm in the red sun. To raise the mountains of Dythis. For the waters of Slee-Sha to be inhabited again ... and then sold as dinking water on the black market. (Oh, I do miss the Slee-Shain!) Hell, I even miss the plantations of Helene. I may do away with Lynsee all together. It hurts a lot to think about that planet.

*Sigh* I just don't know.

Please tell me if you think I have something worthwhile.

The Growling of the Dogs

Étienne de Vignolles dit La Hire

I will never understand why history speaks of one person and not another. I know Joan of Arc was great. I will never doubt it, not as long as I live. But there are people in her story who have stores of their own that were never told.

La Hire was one of these people.

Sources argue about the day he was born, the day he died, and everything in between. They do agree on the Battle of Patay and most of the stuff involving Joan. But when it comes to the man himself? No one can say much of anything for sure. It's a damned shame.

People are most confused when it comes to his religion. Many people believe him to be a strict atheist because he had trouble praying to the Christian God. But the strict dichotomy of atheist vs. Christian there is another option they tend to leave out. The Pagans. (As usual.) In France at the time of his life, there was still a handful of men in France still following the old ways. I believe LaHire to be one of them.

The main deity of the time in France was one called Taranus (of whom I have written before). He was a *very* masculine god whose symbols were bulls, horns, chariots, swords ... all sorts of warlike stuff. To me it seems more probable that he worshipped this pagan deity rather than none at all. This kind of thing was common. (See Mithras cults and the like.)

This is my theory anyway. I could tell you why I know it's true ... but that gets a little weird.

Anyway, since there is no picture of him on record, I decided to make one of my own. This one has been around for a while.

Modesty

I find the most reluctant models make the best art. Take Mark for example. He bitched and moaned and told me he was "too thin" and "too old" he'd "make a terrible subject". I find all that simply untrue.

Long story short: He's one of the most beautiful men I know, doesn't look as old as he is, and I am so happy to have drawn him. I can't wait to do it again.

Show and Tell

Transports were long and boring. This was the first one Charles had ever been on, but he decided a snap judgement in this case could probably apply to any he would take in the future. As he was not a standard ASS, he was given a little room to himself on the ship. It consisted of a fold-up bed, and a desk. He had taken the liberty of purchasing a folding sling chair at the last stop along with a few books. And so he was relaxing in his chair with a cigar, a small metal cup of scotch, and one of his books when someone knocked on the door.

"Come!" Charles said, not bothering to close his book.

An ASS who looked to be straight out of basic training opened the door and stuck his head cautiously into the room. "Hey, you're an ASSFACE, right?"

"Only to people who know me," Charles stopped reading and gave the young man a reassuring smile. "Can I help you with something?"

"Well, I've never seen a magic user in person," the ASS said shyly. "See em' on TV and stuff. I was also wonderin' what this is all about." He turned his head to the left and tapped the rune that had been put on all the ASSs before they left. "They said it would help you help us. And I can see you have a ton of your own."

Charles took a moment to examine the one on the back of his right hand. "That I do and that it does." He checked his watch. The day was almost over and he had not yet used any of the spells he prepared. He had the time to indulge the young man with a demonstration. "Come with me and I'll show you."

In ten minute's time, Charles was standing on top of a large metal shipping crate and the ASSs were gathered around beneath him in the cargo hold. The curious ASS was standing a little ways apart in a big circle marked in chalk. "Good evening, ASSs!" Charles said once they had all quieted down.

"Good evening, Charlie," they all said at once.

"Who told you to call me that?" Charles asked, slightly exasperated with the nickname that had followed him since he met the first ASS on this, his first assignment."Central Command," said one of the officers. "Something about revenge for that last name of yours."

