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Description
Link to Colored image: [link]

A few months back I was attempting to re-write my BMFM story 'Breakfast in Chicago.' I had been unable to create a follow up chapter from the one that I had first posted, and eventaully my efforts turned from the story to Sol Bound the webcomic. As the comic has developed, so has the characters and background history that I orginially introduced in BIC.

As of today, I still have not been able to rewrite the story. Or rather, i have been unable to find an adequete opening for it after several tries. The first one that I attempted links to the scene above.

The giest of that rewritten first chapter/prolog opening was what went on the ship right before it crashed in Chicago. An extract from that is below:

___________________________________________

(Extract)
Prologue

THE STARSHIP PHONEIX, APPORACHING EARTH

“Stoker.”
The aged Martian general’s ears perked as he continued to gaze out through the window length wall as they approached the third planet of the system. He could see little of the world as they approached the dark side of the planet. A pity really, his weary eyes were hungry for the blue world. They were hungry to see its vast expanses of oceans and large stretches of patchy land. His eyes were hungry to see life again. He was getting so tired of the dried, desert expanses that Mars had to offer. He even privately wondered if his red home was sucking the life out of him to maintain itself. Nonsense really, but he felt years older every day he spent on Mars. Come to think of it, he hadn’t felt his age and younger, hadn’t felt his soul, since the last time he had been on Earth. Maybe it had something to do with the air…
“Stoker.”
Solemnly, and with a haggard sigh, the blond-haired mouse with blasts of white strands framing his lethargic face gave up his sightseeing as he sought the latest shape that the windshield reflected. His weary eyes locked on to the bent image of the individual that had addressed him as it came into focus on the glass and immediately he recognized the voluptuous physique and ghostly, blood-stained fur of the ship’s gunner that the crew simply addressed as Wildfire.
The gorgeous Martian female was still a mess after the crew’s last scuffle with Plutarkian presence on the edge of the system’s border. To his count, it had been well over a week since the incident –at least, according to the story that they had told him. He was still amazed that she was untroubled by her condition and seemed to ignore her shock of silver hair matted to her skull with week’s old sweat and dried blood. Her fur was uneven, as if brushed the wrong way and her scant clothing -consisting of a pair of black leather jeans made from the skin of an animal he couldn’t place, black leather boots of the same material, shiny and lustrous with gold studs circling the rim, and a crimson top that he wasn’t sure had been red originally or sewn for the purpose of being a shirt to begin with, were grimy and torn in places from prior battles. Her black, fingerless, leather gloves were worn from use, and curiously enough, a pair of bandoleers similar in style to Vinnie’s hung from her hips in a crisscrossed fashion. Though it certainly wasn’t the last thing he could point out about her grimy condition, Stoker noted that without a clip for her long hair it was left in a state of dishevel that gave the Amazonian Martian a particularly savage appearance that was only balanced by the lovely lady she was beneath the dirt and blood.
In the week and a half that he’d known her, Stoker had learned quickly to see past her macabre-plastered body (as though the blood and cuts and tears were trophies to be shown off, like some sort of head-hunter displaying their prize collection of trophy skulls) and grasp that she was a broken mind made so by Plutarkian hands. From what he had gathered from Wildfire herself and the crew she was desperately trying to reincorporate herself into society but the trek, they had explained, had been long and arduous.
As it were, Wildfire was the only one of the crew that he had truly gotten to know. She was the only one willing to talk to anybody about who they were and how they had arrived on Mars, and from the story she had told the trek had been an extensive and dangerous one. He, and Carbine especially, just wished that the Captain or somebody else of the small crew would have explained it themselves and saved them a couple days worth of listening to Wildfire’s tale. He would have preferred a Martian mind-link to hurry the story along, but the Plutarkains had worked a number on her. To perform even the basic Martian telepathy was nearly impossible for her, and, odder still, he couldn’t detect her mind with his own Martian telepathy if he tried.
She was like a bloody ghost that refused to go away until its peace had been made.
And judging from the look that Stoker noted on her face from the reflection on the window, she had come to settle a bit of that ‘peace.’
“There’s been something I’ve been needin’ ta ask ya since we met.”
Stoker cocked one of his eyebrows before slowly turning around to address Wildfire properly. He was a little surprised and unnerved to find that the gunner stood closer to him than what he had anticipated and quickly squared himself off before the rather tall Martian female in an attempt to claim some dominance over her, but no matter how much taller he was naturally too her, the lean goddess of carnage always seemed to soar to his height and higher still. Deflated, but not put out by the mind trick, (while noting she still had some mental skill left) Stoker held his wits about the fierce -eyed Martian and chose his next few words delicately. He had no intention of upsetting the unstable gunner, especially after hearing such disquieting rumors about her from the crew when he could get them to talk to him.
“That so?”
“Yeah.”
Stoker waited for more, but nothing came. Cautiously, he ventured:
“What’s the question?”
She opened her mouth to say when the shuttle shuddered violently from an explosion to the rear engines. Stoker swore in Martian as he was thrown up against the window, unprepared for the sudden jolt. A sharp pain lanced his lower back as it caught the underside of the railing while the back of his head slammed against the glass and suddenly his whole world was spinning. Stoker wasn’t quite sure when he had hit the ground, but he knew when he tried to pick himself up off of it. He found Wildfire tossed down beside him in the same undignified fashion as he had been cut down.

