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PureBLUE Page 2
I know, I did say I'd upload page two a very, very long time ago, but the motherboard of my desktop was wobbling along on its last legs and the computer simply couldn't open the file and save it as a jpeg without PS crashing, so I held off until I was able to fix the computer. 
Needless to say, the computer is now fixed, therefore, page two is now uploaded. Shall upload three as soon as I'm happy with the lettering (I think it's ugly and really crammed in; going to see how I can fiddle with the font size to imperceptibly gain myself a few centimeters to work with). 

Story: In a cyberpunk noire future, Nix is a freelancing "procurement specialist" and a hundred-odd year old leftover from the early ages of Augments (extreme body modification in a world where the physical form is simply a blank canvas ready and waiting to represent your true self). She is hired to do an impossible job and steal "the package" from an unbreachable tech lab and in exchange, will receive enough money and "Blue"--a fast-disappearing drug that keeps her lab-grown, augmentable body from ripping itself to pieces--to last her for the rest of her ungodly long life and allow her the chance to sail the world with her lover, Ari. Except, nothing ever goes as planned...

Comic is mature and depicts violence, drug use, and quite a bit of adult language. 
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PureBLUE Page 1
So for my last semester at my college, I took a comic book writing class and, since I also draw, did both the writing and the illustration (God, I regretted that decision soooo much; the assignment really was designed for two, maybe even three people to work on it and foolish me decided, "Hey, I don't need an artist, I'm my own artist!"...yeah, I finished it mere hours before I had to give a presentation on it). I only did the art for the first six pages, but hey, if it garners interest, maybe I'll do the rest of Issue One, seeing that the script is already written. Though if I do, I'll have to redraw page two (you'll see what I mean when I upload it). 

Story: In a cyberpunk noire future, Nix is a freelancing "procurement specialist" and a hundred-odd year leftover from the early ages of Augments (extreme body modification in a world where the physical form is simply a blank canvas ready and waiting to represent your true self). She is hired to do an impossible job and steal "the package" from an unbreachable tech lab and in exchange, will receive enough money and "Blue"--a fast-disappearing drug that keeps her lab-grown, augmentable body from ripping itself to pieces--to last her for the rest of her ungodly long life and allow her the chance to sail the world with her lover, Ari. Except, nothing ever goes as planned...

Comic is mature and depicts violence, drug use, and quite a bit of adult language. 
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Hands the Second WiP
Something I've been working on a little here and there, between writing resumes, editing my novel, short story submissions, and watching Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries. Playing with values and seeing how crazy I can go with the musculature detail. I remember I used to have so much to say in these blurbs...

I'm working from Vienna-Calling's photo "Entwined" as the reference (it's also in the upper left corner of the screenshot). :thumb172661701:
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Cut!
Well, it's been awhile, hasn't it? This comic short is brought to you by Temporary Writer's Block, a subsidiary of Procrastination. Basically, I've ground to a halt in my novel, and instead of slamming my head against this scene that just doesn't want to work for me, I drew pictures of my frustration instead. I forgot how fun it was to reduce my characters to three/four-heads tall cartoon versions and steal one of their fingers. :evillaugh: 

In short, William and Ettienne won't fight the way I want them to even though I've gotten Will edgy enough and Etti drunk enough (I have a picture of myself sitting on the sidelines shouting, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"), Jennifer is drinking the scenery, Reede's been psychologically scarred by a marauding werewolf that tried to eat him, and Jehan demands to be the center of attention. Jennifer's reaction to Jehan stems from the scene right before the one I'm stuck on where he basically terrorizes her without actually doing anything but be creepy, answer questions with more questions, and invade her personal space. 

Characters are from my long on-going novel project (fourth draft, ftw! Seriously, this is the last version, I really want to write book two). Jehan used to be spelled "Jean" way back when (if you browse the gallery, you'll find similar comics when his name was Jean Inver; he has undergone a name-change). 