"Of course," Charles said quietly, rolling his eyes. "Never mind then." He raised his hands for attention. "It has been brought to my attention that some of you still have questions about the lovely tattoos you have been given." There was a communal nod. "Those match the marks I have all over my back, on my neck, and on the backs of my hands." He held his hands up for all to see. "They enable me to help you out when you are in the field, as Private Bender will help me to demonstrate. For example. Say you all have to get from point A -the ship," He pointed to the circle in which Bender was standing. "To point B -the planet." He pointed to an empty circle on the other side of the hold. "I simply do like so..." He dramatically raised one fist, radiating purple light. He activated the rune on his other hand and made a pushing motion. In the blink of an eye, the purple light flared in both circles and Bender appeared at point B. Some ASSs clapped, a few made impressed noises.

"Now play along with me Bender. At point B you all will be doing what you do best. Ruining the enemy!" A collective cheer went up and they watched Bender pretend to shoot enemies to Swiss cheese.

"But sometimes," Charles continued. "There's a lot of enemy and, superior though you are, you simply run out of ammo!"

"On NO!" said Bender, shrugging and shaking his weapon. "I am out of ammo!"

"What's an ASS to do?" Charles asked.

"What am I to do?" Bender echoed.

"It's very simple," Charles said. "You touch the mark on your neck. Bender?" Bender did as he was told and a glow of dark purple flared up around Charles' eyes and ears. "And you tell me you need more ammo."

"I need more ammo ASSFACE!" said Bender.

"And I can do something like this!" This time Charles teleported a marked box of ammo to point B. "And you ASSs can continue to devastate your opponents. But!" he raised a finger. "What if, when all seems to be going so well, someone looks into the sky and sees a warhead coming for you?"

Bender shaded his eyes and pretended to look into the sky. "Oh no! A warhead!"

"Since there is not time to run away, you simply call me again and tell me what is going on."

Bender touched his mark again. "Help, help, ASSFACE! There is a warhead coming. I have no time to run away!"

"Not to worry ASS!" Charles' hands glowed again and both Bender and the ammo reappeared at point A. "I can get you out in time."Applause went up around the hangar.

"YAY!" said Bender.

"I can do all of this from a distance of 1,400 miles, so will be out of the line of fire and always able to help. So that is why you have those marks. I think they are rather handy." Charles jumped off the box and retrieved his cigar and scotch from the commanding officer. "Any questions?" He headed for the door.

"Yeah," another young ASS spoke up. "What's to stop you from using these abilities to play tricks on us?"

Charles turned the infuriating smile on the young man. "Private? The only thing standing between you, me and extravagant foolery are my impeccable manners." He nodded once more and shut the door behind himself leaving a hold full of ASSs dreading what kind of humiliating pranks could be played by a man who could link minds with people and teleport objects at will. He congratualted himself on a job well done.

Rainmaking Stare

There was a new face at the Smith, Stone, and King staff meeting that Monday morning. He sat on the East side of the long boardroom table absently tracing an ebony triangular portion of the table's inlaid design. He wasn't watching what he was doing, but rather was staring at the office manager, an icy woman he had been told was named Mavis. He and Mavis had locked eyes across the span of the table. She was glaring, and he had his head cocked slightly to one side and wore a smile that was either amused or suggestive. It was up to Mavis to decide for herself, but he was aware of how infuriating that smile could be which was why he always used it when he met new people. It paid to advertise. Mavis narrowed her eyes and flexed her jaw as though she were chewing her own tooth-enamel. This was his golden opportunity. He tilted his head the other way, parted his lips quite innocently and resumed the smile. Mavis blinked and looked away.

Several people had watched the exchange and had to suppress amusement. Mavis, as the new man had guessed, was rarely pleasant and often used her stare to unseat people who tried to argue with her. Sig Smith, one of three Senior Partners, adjusted his papers to distract himself from what he had just witnessed, afraid he would burst out laughing, and stood at the head of the table between Alex King and Mal Stone. He was easily the largest man most people had ever seen, and everyone wondered at one point or another why the man had chosen the pursuit of law over professional sports as he was the kind of man who could clear a playing field by cracking his knuckles in a threatening manner. He raised hands easily the size of dinner plates and an instant hush fell. The room was still and silent except for the new man who continued to trace the triangle and turned that horrible smile on Smith, who wanted to laugh, but did not. He had decided he was going to like the guy the moment he walked into the office for an interview. He was the kind of bastard Sig liked to have working for him rather than against him.

