Characteristic

Cost

END

Cost

5

3

Cost

3

2

1

1

2

3

1

2

Cost

0

3

3

3

3

3

16

3

3

3

3

3

3

3

3

3

3

3

3

10

20

10

20

10

15

10

15

10

5

Sally Brown was a woman of modest dreams. She hadn't wanted or expected much out of life, and so she'd lived in a fairly contented manner as the dutiful wife of an NYPD officer. They lived in a simple but well cared-for second-floor walk-up in Alphabet City in a building and a neighborhood favored by cops. Times were good and the days went by rather uneventfully, until the fire.

Sally had arrived home, laden with grocery bags full of what was hopefully going to be a superb wedding anniversary dinner, only to find several FDNY vehicles and their crews fighting a blaze that had engulfed her building and the ones to either side. The realization that everything they owned was going up in flames was a sharp kick in the gut, but it was lessened by the knowledge that at least she and her husband Phil weren't home. His shift didn't end for another two hours.

Based on the findings in both the coroner's and the FDNY investigator's reports, Phillip Brown had died from smoke inhalation. The open bottle of champagne found near the body led the investigators to believe that he'd come home early to surprise his wife, an unfortunately fatal decision. All Sally could think of during the funeral was that she'd never gotten around to telling him that she was pregnant.

The months after that were a blurry spiral down into depression and depseration. Phil hadn't been a cop very long, and his pension was negligible. Between the funeral expenses and preparing for the baby, the bills kept piling up along with the late notices. It was all she could do to keep up with the rent on the cheap Hell's Kitchen studio she now called home. Mr. Abernathy, her new landlord, had offered a despicable and unacceptable suggestion of trade - sexual favors for rent. As time wore on and the collection agencies began calling, she began to question her assessment of the offer, and it made the soon-to-be mother sick and ashamed.

Then it came, announced by the sound of water splashing against the tiled kitchen floor. The contraction pains were still quite bearable when she made the call, and she tought herself fortunate when the ambulance arrived quickly to usher her to the hospital. This would be the second time she'd made a radically poor assumption regarding her fortune.

The ambulance wasn't part of any known company, the drivers not licensed EMTs. Instead of the hospital, they took her to a quiet dockside warehouse in Brooklyn, almost under the Manhattan Bridge. The contractions were close enough now that her resistance was futile. She was introduced to Doctor Goodnight, who explained that the medical research she would represent would someday save millions of lives before giving her an injection.

She opened her eyes to a policeman bathed in light speaking to her. She thought she had died and her husband was greeting her. It was only a beat cop standing with the rising sun behind him telling her it was illegal to sleep on park benches and she should move along. She was dressed in the clothes she had on when she left her apartment. She felt pain in various parts of her body. There were several surgical scars, some large and some small, on her body. And she was no longer pregnant. She had been gone for three weeks.

The jump off the Brooklyn Bridge didn't kill her, nor did the nasty waters of the East River. She survived leaps in front of a bus and a subway car. It wasn't until she picked herself up off the cracked sidewalk beneath the five-story tenement building whose roof she'd just left that her curiosity got the better of her despondent need for self-destruction. Whatever had happened to her, whatever horrible experiments had been performed upon her, it had left her changed.

She was tough, tough enough to withstand things that would pulverize an ordinary person. And she had the strength to lift a car over her head. And there was something about her eyes that let her see in the dark. There were other things, too, including half a foot in height and substantial increase in weight, just about all of it dense muscle.

Sally waled the streets, trying to put everything straight in her head. She had been an innocent, her baby had been an innocent, but now all that was gone. The person who had been Sally Brown was gone, replaced by...someone else. Someone tough and strong, strong enough to make sure that she and any other innocent person around her were protected, to make sure they weren't victims of circumstance and evil men.

She looked up at the sign of the bar next to her. She'd walked all the way down past Madison Square Garden on Seventh Avenue, a few blocks south of the venue. She'd been to the place before, an Irish pub favored by tourists, Garden visitors, and cops. Mustang Sally's.

Her first thought was that she'd need a costume.

Mustang Sally doesn't do finesse. Her tactics are simple and straightforward, in that you do what she says or she puts you in a hurt locker. Her incredible toughness and a general lack of concern regarding her own survival left over from her life-changing ordeal occasionally cause her to occasionally bite off more than she can chew. Since she's started in the vigilante business, she's gotten pretty good at using her fists.

Mustang Sally wears a pale yellow and dark brown body suit with flared pant legs over cowboy boots. Her long blond hair frames a face hidden beneath a wide matching dark brown domino mask. She almost always wears a long brown trench coat and wide-brimmed fedora hat which allow her to walk around without drawing too much attention to herself.