BIRTH

ARTISTIC | AVANT GARDE

It s hard being a name. Harder still is having a known face to go with it, especially when all you really want to do is make cool art and watch interesting things happen. 

Back in the day, Birth started life as a graphics geek, cut his teeth designing flyers for a bunch of San Paro s club spots. Wasn t long before he d started making a name for himself, though. His style was undeniably G-King but that wasn t really his intention; he just liked color was all. San Paro was as gray and lifeless as a corpse. And he had the power to breathe new life into it. Give it a new lease. A new beginning. His tag, then, consisted of five simple letters: Birth. Do over. A brand new day. Nothing too inflammatory about that. Right?

Wrong at least, according to a half dozen shit-kicking Praetorians.

He never did find out exactly why they came to his studio. Mistaken identity maybe. A hoax tip-off. In any case, they didn t much like the look of his stuff. Said it was G-King propaganda. To punctuate the point, they totalled the place, wrecked most of his gear, trashed both his computers and the $2000 printer that he d worked so hard for. Everything he valued: gone in sixty seconds.

They never gave him the chance to cooperate either. He was too busy being throttled by some lunatic wearing an old-fashioned fedora and flicking cigarette ash all over his floor. When the asshole said sit, Birth did exactly that. No choice. Hell, the dude s knuckles were wrapped up in bloody bandages hardly the sign of your play-it-by-the-book enforcer.

They found nothing incriminating no guns, no drugs. Thankfully, they didn t think to plant something. What they did do, however, was invent some trumped up charge about how he d failed to co-operate with their investigation the damage they had done, was on him, they said. And then, with little more than a fuck you and enjoy the rest of your day , they exited by the same door they d kicked to pieces and left him to wallow in the shit they d left behind them.

Awesome, Birth thought.

Were these really the enforcers Derren had promised to look out for the public interest? It was as hilarious as it was depressing. Hell, it would have been better if the so-called criminal element had kicked his door down at least they would have left all of the good stuff intact, taken it away, sold it on; there was a chance he could have gotten it back. But now, thanks to Justin Teng s squadron of assholes, everything Birth had managed to build for himself was gone. 

It s amazing how injustice can spur on a creative mind. Two years later, and Birth s humble designs had blossomed into a huge brand. The label was now the adopted label of the criminal fraternity. His studios had been turned over twice since that first bust, but the reinforced printer cases and bullet proof flat-screen monitors kept him in business.

Nowadays he s twice the enemy the CSA thought him to be. He s rich. And he s legit.

He chats regularly with Arlon Benjamin visits with his daughter once in a while, too. The old man sees him as a worthy suitor. Maybe, Birth thinks.

Every now and then he breaks bread with his two favorite badasses, Javez and Zombie. Good to have powerful allies when you re going to war. Their relationship is one of mutual benefit: he feeds money into their project, outfits their crews, introduces influential, sometimes shady folk, to the likes of Grayson Fell; in return, they protect him and grant him the means by which to protect himself.

In many ways he s become the antithesis to the Justin Tengs of this world. Like them, he knows that his pen is mightier than any sword only these days, he chooses to brandish both. He s made a G-King exclusive of himself, but refuses to let his label do likewise. Zombie doesn t force the issue too much.

Gresty is home, Birth always says, but the streets belong to everyone, even if they have to be called criminal to prove it. So let that bold, five letter word be a badge for all of them. Birth. Do over. A brand new day.