"All right. Good morning everyone. As many of you have noticed, we have hired a new attorney. I'd like you all to meet Charles Joustkonsudt. He will be joining me in the litigation department. Charles? How about you share that smile, there, with everyone else?" Smith gestured to the people farther down the table and crowded by the door.

Charles flicked up an eyebrow at Smith, who shook his head, and swiveled his chair to aim it at everyone else. He could hear Senior Partner King snicker into his notebook. One down, two to go. "Hello," Charles said calmly. "I wish to be addressed by my obscenely long last name at all times. It makes me feel powerful and inflates my ego nicely. Or maybe ..." he looked up at the ceiling in feigned reflection. "Since most of us look like such a fun crowd? Charles will do fine. Why make such pretty people choke on a nasty name? Anyone who calls me Charlie will understand just how litigious I can be."

"Right. Not Charlie," Smith said. "You will be working with Cynthia. Here's your first case. Welcome to Smith, Stone, and King. Something else you should all be aware of. Charles is a fourth rank ASSFACE."

"Allied Socialist Spellcaster Free Agent Commissioned in Emergencies," Charles said calmly, doing his best to not throw Smith a dirty look while simultaneously admiring the man's style. "Would you like me to explain?" he asked Smith.

"Please," said the Senior Partners at the same time.

"I am a fourth-ranked wizard who was trained by the Alliance. I specialize in Clairvoiance, Clairaudience, and Teleportation. Plus a few other spells here and there. I can teleport objects with this mark on it." He raised his had and turned the back of it to the employees gathered. "So you will start seeing it a lot around here."

"Anything else you need to tell people?" asked King.

"Oh, right." Charles stood up and buttoned his suitcoat in one fluid motion. "I currently represent the Holy Messenger Killer. She'll be here every so often. Consider it my contribution to the firm's notoriety. Try not to take photographs." An uneasy silence fell over those gathered. "She hates that." He picked up his assignment and began to work his way to the door, glancing casually at his watch. "In fact, she will be here in five minutes, so I best see to that. Which one of you is Cynthia?" He stopped and scanned the crowd.

"I am, Charles." A woman wearing glasses with tightly braided hair raised her hand.

"Are you proficient with any kind of weapon?"

"Handgun?" Her co-workers turned and looked at her. They didn't know that about her. She nervously cracked her neck.

"Lovely!" Charles held the door open for his new assistant.

"The Holy Messenger Killer?" Cynthia asked as she followed him to his office. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," Charles said calmly. "I was assigned this case because I can transport her with no flight risk. It is secured and instantaneous. And she's not as bad as one would think. If you believe the media, I will have to break you of that disgusting habit. The clergy she killed did some very bad things, and obviously mental instability comes into play. Also? I wouldn't recommend calling her Ms. Holy Messenger Killer. She prefers her given name: Iolana." He led Cynthia into his office, locked the door behind them, arranged three chairs, one more for Cynthia and removed his coat.

As he stretched and rolled his shoulders, Cynthia could see dark purple light radiating from his back -rune marks, she guessed. He cracked his knuckles, raised his hands in fists, and the room filled with matching dark purple light. When her eyes had adjusted again two heavily armed sentry droids stood in the middle of the room on either side of a muscular woman with unruly brown hair and arms full of tattoos. Iolana Gold. The Holy Messenger Killer.

Under the Influence

It's truth time. I really have been influenced by Disney animation. So many people have said it, and I keep trying to pretend it's not true.

The truth is this: I learned to draw faces by studying Timon from "The Lion King" (Michael Surrey and others). I ate up everything Glen Keane ever did, though I am sure I don't do it justice. These are the visuals that made me pick up a pencil. The enouraging letter I got from the animation studio when I was 10 or 11 really put me on my way as well.

