Gender: Female

Kit: Super

Location: Lowtown, Khazan City


Alignment: Villain

Team: The Syndicate


Strength: standard (rank 1)

Agility: weak (rank 0)

Mind: weak (rank 0)

Body: superior (rank 2)

Spirit: (rank )

Charisma: (rank )


Infamy Points: 525

Personal Wins: 12

Personal Losses: 1

Team Wins: 0

Team Losses: 0

Tourney Wins: 0

Tourney Losses: 0


Status: Active


“Look pal, you ain’t the owner’s nephew, you ain’t with the band, and you ain’t on the list, so you ain’t gettin’ in.”

So, is this is how you spend your Friday nights Emmi? Well, ain’t you just a pitiable little thing. I don’t think a girl like you could even get into Club Kameleon. But bounce the door to make sure the other meta-urchins don’t bother our fun time? Sure, that’s just the job to put you at.

Not that you can complain. Actually, screw that; you deserve to fucking complain. This blows. The pay sucks and you’re up till two in the morning dealing with the drunken frat boy who doesn’t want to be told what to do by a bouncer who’s half his size, who calls you four letter c-words, spits in your face, and still has the cajones to sue over a little hairline fracture and a few scalds. And Kameleon won’t even back you up against frat-boy’s lawyer, because you’re not a full-time employee. You’re just some bitch who covers the door… Still, what else are you going to do, starve?

So, Fridays and Saturdays its bouncing at Kameleon, then Sundays at Sugar Momma’s for her weekly ‘ladies night’. That may be the one place where you might actually manage get in. Are you that kind of girl now Emmi? You sure dress like it.

Then on Mondays it’s back to your real job at, oh wait, nothing. That’s right, good-old reliable 9 to 5 nothing. Congrats Emmi, you’re living the dream.


The heat’s out again. Can’t really complain to the super when I’m already a month behind on the rent. Not that the cold bothers much; I guess there must be some advantages to being me. Not many.

The only ones waiting for me back at my place are Gracie and the answering machine. I find a can of tuna for Gracie and a pack of Morley’s for myself. The cigarette ignites as soon as it hits my saliva.

Gracie saunters away to the tuna bowl as I start the answering machine and head for the window to smoke.

“You have four new messages. Playing first message:

Hello Miss Levent, this is the Khazan First National Bank.”


“We are calling about the payment on your loan. This is your third and final notification. If you are having trouble making payments, feel free to visit our loan specialists at—”

I press the red button.

“Message deleted. Playing second message:

Hey Sweetie, happy holidays! I know you couldn’t make Christmas, but really anytime you can make it up to the estate your father and I would love to have you. Call me back, bye.

Playing third message:

“Hey, Emily, its Terry,”

I flick the cigarette out the window.

“look, last night was great, but I can’t keep doing this. I mean, Maxine’s getting suspicious, and I get first degree burns just by laying next to you. There were fun parts, sure. But come on, we both knew this wasn’t going to be—”

I press the red button again. The last message plays.

“Hey Emmi, its Josh Burke. You know, from Kameleon.”

Mr. Burke?

“Look, I’ve recently run into a little ‘dilemma’, and I think you’re just the girl to help. I can’t say much on the phone, but I’ll make it worth your while. If you’re interested, come back to the club as soon as you can.”

When the message ends I step over Gracie and head back out the door.


Ore on Lead

     Fire: superior (rank 2)

  • Ranged Attack
  • Area Affect


Mr. Burke manages Kameleon. You can always tell when he is lying; just look to see if his mouth is moving. But to be fair it would turn out he was never directly lying about the job, just forgetting to mention certain important elements.

The instructions seemed pretty simple at first. Meet up with Fiddlesticks, follow him, do whatever he says, and cover his ass. So there I was on Hope Street when the kind of guy who would voluntarily call himself ‘Fiddlesticks’ showed up. I don’t really have a thing for guys with bowties, so I just let his pick-up lines slide till we could finish the job. He drove us into Dockside. Josh never mentioned Dockside. I don’t particularly like Dockside, but hey, I don’t particularly like any of this.

We entered one of the import wharf buildings that turned out to be some administrative office, nothing of value in sight. The possibility that Josh was just doing this to fuck with me because of the frat boy incident was beginning to seem more likely.

But I was quickly proven wrong; Fiddlesticks knew exactly where he was going. In the owner’s office there was an impressively ugly picture of somebody’s mother. Fiddlesticks took it down to reveal a large black safe. He tried picking it for over half an hour before I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Oh for shits sake.”

