"Don't get excited, Roy," Shoveler interrupted moodily, wiping the blade of his shovel with a damp rag. "Everyone makes mistakes."

"Mistakes!" Mr. Furious trembled with anger. "The Night...Prancer--or whatever he calls himself--got away and it's all because of--Hey!" he yelled, storming up to Spleen, who was currently absorbed in drawing something in his sketchbook. "Am I talking to myself over here? Pay attention in class!"

Spleen managed to snatch the cartoon of Mr. Furious being sawed in half by a chainsaw-wielding maniac out of the binding just as Furious yanked the sketchbook out his hands. He hastily stuffed the page between himself and his chair, the safest place he knew. He blinked at the room guiltily.

"Well?" demanded Furious, looming over him. "Invisible Boy is probably scarred for life. Anything to say?"

Spleen glanced over at the indicated person, who was being comforted by Blue Raja. His eyes widened. "It wasch a mischfire!" he insisted, instantly on the defense. "I wasch dischtracted!"

Mr. Furious glowered, putting the sketchbook-holding hand to his hip. "By what?"

"Oh gee, let me think, okay...maybe it was schome bigmouth calling me pizscha-fasche!"

"You really shouldn't have gone there, Furious," Bowler spoke up in Spleen's defense.

Mr. Furious waved the sketchbook in the air like a flag. "Wh--w--Hello? I was trying to get his attention! He keeps jumping to the front when he knows he's supposed to stay in the rear!"

"I hate the rear," scowled Spleen.

"Odd comment coming from you, old boy," remarked Blue Raja thoughtfully.

Invisible Boy, who seemed to be recovering from his initial shock, looked up. "Hey don't get mad at him," he told Furious. "He was just trying to help--"

"Well he's supposed to help from the rear. Isn't that what we decided? Didn't we spend all of last Tuesday night discussing attack formations?" Mr. Furious paced Doc Heller's workroom agitatedly. "I thought we had these meetings to straighten stuff like that out before we go up against criminals, so they don't run off when the chaos ensues." He looked pointedly at Spleen, who was still sulking.

"All right, all right," sighed Bowler. "Yelling and throwing a little tantrum isn't going to help things any. And you shouldn't have called him that, I'd like to repeat."

Mr. Furious seethed. "Well, you have to excuse me for losing my temper," he growled, "but it just happens to be what I do!"

"If I may interject," said Sphinx suddenly, causing everyone to freeze and look at him expectantly. "But: forgiveness is the epitome of wisdom, as well as the temple of the spirit. You must refocus negative energy to positive if you wish to experience the spirit of your wisdom."

Mr. Furious blinked. "Um," he said.

"Say you're sorry," Invisible Boy translated for him.

"Oh." Furious looked back at Spleen, who sat slouched in his chair looking a bit dejected. Spleen looked up when Furious approached him.

"Um, I...shouldn't um...have called you a name, okay?" Furious muttered haltingly.

Spleen paused, then slowly reached out and took back his sketchbook, which Furious offered as an afterthought. "Sch'okay," he mumbled.

Bowler exhaled and leaned back in her chair. "Finally," she grumbled.

"It seems to me," said Sphinx slowly, "that our disorganization may stem from our lack of familiarity with oneanother."

Mr. Furious finally stopped pacing and sat down. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What I think the Sphinx is saying," offered Blue Raja, "is that there may be too many secrets between us. And that if we--if I may use the vernacular--bond a bit more, we might do a right better job of working within our little troupe."

Bowler looked around suspiciously at the roomful of men. "So...bonding. Like, are--like, what kind of bonding are you talking about here? Because I've seen male bonding and if that's what you mean I'm out of here."

"No, no," Blue Raja told her. "Chatting, swapping stories, that kind of rot."

"We could tell eachother our secret origins," enthused Invisible Boy.

"But we did that," Shoveler reminded the teen. "At the camp, while we were training."

Invisible Boy shook his head. "We didn't hear Spleen's," he pointed out.

Spleen, who had been making sure Furious hadn't damaged his sketchbook, felt all eyes on him. He attempted to disappear into his chair.

"That's because someone didn't want to hear it." Bowler raised an eyebrow at Mr. Furious, who gave her an indignant look.

"Oh, like you really want the unabridged version of the Gyspy Curse story?"

"Well yeah, maybe I do," responded Bowler.

"Well why don't you then?"

"Fine, I will."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Sphinx cleared his throat loudly. Bowler and Furious fell silent.

"Well," said Shoveler quietly, carefully propping his shovel against the back of his chair. "Blake? Go ahead."

Spleen peeked around his sketchbook. "Uh," he said. "I already told you guysch the bescht part. The rescht isch an anti-climaxch, really."

"Come on, Spleen," prodded Bowler.

"Yeah, it's your turn," Invisible Boy insisted.

"Guess the rest of the night is shot anyways," muttered Furious disgustedly, resigned to his fate.

Seeing as he was out of options, Spleen sat up straight in his chair and set the sketchbook in his lap. "Well...okay," he said at last. "But don't interrupt."

"Is this going to be really long?" interrupted Mr. Furious.

Spleen ignored him.

Blake's parents were award-winners...Darwin Awards. They died in a freak (and rather stupid) accident when he was two, leaving him without any family. He grew up in the Lewistown Home for Boys, situated in the country.

Blake was an introverted, anxiety-ridden child who suffered from a severe stutter and therefore could barely speak. He was constantly harrassed and pushed around by all the other boys at Lewistown. His inability to speak earned him the unfortunate nickname 'Speechless' from the other boys. Also, because he was in the center of every fight, regardless of the other participants (and because he couldn't say otherwise) the Headmaster pegged him as a 'problem child' and never gave him a fair shake.