So there you have it. Guilty as charged. I'm just sorry Disney had to pull a stupid and destroy their 2D animation department.

Full-Blown Whackaloon

Reg Lahey and his band immigrated to the United States in 1999, after having already found huge fame in Ireland and abroad. They settled in an opulent Boston neighborhood. Later that year, his guitar player and best friend died in a car accent. The band was never the same. But after that the music and lyrics Reg wrote got better than they had ever been and he felt as though his friend was speaking through him.

The popularity of the band grew and the awards began to roll in. But behind the scenes, the band was fighting constantly, most of this due to Reg's distant attitude. He would open up on stage and work crowds to a screaming frenzy, but the minute he was out of the spotlight, a palpable depression settled over him. He and his friend had been side by side since grade school, and Reg simply didn't know what to do without him. In 2003, the band separated for a year to compose themselves, and hopefully, give Reg time to learn to cope.

In October of that year he went to visit his hairdresser (as it was time to begin a new stripe), and found the old receptionist gone. A round young woman with dark blue eyes, very straight black hair and very pale skin smiled at him over her computer screen.

"Well lookie here," she said. "It's bumblebee with a cowboy hat!"

"Lisa!" Ramon the hairdresser called from the other room. "That's Reg Lahey! Please don't call him names."

Lisa cocked her head and looked him up and down. "It's what you look like," she said quietly.

Reg laughed, then covered his mouth quickly, looking around. Ramon threw open the door and stared. It was the first time Reg had laughed for real in nearly four years. With a smile, he grabbed a black marker from her desk and drew a panda on the back of her hands while she and Ramon stood there shocked. "Striped animals can be exciting," he told her replacing the marker's cap with and click and nod of triumph.

"I may be a panda, but at least I don't run around collecting pollen on my legs like some kind of freak!" She called as Ramon led Reg back to the chair.

"You wouldn't know anything about it!" He yelled from around the corner. "It's not like you're an industrious contributor to the eco-system!"

The next day Lisa's desk was decorated with a huge vase of black and white flowers with a little stuffed panda nestled in the bloom of a huge white lily and a bee made of puff balls buzzing around a black rose.

The band immediately noticed a change in Reg, though they did get a little irritated at hearing the same stories about a woman he had only met once. Oh well, at least he was happy annoying, a far sight better than sulky annoying.

Lisa and Reg's courtship was short and very public. Overnight, they were on the cover of magazines and appearing on talk shows. They were married within three months of meeting in a very public wedding attended by at least a thousand spectators.

Unfortunately, when Lisa was attacked and raped in 2006, the tabloids knew about it as fast as the police, and photographers were there just after the ambulance arrived. Pictures of an unconscious, naked, and beaten Lisa Lahey were on the newsstands before Reg could cancel his tour in Europe and fly home. Reg's angry outburst toward the media and the death threats to his wife's attacker were also very public. Oddly enough his public approval rates dropped as a result.

Meanwhile, a charge nurse was paid good money to leak information of Lisa's resulting pregnancy to the press. The public in general waited to see what the Lahey's would do about it. Both were known to have certain religious beliefs that discouraged the termination of a pregnancy. They knew how awful it would be for the two of them, and the child if they gave it up for adoption. But to Lisa, the thought of a child begotten in an act of control and violence growing inside her made her ill and it began to take it's toll.

After two very long weeks, Lisa, with Reg by her side, checked into a private hospital and had the pregnancy terminated. The technician who leaked the information about their time there and the procedure was fired. As the Lahey's left the hospital, they were swarmed by protesters. Reg kept a protective arm around Lisa to shield her from the faces and thrown objects, but he couldn't shield her from their words.

Merchandise relating to Reg's band as well as their CD's were burned in the streets and the rest of the tour was cancelled because of church protest. While the loss of income was a worry to the band, it didn't compare to the worry they all felt for Lisa.

