New Orleans was a bastard city.  The illegitimate offspring of so many cultures that to truly find a father to the lost city would be near impossible.  Spanish street names were written over with French words while English cobblestones lined the walkways.  Haunts of hard working Irish Catholics were pressed together near shops with voodoo charms from the Caribbean slave markets of old.  Entire sections of the city such were set aside to house the dark skinned mistresses of wealthy slave owners and their creole offspring, these same tracts of land now hotly contested property.  Those same upscale properties were poised next to the gutted projects, the attempt of New Orleans officials to manage their growing popular of the poor.  A bastard city with dirt ready under painted nails.  The appropriate nature of the statement made the young woman pause midstep to jot down the possible lyric.<br/><br/>Mia was not a native to the city as some might expect.  Of course to find a place she could call native would be as difficult as finding the origins of this city.  Filipino was the guess of most, including her adoptive parents, but no one could truly press the point.  Certainly her face was crafted for the part with her high cheeks and almond eyes.  A small nose, turned up in an aristocratic fashion her parents would say, was poised over a pair of fully lips.  Mia had always fought the notion of being cute, but her lips always seemed to be set in what others called a “cute smirk.”  Painted red, those lips were even more striking against the white expanse of her unblemished cheeks and the dark makeup of her eyes.  Few people could meet her gaze without pausing step.  Cute or not, Mia was never accused of lacking in presence.<br/><br/>Black hair framed her face, cut sharp to end at her jawline.  Bangs were cut even across her forehead so that her face seemed to be set inside the framework of her hair.  The effect made her a little blander, though the streaks of pink proved ready to resolve the problem.  Hot and bright, the streaks cut through her hair like shooting stars in the night sky.  Demure, her face set a standard for the onlooker that was quickly changed by shifting to body.  Her body added another element to the stereotype of asian women since her body held more curves in the way of a latin woman.  Full in the right places, she filled out her clothes in a way that made most men refuse to pass her by.  Mia had learned that quickly and young enough to dress for the attention.<br/><br/>Her slender neck was decorated with a studded collar.  Black leather mixed with pink once again, twisted around her throat with a leash dangling from the front.  The leash looped on its self so that the length fell between her breasts.  Much like a tie, the length swayed back and forth between her proud bust which was tightly contained in a sports bra.  Mia had no desire to see regret over not wearing one in a few years, so indeed the pair were kept smaller for efforts.  Yet they still pressed against the simple spaghetti top with enough presence to garner interest.  The top itself was simple black with a picture of Hello Kitty set in the center.  The cartoon features of the image had a protruding tongue and dizzy eyes, making the normally cheerful image seem darkly abused.  Across the bottom the material had been crudely cut to expose Mia’s stomach and the flash of purple jewelry at the small dent of her belly button.  Tatters hung down over the flat expanse, catching across the large belt buckle she wore.<br/><br/>While her top might be fairly benign, the image stopped at the plaid shorts pressed against her wide hips.  Black, pink and purple clashed in an image that matched her outfit but seemed wrong for its very existence.  Stretched around her was a length of pink leather to form a belt, the buckle crafted of purple rhinestones simply read Poison.  Loud and obnoxious, Mia enjoyed the way the shorts completely destroyed the female image her body portrayed.  Part of her mind mused that she was fighting stereotypes, taking apart the construct of society like her teachers had said.  Of course her vanity whispered that she enjoyed the looks of appreciation and disdain as well.  Nobody said rebellion couldn’t be enjoyed after all.<br/><br/>Mia wore boots to complete the ensemble, black ones with thick buckles.  A bit of elevation gave her the appearance of height which she lacked naturally.  While she would have enjoyed fishnet stockings, she had opted for the standard black socks of knee length.  After all, she was meeting someone important today and the fishnet just would not do.  That cute smirk grew more playful at the thought while she made her way toward the meeting place.  Those boots plodded along over the stone streets while her breathe drew in the smell that only a native of New Orleans could appreciate.  Stale brew, urine and vomit from the night before.  Amazing the things a person could get used to and also another reason for the selection of boots.  Practical fashion.<br/><br/>An image plastered across a building side made her stop in her musings about the reaction of the lofty mages in the city.  New Orleans was full of the old and traditional; Mia had no intention of making herself into one of them.  The poster that had stopped her made ample proof of her efforts.  A woman’s face was made to stand out across the top of the poster while figures played instruments below.  Pink tendrils of rubber tubing and pink wiring hung from her head, steel goggles shined brilliant over the false dread locks.  Fairy Dust, the poster announced in purple and pink, playing The Hurricane Party.  A great gig by Mia’s reasoning and by most if one just ignored the massive hurricane bearing down on the city during their set.  Well, there were flaws to every plan.<br/><br/>The two stared at one another for a moment longer, the girl on the street and the woman on the poster.  As loud as she might dress in public, there was no comparison to the image on stage.  Mia hardly recognized herself as the pink haired demon on the poster.  Few might really make the link if not for the faint image of tattoos on each of their arms.  The images were unique, crafted by a band mate specifically for her.  A pair of sleeves that were quickly growing to encompass her upper back stood out from her body even now.  Mia had taken great pains to make sure the image would be translated properly from concept to design on the canvas of her body.<br/><br/>The sleeve on her left arm was picturesque, nearly like a stain glass portrait.  A woman in virginal robes knelt across her arm.  Vines wrapped down along the remainder of her arm, flowers spreading open their petals.  A cross of Celtic origin hung in the background with the sun radiating from behind.  Complex and painstaking, the image had taken weeks to properly work into her skin.  The image of the woman’s face was done in perfect detail and then replicated on the other arm.  Across the other was the feared Aswanga of Filipino myth.  A nude woman with reptilian wings spread wide, her pure lips spread in a sharpened grin of hunger.  Where vines had wound their way down the arm, snakes now pressed down through the empty sockets of a skull.  Day and night, duality of nature, the darkness in the light spread out across both her arms.  One of Mia’s proudest moments was seeing the finished work of them.  Now they lay displayed for all to see.<br/><br/>Mia moved passed the image now and onto the designated site.  Dangling crosses from the leather binds on her wrist chimed her entrance to the store, light glittering off the massive purple gem on her right hand.  Fake, but she didn’t care so long as the effect was the same.  When her lips opened to speak the voice that emerged was raspy and deep, another barrier between this life and the one on stage.  She would never raise her voice in public for desperate fear of harming her precious instrument.<br/><br/>“Give me some Irish with extra sauce.”  Mia cast her eyes over the people already gathered and knew she would need the excess Bailey’s.  This might be a long meeting and she had an even longer night ahead of her.  Playing for a city destroying hurricane was a special event by most standards.<br/>