A lonely soul sat quietly in his chair, a skinny, pale figure, a bottle in hand and a grin on his lips. His vicious brethren stood nearby, talking amongst themselves in low tones, snorting Devil Dust into their nostrils, passing Rampage cigarettes back and forth, exchanging stories from years past, giggling and guffawing to each other as they took swigs from their drinks. One Brother was passed out in a corner; a few were slumped and snoring across sofas.

"... and then I cut off his left arm, man. Right there on the street with my meat cleaver. He was screaming, the whole neighborhood heard it... shouldn't have done it, but I was so high on Streak I couldn't think straight..."

A small voice broke in with an excited giggle. "He was a Skin, right? You messed up!"

"Hehe. Yeah, a Skin alright. Man, we never should have joined up with those freaks. The guy tried to kill me. No respect for your comrades, no respect for anything. He was a worthless Skin. Just like the rest of them."

Another of the drunken thugs answered in the affirmative, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

“You said it, Brother."

The remnants of the Brotherhood chatted amiably amongst themselves, the words spilling out easily and with no sense of time, place, or circumstance.

"All the bosses at the Tower act like they're so much better than us. All of 'em, just full of hot air, you know? Always looking down on us, treating us like dirt."
"Hahaha! Yeah!"

"I hate 'em."
"Heh. Well, me too."

"We could have been something... but look where we're at! Hah! We've fallen so low!"
"So down... down and out!"

It was a sad gathering of losers. A bunch of pathetic, desperate drug addicts and washed-up criminals telling and retelling miserable tales of violence and humiliation. Their formless anger had eaten away at their souls until there was nothing left but ashes and dust. They were so strong once, so powerful that the world trembled at their touch and bowed to their might... now, all that was gone. And so, reduced by the weight of their own misery, they sat here drinking cheap liquor in the shadows and reminiscing, laughing in a hollow, joyless fashion as the light outside the windows slowly faded from gray to black.

The only bright light shining amidst the despairing gloom was Black Smoke. The strange, skinny man with pale, sickly skin had a cheerful smile plastered upon his face as the room filled with the stench of vomit and stale cigarette smoke. He leaned against the table, his elbows perched on top of a pile of empty liquor bottles as he chuckled in delight at every anecdote. He watched his Brothers with great interest, their expressions growing more and more glum, the jokes more tasteless, the stories less and less believable. He laughed harder and harder, enjoying himself thoroughly. Finally, the last of the Brothers finished up with a story about being forced into a death match with a dozen other men in an abandoned warehouse, where the winner received a special trophy made from a human skull. Black Smoke couldn't contain himself any longer, clutching at his chest as he doubled over and howled with amusement, tears streaming down his cheek.

"Ohhhh... that's rich... that's very, oh so, rich... ha! Ha! Ha! Cough! Cough! Grrrgh!"

Black Smoke wiped at his tears, his smile growing ever larger, more sinister as his head shook and wobbled with wild mirth.

"Hahaha! Cough! Cough! Hahahaha! Hahaha... cough.... cough."

Black Smoke's laugh was loud and shrill. It was the joyous laughter of a demon.

"Clay Pest, that... that never happened. Never!"

The other Brothers laughed along with him, though they looked somewhat fearful of Black Smoke, who suddenly stood in the midst of the group like a puppet lifted high in the air by unseen strings.

"Heheh! You're all just making this up. Hahaha! Do the rest of you really... believe this? Or are you all just... just liars? Cough! Cough! Haha! Heh heh!"
"That's... that's right, man! No way! That didn't happen, Clay Pest! Happy never got in a fight with a pack of stray dogs, either!"

"Cough! If you all like... bluffing so much, let's play a game of cards! Hahaha. Cough! Let's see, Clay Pest, why don't you take the seat of honor? Your story was by far... my favorite. Cough."
"Alright. You're on!"

With that, everyone sat at the table and began to shuffle and lay out the cards, Black Smoke sipping a bottle of liquor with a wicked gleam in his eyes. Guilty Shadow, Clay Pest, Happy, Dead End, Chain Beast, Replica... his Brothers in spirit, if not in body... all sitting together, sharing their pain, and trying to forget.

With a little help from a couple shots of whiskey and some Devil Dust tearing a hole in his throat, Black Smoke won the first three hands with a smile, a chuckle, and a little wave. With his corner of the table full of chips, the strange, skinny man's confidence was at an all time high.

He felt alive again for the first time in years. He felt a surge inside his chest, a warmth coursing through his veins, filling his mind with thoughts of power and success. It was exhilarating. He was back in the race. No, he was going to win. There would be no more second places, no more thirds, only victory. He cackled as his pile of money swelled, his spirit soaring with a wild, drunken delight. Black Smoke, the smoke that would choke out all life! A black smoke of death that would grow to engulf the entire planet!

"Ha! Ohh! Hehe... ohh... hah! Hahahaha! Cough! Cough!"

Miss Planner had brought him back from the brink of death and given him purpose. Her vision inspired him to make something special, a grand new creation formed from something old and useless, a new, reborn Brotherhood. A Brotherhood of destiny. His gift to Miss Planner, a glorious Brotherhood of the ambitious, desperate, and bold. His face bore a crazed, manic grin that made the others shiver in terror, a devilish expression that brought them hope even as it sent chills down their spines.