The very sensitive Lisa had taken the protester's words to heart. The band's suffering for her decision didn't help anyone either. After a month she stopped speaking. In two month's time she stopped eating. The final straw came when Reg returned from Ramon's salon and found her unconscious on their bed having swallowed a bottle of pills.

The photos of Reg checking Lisa into an exclusive hospital in Portland were heartbreaking. He then returned to Boston to appear on a talk show in hopes of calling off the media and the religious people who had cost him so much.

The usual mob of protesters greeted him at the studio. But this time, something went wrong. One was heard shouting out "Lisa's getting what she deserves! God will have wrath upon murderers! Especially those who kill babies! I pray she repents and finds Jesus before she burns in hell!"

Reg stopped in his tracks. Never in his life did he imagine someone would delight in the pain and suffering of the woman he loved so much. And he couldn't fathom gloating over that misfortune and shouting it out publicly at a heart-sick husband. And on top of that? To condemn a woman who had been through so much pain to hell? His mind could no longer tolerate the strain, and Reg snapped. By the time security got a handle on things, Reg had been shot in the right shoulder and left leg. In a raging fit he would not remember for several weeks, he had killed eighteen protesters, going so far as to stab some with their own picket signs, and break the necks of others with his bare hands.

The episode had been recorded by security cameras and not even the best lawyer his money could buy could help him escape eighteen charges of second degree murder. As he was found to be not quite sane at the time and had his very lengthy sentence transferred to the Serenity Glen Maximum Security Mental Hospital.

Money still affords Reg certain luxuries in lock up. He is in a special wing for high profile cases along with the Suicide Comedian Drew Montgomery and recently Scott Bowling, the man who murdered a who hippy commune (except for the children) with an axe. Ramon visits to do his hair, and he is permitted to send e-mails to Lisa since he failed in his petition to get transferred to her less secure facility. He is glad to know she is doing much better, but upset that he will not see her as a free man for the next 140 years.

Though he has gained something of a cult status among militant pro-choice advocates (a fact he doesn't particularly care for), his career is also over.

He sleeps with his arms wrapped around a giant stuffed panda every night.

Racism and psychopaths.

Recenly, I have been accused of drawing only white people. (I believe the Samoan, who was my first post on this site, and the Asian who was my third, provide sufficient response.) However, I noticed that I have not posted a black person. So? Since I am all for equality? Here is Drew.

Drew is a character from a story that will not see a lot of time on this site since I plan to actually do something with it. I have encountered enough idea-stealing to teach me to think twice, and witnessed enough perversion of ideas I have loved to make me think even harder.

* * * * *

Drew was a comedian. And a pretty damned good one at that. At the height of his career, he gave a show in Boston and within a matter of weeks, every single audience member had killed themselves. The people had nothing more in common than having been to the same show on the same night. Drew was brought in for questioning and was told never to do that set again.

Now, Drew has never been a fan of authority, and if a bunch of people killed themselves over what he said, then they probably shouldn't be alive anyway (by his reckoning). And so he did it again in Washington DC. Again, the entire audience killed themselves by the end of the month.

His career slowed to a grinding hault after that, which gave him a lot of spare time. He wrote a book. After 73% of the people who bought the book killed themselves as well, the book was pulled from circulation. He was asked to speak on a college radio station. Listeners died.

When all was said and done, nearly three thousand people had died, and the government decided something must be done.

Technically, Drew had committed no crime. But he didn't seem the least bit concerned about all the lives that had been lost. He couldn't be executed, and he hadn't *technically* killed all those people, but it was decided that he should be locked up anyway and rehabilitated if possible.

So, officially, ended the career of Drew Mongomery and began his life at Serinity Glen.

PETA

The Ignorant Dance
Sircuit and NoFace came out of McDoughnals catching a quick lunch while on patrol that afternoon. They unwrapped their burgers standing next to a trash can which had a smell that identified where they were standing. In the poorest part of Polar City they would have been wearing the garbage already. In the richest parts, the garbage would be emanating the smell of a field of flowers. Another luxury brought to the rich by the graces of Murphy's technology. The relevance was staggering.

