Silver Siren

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Survival - 11 Wins!


Alignment: Hero

Team: Solo Hero


Strength: Superior

Agility: Superior

Mind: Superior

Body: Superior


Personal Wins: 11

Personal Losses: 1


One of the very first childhood memories I have is of my father. Even now I can see him quite clearly – standing in my living room wearing a blue party hat with pink balloons on it. I was only maybe 3 or 4 years old, but still I recognized how silly his long straggly hair looked topped with this tiny little cardboard hat, held on by a thin elastic tucked beneath his chin. My party had ended 3 hours earlier, but the lateness I was so despondent over earlier was immediately forgiven – washed away by my joy over his arrival. I giggled loudly as he lifted me into the air and spun me around, making airplane noises until I was almost out of breath from laughing. Placing me gently on the sofa, he reached into the inside pocket of his trench coat and removed a little rag doll with a green flower dress, blue button eyes and a wide stitched-on smile. "Happy Birthday, pumpkin," he said "look – she has pretty red hair, just like you." I grabbed the little dolly and held it tight, releasing it only long enough to give my father a giant hug and a loving kiss on the cheek. I named her "Lucy" and she was the most precious thing in the world to me, because she had been given to me by my daddy. Ten minutes later, he was gone again – and this time I would not see him again for another 7 months – but every night my mother told me how much my daddy loved me, and no matter where he was he was always thinking of us. It would be many years before I realized that Lucy was one of the hundreds of exploding toys created by Toy Terrifico while my father was in his employ. The explosives had been haphazardly removed, of course, after he grabbed the dud as a last minute gift on yet another forgotten birthday, but the blasting cap was left in the entire time. For half my life I carried that doll around to remind me of the father I adored and yet barely knew, but at any time it could have blown up in my face because of his neglect. Even now I can't think of a more perfect representation of my relationship with him. All those years spent trying to garner his affection. Believing in the love-lorn lies my mother told to protect him. Sacrificing my childhood to be just like him. It was all make-believe. He was a make-believe father, a make-believe husband and the make-believe centre of my make-believe world. I've spent most of my life just playing dollies – playing dollies and waiting for the explosion – but not anymore. I'm not his little girl anymore. He isn't my father. He never was. My name is Molly Anne Murphy, and I'm all grown up now.

I remember I first met Molly about 3 years ago when we were both working the Agostino kidnapping. We were only what, 16 or 17, but I remember being totally intimidated by her. I mean, we had both only just started our careers as crimefighters, but she was so far ahead of the game. She was so cool, so collected, so professional. Nothing scared her, nothing broke her concentration or focus. Here I was, some dumb, naïve kid with big ugly goggles and a lame crossbow and she's leaping from rooftop to rooftop with a flowing silver mane, a shotgun and a fistful of whoopass. She was fast, she was strong and she always knew exactly what to do, but she never talked down to me – not even in the very beginning. There was a kindness there beneath her rough exterior, a genuine fondness for the underdog which allowed her to take control of a situation without making anyone feel inferior or excluded. I guess that's why she wound up the leader of our little trio – it just seemed so natural that me and Kyoshi never really questioned it. As we got to now each other more though, I realized that beneath her cool exterior she was really very troubled. Most of it has to do with her father – surprise, surprise – who is a total jerk, by the way. It's such a touchy subject with her though. Even now, as much as our love allows us to confide in each other, that's a subject I do my best to avoid. When she doesn't think of him, she's almost normal, y'know?


     Acrobat: Superior


I was six years old when my father sat me on his knee and explained just what it was that he did for a living. I wouldn't say that I was shocked exactly, or even surprised. I think I just kind of accepted the insanity of it in the same way that all kids just accept things. I mean, I was six – what the hell did I know about the world anyhow? In truth, I found it pretty exciting, really. My dad, out there fighting superheroes – I never really thought of him as "the bad guy". No one at that age thinks of their father as anything other than infallible. I was fascinated by stories of his adventures, even though it was those very adventures which kept him from me. During his brief stints at home, he would thrill me with displays of acrobatic acumen as he described how he once again avoided capture at the hands of some hero or another. I tried my best to mimic his moves and he encouraged me – though I think now his "pride" in my natural ability was more born of conceit that I had taken after him and not my mother. Every time he'd leave I would drive my poor mother crazy flipping about the apartment and all through the neighbourhood – oblivious to the heartache it brought her. As my skills improved, so did my desire to prove myself to my dad – to gain his fleeting attention and approval. When I practice these moves now, my speed and agility matching even that of my father's – I think back upon my mother. When she watched me move, she saw him in every step, and although she tried not to show it, I think it broke her heart a little each day.