Description
Link to Colored image: [link]

A few months back I was attempting to re-write my BMFM story 'Breakfast in Chicago.' I had been unable to create a follow up chapter from the one that I had first posted, and eventaully my efforts turned from the story to Sol Bound the webcomic. As the comic has developed, so has the characters and background history that I orginially introduced in BIC.

As of today, I still have not been able to rewrite the story. Or rather, i have been unable to find an adequete opening for it after several tries. The first one that I attempted links to the scene above.

The giest of that rewritten first chapter/prolog opening was what went on the ship right before it crashed in Chicago. An extract from that is below:

___________________________________________

(Extract)
Prologue

THE STARSHIP PHONEIX, APPORACHING EARTH

“Stoker.”
The aged Martian general’s ears perked as he continued to gaze out through the window length wall as they approached the third planet of the system. He could see little of the world as they approached the dark side of the planet. A pity really, his weary eyes were hungry for the blue world. They were hungry to see its vast expanses of oceans and large stretches of patchy land. His eyes were hungry to see life again. He was getting so tired of the dried, desert expanses that Mars had to offer. He even privately wondered if his red home was sucking the life out of him to maintain itself. Nonsense really, but he felt years older every day he spent on Mars. Come to think of it, he hadn’t felt his age and younger, hadn’t felt his soul, since the last time he had been on Earth. Maybe it had something to do with the air…
“Stoker.”
Solemnly, and with a haggard sigh, the blond-haired mouse with blasts of white strands framing his lethargic face gave up his sightseeing as he sought the latest shape that the windshield reflected. His weary eyes locked on to the bent image of the individual that had addressed him as it came into focus on the glass and immediately he recognized the voluptuous physique and ghostly, blood-stained fur of the ship’s gunner that the crew simply addressed as Wildfire.
The gorgeous Martian female was still a mess after the crew’s last scuffle with Plutarkian presence on the edge of the system’s border. To his count, it had been well over a week since the incident –at least, according to the story that they had told him. He was still amazed that she was untroubled by her condition and seemed to ignore her shock of silver hair matted to her skull with week’s old sweat and dried blood. Her fur was uneven, as if brushed the wrong way and her scant clothing -consisting of a pair of black leather jeans made from the skin of an animal he couldn’t place, black leather boots of the same material, shiny and lustrous with gold studs circling the rim, and a crimson top that he wasn’t sure had been red originally or sewn for the purpose of being a shirt to begin with, were grimy and torn in places from prior battles. Her black, fingerless, leather gloves were worn from use, and curiously enough, a pair of bandoleers similar in style to Vinnie’s hung from her hips in a crisscrossed fashion. Though it certainly wasn’t the last thing he could point out about her grimy condition, Stoker noted that without a clip for her long hair it was left in a state of dishevel that gave the Amazonian Martian a particularly savage appearance that was only balanced by the lovely lady she was beneath the dirt and blood.
In the week and a half that he’d known her, Stoker had learned quickly to see past her macabre-plastered body (as though the blood and cuts and tears were trophies to be shown off, like some sort of head-hunter displaying their prize collection of trophy skulls) and grasp that she was a broken mind made so by Plutarkian hands. From what he had gathered from Wildfire herself and the crew she was desperately trying to reincorporate herself into society but the trek, they had explained, had been long and arduous.
As it were, Wildfire was the only one of the crew that he had truly gotten to know. She was the only one willing to talk to anybody about who they were and how they had arrived on Mars, and from the story she had told the trek had been an extensive and dangerous one. He, and Carbine especially, just wished that the Captain or somebody else of the small crew would have explained it themselves and saved them a couple days worth of listening to Wildfire’s tale. He would have preferred a Martian mind-link to hurry the story along, but the Plutarkains had worked a number on her. To perform even the basic Martian telepathy was nearly impossible for her, and, odder still, he couldn’t detect her mind with his own Martian telepathy if he tried.
She was like a bloody ghost that refused to go away until its peace had been made.
And judging from the look that Stoker noted on her face from the reflection on the window, she had come to settle a bit of that ‘peace.’
“There’s been something I’ve been needin’ ta ask ya since we met.”
Stoker cocked one of his eyebrows before slowly turning around to address Wildfire properly. He was a little surprised and unnerved to find that the gunner stood closer to him than what he had anticipated and quickly squared himself off before the rather tall Martian female in an attempt to claim some dominance over her, but no matter how much taller he was naturally too her, the lean goddess of carnage always seemed to soar to his height and higher still. Deflated, but not put out by the mind trick, (while noting she still had some mental skill left) Stoker held his wits about the fierce -eyed Martian and chose his next few words delicately. He had no intention of upsetting the unstable gunner, especially after hearing such disquieting rumors about her from the crew when he could get them to talk to him.
“That so?”
“Yeah.”
Stoker waited for more, but nothing came. Cautiously, he ventured:
“What’s the question?”
She opened her mouth to say when the shuttle shuddered violently from an explosion to the rear engines. Stoker swore in Martian as he was thrown up against the window, unprepared for the sudden jolt. A sharp pain lanced his lower back as it caught the underside of the railing while the back of his head slammed against the glass and suddenly his whole world was spinning. Stoker wasn’t quite sure when he had hit the ground, but he knew when he tried to pick himself up off of it. He found Wildfire tossed down beside him in the same undignified fashion as he had been cut down.