NoFace, who had let herself eat red meat for the first time in a few months, wanted only to savor the moment. But it was interrupted by the sound of voices where there should have been the roaring of busses and growling of the suped up cars common in the neighborhood. And it didn't sound like people talking. Rather, it was the sound of bitching and bleating.

Afraid to look, but as curious as a driver passing a bloody crunchy car accident, she turned and looked across the street. Protestors were gathered waving picketed pictures of cute animals and slogans of vegetarianism. What fun. She faced them completely and took a big bite of her burger, chewing it with exaggerated gusto. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

From somewhere within the mass an empty glass bottle of oolong tea was through across the street. It missed NoFace and broke on the restaurant's brick wall just over Sircuit's head.

"Holy ASS!" Sircuit dodged the falling shards of glass. He turned to see where the bottle had come from and almost laughed. "Are you kidding me?"

"Nope," NoFace said, not moving her eyes from the assembly. "People for the Excellent Treatment of Animals. Chew with me. It really pisses them off."

"Fuck yeah!" Sircuit joined her on the edge of the sidewalk and both chewed joyfully at the protestors. "MMMM!" Sircuit yelled after swallowing. "BOSSY IS SURE TENDER AND FLAVORFUL!"

NoFace almost choked on her lunch, then joined in. The faces across the street were nearly all eyes, and she was bound and determined to see one of them blow up. "AW, CRAP! I FORGOT MY HENNY-PENNY CORPSE NUGGETS. I AM SUCH A MEAT-HEAD!"

"I MAY GO BACK FOR SOME CUTIE POKIE-TICKLISH RIBS ON A BUN, THIS IS SOOO GOOD!" Sircuit patted his stomach and pulled his second burger from the bag.

"Cutie pokie-ticklish ribs?" NoFace asked him quietly.

"I thought we were trying to be disgusting," Sircuit shrugged.

"Good point. That was pretty gross. NEXT WE SHOULD GO TO THAT VIETNAMESE PLACE THAT SERVES PUPPY DOG!" NoFace said, beginning again.

"HEY! YOU GUYS ARE IGNORANT!" One of the protestors shouted back.

NoFace, still holding her burger, threw her hands into the air. "THE IGNORANT DANCE!"

"JESUS TOLD ME TO LOVE VEAL!" Sircuit shouted at the same time. "Wait. What? Ignorance dance?"

"Follow my lead," she told him.

After a moment's grinning hesitation, Sircuit and NoFace linked arms and began dos-i-dos-ing on the sidewalk, waving their burgers high and taking big bites so they could continue with the chewing that worked so well earlier. It only lasted so long before they realized how funny it all was and stopped dancing, leaning on each other laughing hysterically.

As the laughter began to subside, a can of wheatgrass juice came sailing from the crowd and hit NoFace in the left gun, spattering the metal of her face with a potent green substance reeking of lawn clippings.

And now? It was personal.

Unfortunately, they had both finished their lunches in their revelries. "Sweet spanking nuns! We're out of meat!" Sircuit said noticing their empty hands and trying not to laugh as green juice dripped off NoFace's chin.

"Oh, no we're not!" NoFace kicked the lid off the trashcan and pulled out a melting half-finished strawberry milkshake. "HEY! I HOPE NONE OF YOU ASPARAGUS-FUCKERS ARE VEGAN!"

"I AM BITCH! AND I'M PROUD OF IT!" One man stepped out of the crowd, kicking off his hemp sandals and removing his Grateful Dead tee shirt.

"GOOD!" NoFace jammed the milkshake into one of her barrels and shot it across the street at the man, hitting him in the forehead and spraying those near him with souring flavored milk. "DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT! YOU GRANOLA-BAR-POLISHERS STARTED THIS BEVERAGE EXCHANGE!"