     Martial Arts: Standard


I think it was maybe the second or third time that we had teamed up on a case that I really started to wonder what was up with Molly. We were tracking down this small-time drug dealer in an apartment complex in Looking Glass, and he had totally given us the slip. We were kinda just wandering through the corridors looking for this guy when we hear this horrible shriek from one of the apartments. I figure maybe it's our guy taking a hostage or something – I mean who knows, right? So Molly busts down the door and we run in and see this guy – this big fat, balding SoB – burning his kid with a lit cigarette. And I'm not talking a teenager like we were, I'm talking a 4 year old kid. Well Molly just LOSES it and grabs the guy by the neck. She told me to look after the little boy while she dragged this poor bastard into the bedroom and shut the door. I was trying to comfort this poor kid but he was pretty much in shock – I don't think he really heard the noises coming out of that room, which is probably just as well. Now she's pretty good with her fists, but what I was hearing through that closed door was no fair fight – it was a straight up smackdown of the highest order. She was screaming at him and he was begging her to stop and that only made her beat him some more. Eventually, I had to bust in and break it up, because I really thought she was going to kill the guy. He was a bloody mess, of course, but in a way Molly was no better. She ran out of that apartment with tears streaming down her face. She couldn't even bear to look at the kid. I had to wait around for the police to show up and try to explain things, and I didn't see Molly again for a month. We've never talked about it. That's just how things are with Molly and kids – it's a sore spot for her.



     Projectile Attack: Superior

  • Ranged Attack Only
  • Multi-Attacks
  • Ranged and Melee Attack


I think I was maybe 12 or 13 when I started to really get into trouble with the law. Although I had always done very well in school, I was already close to being expelled for skipping classes, and I guess it just kinda started there. Dad was gone and Mom was usually too drunk to notice my comings and goings, and when you give a kid that young and that eager to prove herself enough rope, she's bound to hang herself eventually. Being the daughter of a man I believed was the most badassed villain to ever hit the streets of Khazan, I felt an obligation to protect his honour when the other kids made fun. They called him a punk, a lackey, a washed-up thug – and I made them pay for every word with my fists. My dad was my hero, and I wanted to be just like him. Fighting lead to muggings, and muggings lead to extortion and by the time I was 14 I had a rap sheet that stretched halfway up your arm. My parents never really stepped in to stop things though. I think mom thought that maybe if I got in enough trouble, it would get my dad to come by more often – and maybe I did too. I desperately wanted him to notice me, to appreciate me... to love me. My father of course didn't give a crap that I was in trouble. He only stopped by long enough to squeeze my mom for some money and keep her false hopes for a normal relationship alive. He never encouraged me to get into a life of crime, but he never discouraged me either. Where most fathers would have locked their daughter in a room and got her some help, my dad got me a shotgun. Yep, a shotgun. Said he thought I needed some protection. Of course I was ecstatic, and promptly named it "Lucy" after my doll. It was the same make and model of my father's "Ol' Reliable", and in some sick way I viewed that as a kind of deep father-daughter bond. What a load of bull. I still have that shotgun and have absolutely no hesitation in using it. How many of the scumbags I empty a shell into have kids of their own? Wives, girlfriends, mothers, fathers – their lives forever ruined by the selfish choices of a loved one. James is always lecturing me about showing more restraint, but I'm not like Kyoshi – I don't have that kind of inner peace and practiced resolve to simply shelf my hatred. I have no pity for them. They deserve every burning piece of buckshot they get.



     Marksman: Standard


When Molly and I first started working together, I was always surprised that she used a shotgun. I mean here I was, a technical whiz kid with an arsenal of specialized bolts made for a state-of-the-art high-powered crossbow and she shows up with a plain old shotgun? What kind of superhero does that? Where was the novelty, the excitement, the drama? I guess when your weapon is really all you've got going for you as a hero you get kinda stuck up about it. I would dazzle her with my physics-bending trick shots and remarkable feats of speed and accuracy. When fighting the bad guys I would look for excuses to use my special bolts – exploding tip bolt, sleeping gas bolt, weighted net bolt, taser bolt ... no matter what the situation I had just the right bolt and delivered it with style. Then one day we went up against a counterfeiter who went by the name of India Ink. We had tracked him down to this abandoned warehouse near the docks and he managed to get the drop on us – squirting thick, black ink into both of our faces, blinding Molly and disabling my goggles. I started firing bolts but, blinded as I was, I couldn't hit a damned thing. All my years of training to become the most accurate crossbow archer in the world went right into the crapper as soon as some two-bit wannabe hits me with a little ink. Molly stayed cool of course, and managed to get us lined up back to back. She pumps the shotgun and starts firing in all directions until finally, we could hear Inky take a hit. With that wide spread of fire, she didn't need to see where he was – she knew a piece of shot would hit him eventually. That's Molly in a nutshell though – she keeps it simple. I guess when your life is that messed up, you try and find simplicity wherever you can get it.