Since he couldn't speak, he expressed himself in artistic endevours, mostly drawings and cartoons, which he rarely showed anyone. The thing he wished for most was to be left completely alone.

Lewistown bordered a wooded area, and Blake would spend a lot of time hiding there. But when chased by other boys, he always headed for the same spot--the gap under the front steps of a run-down gypsy wagon tucked away in a copse of trees. The old gyspy woman who lived there was avoided by most of the boys on the assumption that she had evil magical powers. But this worked to Blake's advantage as it ensured that noone would follow him that close.

"Well...didn't they ever stop picking on you?" asked Bowler.

Spleen was silent for a moment, then he smiled slightly. "Yeah."

"Shall I wager a guess?" offered Blue Raja. "Was it when you were in your 'thirteenth year'?"

Spleen nodded. "That would be it."

Furious groaned. "Okay let's skip this part, we've heard it."

"Let him tell the whole story," said Shoveler firmly.

Until one day, when Blake was thirteen. On that particular date he was running through the woods, chased by six boys--the leader of which was Wayne Frink, a particularly nasty character. Blake headed straight for the wagon as usual, and five of the boys stopped a good distance away, as usual. But not Frink, who was angry about a black eye Blake had given him earlier. With a burst of speed he tackled Blake before the latter could duck under the porch. Spurred on, the other five boys forgot their fear and rushed to join in the fight. At about this time, the old gypsy woman emerged from the wagon to begin yelling at the boys to get off of her property.

"Wait," said Invisible Boy. "When you told us about the gypsy you said you were walking with some friends. But these dudes weren't your friends!"

Spleen raised an eyebrow at him. "Well," he said, "schaying I was being chasched through the woodsch by schixch boys who wanted to beat the living crap out of me juscht doeschn't have the schame impact, now doesch it?"

Invisible Boy had to admit that it didn't.

While the seven boys were scuffling in the yard Blake had the misfortune to 'cut the cheese' and when Frink looked around demanding to know who had done it, Blake pointed at the gypsy woman. (Hey it was better than blaming one of the boys because then they would only pound his face in. One-track mind.)

Mr. Furious clamped his hands over his ears. "All right!" he yelled. "We've heard this part! Can we skip ahead, please?"

"Roy, will you be quiet already?" grumped Raja, who was attempting to mask his own revulsion.

The old woman was livid at the accusation. Screaming obscenities in Romany, she descended on the kids, and the six bullies ran off in terror. She grabbed ahold of Blake before he could escape and muttered an oath which the boy could hardly understand. Then she released him and hobbled back inside her wagon.

Having absolutely no idea that anything extraordinary had even taken place, Blake started back towards the Boy's Home. Much to his surprise, a passing deer had the bad luck of colliding with his first 'toxic emission'. A few moments of considering the stunned animal in conjunction with the encounter with the gypsy resulted in Blake concluding that he had been in fact the victim of a real curse. He was so surprised he didn't have room to be disgusted at the form the curse took...instead, he immediately began contemplating how he could use this to his advantage. He stayed in the woods for some time, plotting.

He didn't return to the Home until the next morning. By then, everyone was already in the schoolhouse. Sneaking into the janitor's closet, he stole the key to the schoolhouse's back door as well as a roll of duct tape, which he used to seal up all the windows and the front door. Hey, he was thirteen, this was the perfect plan as far as he was concerned. He walked in boldly through the back door, interrupting the lecture, and managed to ask Tad Silverstein (the grossest boy at Lewistown) to pull his finger. Then he ran out and locked the back door.

"Like tenting for termites," mused Shoveler.

This little event granted Blake his wish of being left alone. From then until he left the Home, noone dared to bother him. His stutter vanished along with his anxiety (although he was left with a lisp--a result of his inexperience at speaking for the first thirteen years of his life; it remains to this day). Gradually he began to care less and less of what others thought of him and was basically happy with his lot. He got into no more fights and became a much better adjusted person, comparitively. Of course he credited all this to his new abilities (or 'powers', as he prefers to call them), and is very grateful to have them.

When he was eighteen he decided being left alone was nice but not quite what he wanted. He started desiring to go somewhere where he could make a new life for himself, and so moved to Champion City. He hoped being in such a crowded place would make him feel a part of society. Keeping as low a profile as possible (re: not going around purposefully gassing people), he managed to sell the odd drawing or two until he was lucky enough to get commissioned to do a sculpture for a wealthy party. The considerable amount of money got him on his feet.

Mr. Furious, sensing that the tale was over, exhaled a sigh of relief. "Well," he said, clapping his hands together and jumping out of his chair, "great story--"

"Wait," said Invisible Boy hastily. "Why 'The Spleen'?"

Spleen shrugged at him. "Becausche it'sch a funny word," he said simply. "What, you think I schould have a scherious name? I'd die of boredom."

Bowler had to laugh. "The last thing we'd want, Spleen," she said, standing up and stretching, "is for you to be bored."

Furious paused by Sphinx's chair on his way out. "I hope you're happy," he said to the sage hero, who did not reply. "I'm going to be nauseous for weeks."

Invisible Boy stayed behind with Spleen as the others filed out on their way home. "That was a great story," the teen told the other. "Um...I'm sorry about your parents."

"Don't be," Spleen told him. "The Lewischtown Home for Boysch gave me schomething that my parentsch could never have given me."

"What's that?"

Spleen grinned. "Taxch dollarsch."

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