A prepackaged organic salad was thrown at NoFace and showered both she and Sircuit in lettuce, sprouts, and cucumbers. Sircuit, removing the fork from the brim of his hat, held a hand to NoFace.

"Ammo, please." She grinned and handed him a half-full container of fries with big grease spots on the bottom. "VIVA LA PIG FAT, JERK-CAKES!" With surprising accuracy, the fries and carton landed in the hair of a blond co-ed wearing a cat-shaped back pack.

A grilled portabello sandwich was thrown back.

A McGiant burger was shot back in kind.

And thus began the Polar City Uptown Trash War of 2008.

Firebird - not just a car anymore!

We've already established that NoFace blew up the Polar City League building with the hero known as Slayer inside. She didn't know Slayer was there. It wasn't intentional. No evil plot to hurt her friend. We all clear on that? Cool. So we can stop beating NoFace over the head with it? I'm glad we agree.

Because here's what happened *after* the building blew up.

The heat of the explosion set off a genetic trigger which activated an ability Slayer had always had but never been able to use. Her body encased itself in a calcium shell. The shell was found by recovery crews the next day.

After a three day hibernation, the hero formerly known as Slayer burst from the shell and shot up through the roof of the storage shed in a ball of fire that destroyed everything in a 100 ft radius but her.

She landed in a heat haze in the crater left by her rebirth with feathery hair waving in the escaping air, looked around at all the gawking people and politely asked if anyone had something she could wear. Preferably flame-resistant?

Her name was changed to Firebird and she remained in Polar City to witness the fall of all she had ever known to Murphy's Law. She was one of few who stayed to fight.

Times were hard for a while, and she looked everywhere for NoFace, either to hug her or kill her ... not quite sure which. Unfortunately, her old friend was nowhere to be found. All that turned up, in a sub-basement of an abandoned government storage facility, was Killjoy, NoFace's sword. He appeared to have gone into hibernation. Unsure what to do with him, she took him home and stored him in a closet, hoping he would wake up and tell her if he knew where NoFace had gone.

Sadly, he did not and nearly two years went by. Firebird honed her new abilities: control of fire, small pyrokinetic fireballs, and manipulation of heat. New teams were formed, small battles won, and sponsorship was attained. In the space of a few months, her old (and imagined) inadequacies had melted away and she was ready to blow stuff up, only hers would have better fire.

Then one night, she turned on the television and saw a sight she would recognize anywhere. A tall stout woman screaming, guns rotating, and a city in ruins. It had happened again. At first Firebird assumed it was Arryd City, where she had suspected NoFace had gone, but was surprised to find out that this was not Arryd City. It was not even in the United States. No. She had blown up Sweden. (What? Sweden? Yeah!) Reports were pouring out of Stockholm of a woman gone completely crazy. Thehellyousay.

After two long years, and one very destructive outburst from Killjoy (who had decided to wake up). Firebird and NoFace stood in the same room, NoFace in a bit of a spotlight, Firebird in the shadows. Firebird made a flame at the end of her finger and lit her cigarette.

"If you EVER blow me up again, I will kill you where you stand. If you so much as THINK about it!" A plume of smoke wafted lazily into the light.

"That's just it," NoFace said. "I didn't think. I didn't know you were in there. I didn't mean to."

"Nice, but I still got blown up. It hurt. No explanation you can give will ever make that go away. I can forgive you, but I will never forget." Firebird stepped into the light and smiled. "I think I'm going to like this 'sensitivity chip' thing. Come on. Bring the sword. We have a lot of ice cream to catch up on. Welcome back to Polar City."

Black and White law

No hero organization can stay afloat without money. It's true. The Polar City League used to be backed by the government. But since it's collapse, the government has been overrun by Murphy's Law. And Murphy is not going to pay for the very people who are trying to get rid of him.

Meet Matt and Mark. Once attorneys for Murphy (two of hundreds), they were his favorites. Both brilliant, one in black, the other in white. They could intimidate with the best, and neither of them had ever lost.