Mechanical pencil, for the most part. Text added 'cause my handwriting is illegible and put in lazy digital bubbles 'cause I can. Also, any typos will eventually be corrected. Eventually.
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       On Chicago, there’s a man named Tigo. Tigo and I, we’ve had occasion to meet before. In both cases, we shot each other. First time, he got me right in the chest. Had I been human, I wouldn’t be talking to you now. Second time, I got him in the leg.
       Needless to say, I was a little worried where this meeting would end up.
Tigo’s ship was parked ‘round the bad part of town in Bronzeville, a small grungy city not too far from Bridgeport. His ship matched the city: small and grungy. From what my untrained eye could deduce, it’d been a military barracks transport before someone hacked off the top level, replaced it with an Ion Canon, and painted the whole thing black (though now it was more black, red, and grey with rust and peeling paint). Oh, and secured giant spikes to the four thrusters sticking out of the sides.  
       A real eyesore.
       I’d considered my options at that point. I could’ve gone in all stealthy-like and catch Tigo with his drawers down. Or I could’ve blown something up out here and lured his boys outside, then run like blazes (trust me, nothing runs faster than a vampire sure he’s about to be shot).
       Yet, none of those options felt right to me. In the end, I dragged my M52 Automatic Pulse Rifle out from its hiding place under the pilot’s console. Weighs about fifteen pounds and feels like I’m lugging a mini-canon around at my hip but damn is it a flashy piece of work. If you’ve got one of those on, most sane folk leave you be. I call her ‘Old Bess’.
       I strapped Bess to my chest as I stepped out of my office. Maeve stared at me.
       “Good God, Jack, what is that thing?”
       “This?” I hefted it, sliding the cocking mechanism down the barrel. “It’s an Automatic Pulse Rifle.”
       Her jaw dropped open. “What are you going to do?”
       I pulled my tan suit jacket on over Bess’ straps and untangled my tie from the central buckle. “Get some answers.”
       And with that, I strode out of my ship into the last rays of twilight and right up to Tigo’s. Getting past the pair of guards at his open docking hatch was easy. One good wave of Bess at their faces and the docking hatch was not only open but abandoned, the sound of the guards’ feet pattering on the concrete in the distance.
       I entered Tigo’s less-than-humble abode and followed the hallways until I got to his command center. He’d remodeled this room too. The sprawling map table in the center had been ripped out, replaced by four poker tables on a dark red carpet. At least ten of Tigo’s boys lounged around the room, some sitting at the tables drinking and gaming, others standing on the suspended walkway that wrapped around the room.
       Tigo lounged in the captain’s chair behind the poker table farthest from the door, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, cards in the other. He’s a short, dumpy little man, prone to wearing Hawaiian tourist shirts and brown dress slacks. Broad red face, little brown eyes, and mousy hair. Like his ship, a bit of an eyesore.
       “Jack! What a—oh, er, um, right.” He stared at Bess and I fancied a look of panic in his piggy eyes. He lowered his cards but kept the drink. “You mean business.”
       “Damn right I do, Tigo. I’m looking for Bobby Sims.”  
       “Bobby? Haven’t seen him.” Tigo took a sip of whiskey, eyes averted.
       “Come on, Tigo. Don’t lie to me.”
       Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of Tigo’s men—a bruno dressed in a dark green suit that matched the tables—inching closer, his hand on his Pulse sidearm.
       I swung Bess around to point at his face. Bess made that slight, high-pitched whine of her power coils heating up for a fifty-round Pulse shot.
What I hoped they didn’t know was that I hadn’t had the batteries to power Bess for twenty years now. Making that noise was about all she did.
       Thankfully, the man didn’t seem in the mood to tempt fate or my trigger finger and backed down, hands spread and far from his gun. I turned back to Tigo and hefted Bess. “Start talking or I start carving holes in your ship, in your men, and most of all, in you.”
       Tigo held up his hands, one still occupied with holding his whiskey. “All right, all right! No need to get hasty. I’m willing to cooperate. Bobby’s over in Avondale. He’s got a ship there, the Albatross. Ask the docking committee to run a search. He’s registered. You got a death-wish, Jack. That guy’s a real piece of work.”
       “You let me worry about him.”
       There was a soft clicking behind me, growing louder with each passing nanosecond. I turned and found Maeve standing in the doorway of Tigo’s command center. Before I could speak, the whine of a charging Pulse weapon filled the air followed by—
       Bzzz-zat.
       And my back exploded in a fiery mushroom of agony.
       Tigo shot me.
       Again.
       Goddammit!  
       I probably screamed, I’m not sure. Instinct kicked in and I ran, praying that my undead feet would carry me faster than a second pulse shot. I grabbed hold of Maeve’s hand as I passed, towing her along behind me.
       “Jack—?”
       I didn’t answer.
       “Jack, you’re bleeding. And kind of burnt.”
       Really? Why, I would never have noticed. “Yeah,” I managed between gasps. “I know.”
Remember when I said nothing runs faster than a vampire scared of being shot? Yeah, well, I take that back. Nothing runs faster than a vampire who has been shot. We made it back to my ship in record time.
       “Close it, close it! Gloria, get the engine running! Tigo’s got an Ion Canon!” I tossed Bess down on the flooring plates, the polymer casing of the rifle slamming into the metal with a resounding bang.
       “Since when does Tigo have an Ion Canon?” came Gloria’s shout from the engine room below. Maeve smashed the buttons on the docking hatch control panel.
       “Since now!”
       The doors slid shut behind us with a bang, cutting off the sound of Tigo’s men firing at my ship with Pulse weapons and the deep bass hum of the Ion Canon firing up. I stumbled down the hallway to the pilot’s cockpit, my wounded back screaming it didn’t want me using my legs and my legs screaming that if I didn’t sit down right now, my knees were going to give out.
       I collapsed in the pilot’s chair, disengaged the landing gear, and started the takeoff sequence. The high-pitched pinging of the Pulse shots ricocheting off the hull of the ship punctuated the roar of the engine and the shriek of the thrusters firing. We shot off the ground at a good 235 MPH just as that damn Ion Canon went off, tearing a crater in the concrete where my ship had been sitting.
       Only through a liberal application of sheer dumb luck and pain-induced adrenaline did I manage to avoid getting blown out of the sky or plowing my poor ship into a skyscraper or some other poor bastard waiting in a landing lane. We ducked, weaved, and twisted our way through Bronzeville. A few minutes later, we broke through the city’s outer crust, headed toward Avondale.
       I leaned back in the pilot’s chair, shaking. It was a miracle we got out of there without me killing us. How I flew with my hands practically vibrating is beyond me.
       Around that point, the adrenaline high started wearing off and the pain came back full force. I entered into a whole world of misery, waiting for my supernatural healing powers to kick in and patch me up.
Jack Monohan, P.I. (Deceased), Part II
And so we continue with Jack's story. As I'd said in the first part, there's a game here of finding all of the SF and vampire references in this story (more SF shows than vampires, but there's one big vampire-one in here). I'd also forgotten how delightfully silly this is, and I've been having a blast rereading it (copy-edits before it hits dA, for the most part). 
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deviantID