I took a razor blade from my coat pocket and turned my wrist. A fresh cut was added among the tally mark of scars on my arm. Blood like molten iron floods out. I shoved Fiddlesticks out of the way and let a large volcanic drop hit the safe. Before long there wasn’t a lock, just a burned hole where a lock used to be. Fiddlesticks mumbled something about professionalism, then opened the safe. He grabbed a ledger from inside, as well as pocketing a few bundles of cash.

When we exited the building a row of cars was waiting for us, along with half a dozen armed goons with accents. Burke should have mentioned we were stealing from the Russian mob.


Fire on Ice

     Marksman: standard (rank 1)


I don’t know who owns the docks. And to be honest I don’t care, save that I can guess that Burke doesn’t like them that much. So when the bearded goon asked if I knew who the hell I was stealing from, I could honestly say I had no idea. But I didn’t actually say that, I was too busy curling the thick burning ore around my fist. As soon as he was done talking I flung my hand forward.

The entire area was sprayed with molten projectile and grown men ran screaming in a language I didn’t understand. You wouldn’t think I would have that much blood, but with a wide enough shot I can hit just about anything. I hope those guys weren’t too badly off, it wasn’t supposed to kill them or nothin’.

This would have been the part of the story where Fiddlesticks and I just ran like hell and never looked back. Bad news is that when I turned around he was frozen in a block of ice. How’d that happen?

“What’s wrong, am I interrupting your hot date?”

God I hate puns. The guy standing on the rooftop was dressed like he just escaped from a frickin’ comic book. I threw a smoldering softball sized missile towards him. He blocked it with an icicle. Seriously an icicle, what is he my evil-twin? Before I had time to say ‘what-the-fuck’, he pounced from the roof and froze me into a block of ice.



Metal on Water

     Energy Body: superior (rank 2)


I guess I shouldn’t have been taken by surprise; as a meta myself I should have assumed that sometimes people look badder than they are. But I didn’t, I assumed I could take him easy.

He was about to give the big hero speech when the ice shattered like glass and I sent a left cross into his cheek. The flesh singed on contact.

I don’t really like using my power like this, it has nasty consequences. If shooting globs of molten metal is dangerous, covering your entire body in it is just plain stupid. I guess that just makes me the dumb-bitch of the month. Ice-guy threw up some useless defenses. His creations just melted into puddles. I was so sure I had him; then he turned into a talking bipedal mammoth.

Crap, again.

I could smell the odor of singed fur but it wasn’t enough to slow him down. He’s a lot quicker than you might think, and me, well I’m just sort of heavy. Like heavy metal, heavy. It’s a problem; I can’t dodge, I can’t sit in certain chairs, and I definitely can’t swim. That’s why I don’t like Dockside. When the mammoth shoved me into the bay it was all over. The protective shell covering my body became an anchor. The water was cold and I just kept sinking down till I couldn’t see the light.

My molten armor was cooling, hardening into a cocoon around my body. More like a coffin actually. I was paralyzed beneath the water, and little air bubbles zooming off the hardening shell were the last thing I remember. Oh wait, no, those bubbles were coming out of my mouth. I was drowning too.

When I woke up I was back on the dock, he was breathing into my lips and trying to pump my chest through a layer of solid metal. I vomited sea-water onto his shirt. To be fair, I never expected to wake up again, so I guess I owe Ice-guy an apology.


Slag Under Their Thumb

     Regeneration: standard (rank 1)


At some point during my half-conscious stirring, he left. I could barely find the energy to breathe, so its not like he was afraid I was going anywhere.

When the cops showed up, Fiddlesticks and the mobsters were all frozen in blocks of ice, which the police managed to smash open with sledge-hammers. I was a more complicated issue; they needed to call in the jaws of life to cut away the iron shell away. Oh and it gets better; my clothes weren’t molten iron proof. So there I am, daughter of Khazan’s greatest industrialists, laying naked on a dock, half drowned, while EMTs try to cut me out of an iron cocoon I spot welded to my skin. Fan-freaking-tastic, Emmi.

I stayed at Khazan General that night. They wanted me to stay a week for observation, but I guess my body’s been well trained to adapt itself to self-inflicted punishments. One of the patrol officers was nice enough to feed Gracie and bring me a change of clothes. The next day I was moved to central holding. The bail got paid, and I prepared to get an earful from Dad.

But Dad wasn’t the one who paid the bail. It was some smooth talking character in a cheap suit by the name of Mr. Jack. He worked for the same people Josh did, just higher up. He paid the bail, hired me a lawyer, and took care of everything I could need.

But now I owed them for covering for me. I didn’t want to say yes, but what choice did I have? I needed the cash, so now I was in their pocket. I was their ‘Syndicate Slag’. I really don’t like that nickname, I tried to get them to change it, Molten Miss, or Iron Lass. But Slag just caught on. Guess I’ve got no one to blame but myself for that.