But one day, they looked too deep into Murphy's business. Paperwork about experimentation on children surfaced. After paperwork, the photograph followed, and then the video documentation. Murphy was confronted, as neither man had the stomach for what had happened. Both heroes themselves, they figured they had a duty to do something.

For this they lost their jobs. Mark lost his right arm, and Matt his left. They were thrown onto the street, their expensive suits ruined and bleeding to death. They carried no proof of the atrocities save what they could remember.

Their search for prosthetics led them to Sircuit. As he outfitted them with new limbs, they learned of a struggling underground of heroes rebelling against Murphy, doing what little they could. One looked at the other and knew they had found what they were looking for.

Through overseas investments and various other enterprises, the two decided to fund the Resistance. Now they oversee Sircuit's patents ... for a fee, and put their cut right back into the organization.

They managed to locate the last survivor of Murphy's experimentation, and Matt was sent to retrieve her and act as her lawyer in the federal case in which she was currently drowning. (Why HAD she blown up Sweden, anyway?) After seeing her largest charges overturned but failing to dodge the punishment of having a mood-alteration chip implanted in her head, he brought her back to Polar City.

They are the unofficial leaders of the Resistance, still without a name, and neither engage in active duty. It is unclear what abilities they have past their advanced arms.

A little history lesson ....

In 1980, Lunette Bruce was born to a pair of heroes in Lottsawheat County.

By the time her parents moved to Polar City one year later, they were sad to report that she, unlike them, had no special abilities of their own. Still, they loved her, and she was very smart ... not to mention terribly amusing.

In 1985, her little sister was born. To the surprise and delight of all, the baby exhibited fantastic shape-shifting abilities within her first few months. Finally, the Bruce family had their little hero. But all was not so rosy as that. The baby's abilities gave her a degenerative condition that could kill her if nothing was done.

Unfortunately, the Bruce family was not rich. All feared for the baby. And then help came from an unexpected place: A CEO and philanthropist known only as Murphy. He said, in exchange for giving him rights to enroll Lunette in a new program to make normal people into heroes, he would pay for the baby's medical expenses. They agreed.

And so, Lunette was handed over to Murphy's people. Her family came to visit her every so often. Each time she begged them to take her home. They would tell their imaginative and emotional daughter that they couldn't. However, she would be pleased to know that her little sister was doing great.

A year after she was signed over, the Bruce's adopted another child. Though he got to come and see her, the two never really connected.

In 1990, Lunette was returned to her family when they were transferred from Polar City to Arryd City. She came back to them with heavy guns in her chest, metal legs, metal spine, and the most amazing symbiotic metal mask. By age ten, Lunette Bruce had been lost only NoFace (her Murphy-coined nickname) remained. She didn't remember what happened, and couldn't relate any of her ordeals to her family. All they knew was that she had changed. But, at least she was a hero like them now, and her little sister's condition had been cured.

She was not pleasant in the years that followed. Often argumentative and distant, she was not at all what they had expected. She didn't get along with her siblings, and would treat them like strangers at times. She hung out with the wrong people in High School, and there was pervasive feeling of something being "not quite right" about her.

In 1999, she returned to Polar City for her last contracted upgrade. Bigger guns. Better parts.

The terrifying moment forgotten, she was released and sent to work for the Polar City League of Heroes. It was great for a while, then, true to form, things fell apart. Her seven year stay there ended in her blowing up the League Building. She was not aware that her best friend was inside and that, despite the pain she had been through at the hands of the league, her other closest friend would come to hate her for it for the rest of his life. Murphy had disappeared.

In 2006, she was shipped back to Arryd City, in an attempt to straighten her out. It didn't work very well. Shortly after her rehabilitation began, her memories of her days in Murphy's program came flooding back. They were massively unpleasant, to put it mildly.

And so, in 2007, after recovering her memories and accepting a free upgrade from the government, she was sent out to Europe to assist the Swedish heroes. This is where the story begins.