Mytherea
R. Taylor
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
Interests
Lately (at least a year, probably longer), I've been struggling with my sense of confidence in what I create and something that's often called Impostor Syndrome. I won't go too far into it, because it's a negative ball of toxic crap and burns anyone who touches it, including me, and I don't really want to inflict that on you, but I've realized, importantly, that I don't share my art with anyone anymore. And I think that's shriveling me on the inside. 

While at college, I hid a lot of things because I felt shame. Shame that I wrote so many pages and people gave me dagger-looks for it, and I had to choose between being prolific and being good, because in their minds, you can't be both. Shame that I wrote what they called "genre" instead of the "true" art-form of "literature." Shame that I could draw, too. I'll never forget that one kid who saw me doodling and demanded, "If you draw like that, why are you trying to get a writing degree?" That one hurt, 'cause drawing is my hobby and something that makes me happy, but writing is my passion and something that fills me with joy. 

I had a few associates. I don't know if I'd call most of them friends, since I couldn't share that one thing that was so personal to me--my creativity--because I did so once and the jerk burned me so badly, I still hear his voice in my head (he took me apart, piece by piece, for two years; I'm still fixing the damage he caused). 

But I so, so desperately want to share what I do. It's hard to keep screaming into a void and never hearing anything but my own voice echoing back across an impossible distance. I want to share what I make in a space where I feel safe. And yesterday, I remembered: 

"I felt safe on DeviantART." 

I miss the community I had on here. I miss the friends that I made. I miss the connection I had with other people, a connection that wasn't toxic or competitive or destructive. I miss all of you and I want to come back. 

I've decided to share my writing on here. Maybe a bit more art, since I've been doing more of it now (though not much is finished). Mostly, I'll share the stuff that I either can't find a market for, or was fun but not publishable for whatever reason. I'm going to try to be more active again and give as much as I take. 
  • Mood: Neutral
  • Listening to: My novel playlist
  • Reading: Moonshifted by Cassie Alexander
  • Watching: Highlander
  • Playing: Legend of Grimrock 2 (final boss battle)
  • Eating: Had breakfast of oatmeal
  • Drinking: Coffee. Cold coffee.

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:iconmary3m:
mary3m Featured By Owner Dec 16, 2015  Hobbyist Digital Artist
PartyHave your cake and eat it too Happy BirthdayHave your cake and eat it tooParty
                       Birthday cake  icon
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:iconthe-suns-moon:
the-suns-moon Featured By Owner Dec 1, 2015  Student General Artist
Heeyy good to see you back :)
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:iconmytherea:
Mytherea Featured By Owner Dec 5, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
Unfortunately, I'm still not very active (as you can see by my four-day-late response) BUT maybe that'll change. 

How're you doing? 
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:iconthe-suns-moon:
the-suns-moon Featured By Owner Dec 5, 2015  Student General Artist
Lol that's fair.  I'm not all that active myself, life is too busy lol.

I'm doing okay.  Kind of middle of the road at the moment ^^;  How about you?
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:iconmytherea:
Mytherea Featured By Owner Dec 11, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
What's the middle of the road, if I might ask?
And I'm okay. Just finished college, unemployed (mostly; I have  temp job right now that's grueling, but is paying me cash), and working on getting my novel nice and shiny to pitch at agents. Other than that, I'm fairly boring. ;)
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