     Body Armor: Standard

  • Reinforced Defenses


I remember that it was early autumn or late summer – that part of the year when the leaves just start to change colour and the sun peeks through overcast clouds like a beacon from heaven. These days, I allow myself the luxury of making such observations and savouring life's little moments, but back then I barely noticed. I had other pre-occupations. My father was a week away from release after a 13-month stint in the pen because of that whole Babyface Malloy mess. My mom was convinced that he would come to us once he got out and even though she had been feeling pretty sick in the preceding weeks, she sobered up and got herself together as best she could. I don't know who was more excited, me or my mom – we had both convinced ourselves that he would ride back to our ramshackle apartment on a white horse and stay forever. The day of his release, I went downtown to look for a present for him, and having no money was no problem. I was the daughter of Dodge Murphy – I 'd simply take what I wanted. I walked into the jewellers with a mask on my face, "Lucy" in my hands and my father's love on my mind. After relieving them of a few trays of men's designer watches, I confidently strode out the back door – and into the sights of a .35 calibre pistol. Seems the owner's son was out back when I struck, and you know how people get when it comes to family businesses. I don't remember being shot exactly, just that I suddenly dropped to the ground and was confused as to why I couldn't get up. It wasn't until the police arrived that I felt the terrible pain – a searing, burning, indescribable pain which tore through my entire abdomen. I never made it home that day, but didn't matter anyhow – my father never did show up. Two weeks in the hospital and then another 8 months in juvenile hall – for nothing. Now I wear Kevlar under my costume. It can stop a bullet, but it can't stop the hurt from that day. A gunshot I could take, but another disappointment at the hands of my father? It was almost too much for me to bear.



     Tactician: Superior


We had been working together for probably 4 months when my relationship with Molly started to turn into something more than a crimefighting partnership. As superheroes, we were a perfect fit – she, the confident, take-charge, streetwise scrapper and I, the wealthy, technically-saavy, skilled idealist. We uncovered the mob corruption in the local steelworkers union. We busted up the prostitution rings run by C.J. Sleez. We stopped The Chainsaw from cutting the deputy mayor into a million pieces. We were young, but we made a good team – our strengths complimented each other beautifully. As people, however, we couldn't be more different. Now, after all this time, I still feel like there is a part of Molly that I'll just never be able to understand. I love her, and she loves me, but it's as if there is a part of her which she keeps locked inside for no one to see. It's hard for me because I know it's intentional – EVERYTHING with Molly is intentional. Everything is part of "the big plan" even if you can't possibly fathom what the plan might be. I guess it's her way of controlling things – she doesn't like the unexpected. In the field it's been a huge help because no matter what happens, you just have this incredible confidence that she knows exactly what she's doing. She's got everything all planned out, and even when the plan goes all to hell, she always comes up with another option to get us out of a jam. I think where it starts to become a hindrance though is in her personal life. I mean, I'm not exactly what you would call a controlling boyfriend. I make no illusions about who wears the pants with us, and lemme tell you it isn't me. Still though, it's tough to watch her try to control how people think or feel by the actions she takes. Sometimes people are just happy or sad or angry or indifferent no matter what you do, but she takes every change in people's attitudes or emotions so personally – like every time someone cries it's her fault. I don't really talk about it much with her though, she's got a lot of hurt locked away inside and if channelling it into busting up crime syndicates or street gangs helps her to find a little peace, who am I to interfere? She doesn't talk about her Dad much and has a pretty testy relationship with her aunt. I know her Mom dying had a big impact on her, but I can't even get her to open up about that. Patience – I guess that's my own battle plan for dealing Molly. Love her and support her, and eventually she'll open up. Maybe.



     Detective: Standard


That stretch in jeuvie hall was a rough time. My mom couldn't come to visit me much because she was sick all the time. I kept telling her to go see a doctor but she spent all her time drunk, pining for my father or both. What could any doctor do, I suppose, to mend a broken heart? My father of course never bothered to visit, but my mom always made up excuses for him and I always believed it. I got a really nice letter from him once while I was locked up but my aunt Siobhan said my mom had written it to make me feel better. I still held out hope that he would come – I even fantasized that he would break in with shotgun blazing and bust me out, and that we'd become a father-daughter team terrorizing the city. I know, stupid right? At the time it was the only thing which got me through my sentence. My mom had stopped visiting altogether and aunt Siobhan took a new job with some lowlife fence in Khazan City, so she didn't make it back to Looking Glass much. When I was released, there wasn't a soul waiting there for me. Undaunted, I went home, only to find that mom didn't live there anymore. I did some digging – put the word out on the street and finally was able to track her down. She was on a grassy hill choked with weeds, her grave noted only by a simple grey stone marker. I tracked down the doctor who cared for her and got the whole story – it was pancreatic cancer that eventually got her. Her sickness was worse than I had feared. The doctor said that by the time she was taken to hospital, the cancer had spread to half her organs. There was nothing they could do but just put her in a bed and wait for her to die. With tears welling up in his eyes he recounted how every time he came to visit her she would, in her delirium, ask if it was Dodge. As she lay dying, all she wanted was a visit from the man who never loved her and the daughter who should have loved her more. He never came – and because of him she couldn't either. My mother died a broken woman still holding out hope that my father would come, still believing that he cared. She died alone and frightened because I was paying for a crime committed for him. I swore that day that it would never happen again. I took my Lucy doll to my mother's grave and burned it right there next to her marker. After all that time I could finally see that he never cared about me. He never cared about my mother. He was never a part of our family. From that day forward I vowed to put people like my father out of business – to use the skills I learned from him make sure this never happened to another family again. I've found love now with James, and friendship with Kyoshi, but every day the pain of his neglect pierces me to my core. I'm not his little girl anymore. He isn't my father. He never was. My name is Molly Anne Murphy, and I'm all grown up now.