#frommyharddrive

Many years ago, I wrote a middle grade trilogy called Archvillain. It was a loving send-up of comic book super-heroes, featuring Kyle Camden, a kid who receives super-powers one day and decides that he will use them not to help people, but rather to play pranks and to bedevil Mighty Mike, the local super-hero. I had mapped out many, many books in the series, but when I turned in the third book (which ended on a shocker!), my editor gently informed me that sales hadn’t been great, and so the series would end with the third book…and maybe I’d like to change that cliffhanger-y ending into something more, well, final? Well, sure. I did so. But man — I loved that original ending! I recently came across it while reorganizing some files on my computer, so here is the original ending to Archvillain #3: Yesterday Again, complete with the “Next!” blurb I wrote at the time. After his parents had gone to sleep and after Lefty was satiated with an abundance of yogurt drops and chunks of dried pineapple, Kyle lay awake in bed, unable to drift off. Too much had happened to him. Too much to think about. And with no more super-brain to process all of that information, he was having to do it like normal people did -- one bit at a time.There was still, of course, the lingering question of who William Lundergaard really was. And what he was up to. But Kyle figured he could do a little research and then anonymously leave some information at the sheriff's office. Between Sheriff Monroe and Mighty Mike, they could figure out what was going on. Well, Kyle reasoned with a grin, Monroe would figure it out and Mike would go do something about it. The other thing that bothered him was that Lundergaard had recognized him back in 1987. Had even said that Kyle would need his super-powers at age fourteen. What did that mean? He's the bad guy. Bad guys lie all the time. Yeah. That had to be it. But he still couldn't sleep. So he rolled out of bed, ignoring Lefty, who suddenly stirred and became very active now that Kyle was up and about. Kyle turned on his computer. He had already transferred the contents of his videotape to his hard drive, but he hadn't watched it yet. Why not do it now? First, there was static. Then, framed by dry, dying corn stalks, Kyle could make out a chunk of the Bouring Middle School football field. As Kyle watched, he saw himself walk into frame. A few moments later, there was a flash of light from off-screen, and Kyle watched himself hold up an arm against it...and then pass out. I didn't get Mighty Mike in frame after all. Oh, well. It doesn't matter any more. Kyle reached out to turn off the video, but just then Mighty Mike walked into the scene, still glowing from the plasma storm. Oh, cool! A slow, wicked grin spread over Mike's face as he leaned in close... Kyle watched. Watched Mike slowly approach his own unconscious body. Had Mike done something while Kyle was out cold? Something Kyle didn't remember? The camera had good placement; he could see everything as Mighty Mike crouched down near Kyle's prone form. Kyle held his breath. What had happened? What was he about to see? Mike leaned in close. Closer. His lips at Kyle's ear. His lips moved. He said something to me that night! He said something! What, though? The microphone on the camera wasn't good enough to pick up what was said. It was brief, whatever it was. It took only a few seconds and then -- as Mike walked away -- the video ended. Kyle rewound and watched again: Mike approached. Leaned in. Spoke. Walked away. Again: Approach. Lean. Speak. Leave. He zoomed in as much as he could. He watched those seconds over and over again, staring at Mike's lips for what seemed to be hours. Eventually, he picked out four syllables. Three words. Just three words before Mike walked away. Three words that made the hair on Kyle's neck stand on end. Three words that made his skin crawl with absolute terror. The first two words: "It worked." It worked. And then the last word: "Master."   Next in : Kyle finally has proof that Mighty Mike is up to something sinister in Bouring...but he has no idea what! Worse yet, it appears that Kyle himself is somehow connected, but he has no idea how or why. Even worse than that, he has no super-powers, his super-intellect is gone, and all of his gadgets are broken. What is Mighty Mike up to? And who can possibly stop him now? (This piece comes from my newsletter, which goes out monthly. For more stuff like this, and to get it first, sign up here!) Read the full article

This one is a weird blast from the past... Many years ago, I read some FBI reports on "sextortion," which is, of course, the pervy practice of luring girls (sometimes boys, but usually girls) into doing something regrettable on a webcam...and then blackmailing them with that information into doing worse and worse. It's a grotesque crime in so many ways, and I thought that maybe there was a book in it. I mapped something out, but I was never really happy with it. One of the characters, though, would have been Flip, the anti-social, egoistic slacker/hacker from Hero-Type and the star of my upcoming novel Doxxtown. I thought you all might like to see the ending of the pitch I'd been working on, after Flip has helped two victims connect to a third who might hold all the pieces of the puzzle... With Flip’s help, Brianna and Cammie get in touch with Valerie, who wants nothing more than to forget she’d ever gotten on the internet in the first place. But soon, she comes into their group, tempted by the one thing in the world that means more to her than anything else: The possibility of revenge. Now, Brianna, Cammie, and Val are no longer individual, scared girls. They’re a team. A force. What follows is a harrowing cat-and-mouse game over the internet and in the real world, as they coordinate a plan to uncover their tormentor’s identity and stop him. They're prepared to do whatever it takes, to sink to his level and lower, if needed. Prepared to pull the plug on his connection. Prepared to smash his computer to shards of glass and plastic. Prepared to take a baseball bat and a tire iron to his kneecaps, if necessary. Whatever it takes to stop him. They are, in short, prepared for everything. Everything, that is, except for who he is… (This piece comes from my newsletter, which goes out monthly. For more stuff like this, and to get it first, sign up here!) Read the full article

In celebration of the upcoming new chapter in Jasper Dent’s life, I unearthed this document, which spells out what I planned for the rest of the series. At this point, I had just finished writing the first book and had turned it in to my editor. I wanted to give her a sense of what was to come…and as you’ll see, I was trying to get a handle on how many books I’d have. I originally sold I Hunt Killers and one more book. But I’d always envisioned the story as at least a trilogy, and as you can see below, while I’d figured out how to wrap it up in a second book, I really wanted more. I’ve redacted a portion of this document because believe it or not, there are some things in here I plan to tackle in the new Jasper Dent books. And like Billy, I hate spoilers! I HUNT KILLERS: What Comes Next OK, so you’ve read the first book of I Hunt Killers. If I did my job, you’re pretty sure I’m a really, really twisted guy and you probably will arrange to have friends in the room whenever we happen to be together. Score for me! I want to talk briefly about what comes next. Mainly because there are a number of possibilities and I want everyone to be on the same page as we make these decisions going forward. The second book will pick up soon after the first and will tell the story of Jazz doing what he swore to do in Book 1: Hunt down his father. This will be a harrowing tale, as Jazz comes to realize that in order to find and stop Billy, he may need to sacrifice everything he’s struggled for over the past four years since Billy’s incarceration: his friends, his sanity, his very soul. He will learn what happened to his mother all those years ago, and the discovery may just kill him. And ultimately, he will have to confront the biggest question of them all: Is he willing to become the killer his father is...if doing so will mean that Billy can never hurt another person? In other words, is Jazz capable of murdering his own father in the name of the greater good? Trust me when I say: This book will kick ass. But I don’t want to write it. What I want to write is, instead, the next part of the Jazz saga, if you will. The second part of a story that goes three or four books. (Fair warning: I’m going to be a little coy about some things in this synopsis. I’m going to gloss over some stuff. Why? Because you’re my editor and I need you to be surprised — or not — by things in the books to come so that I know if certain twists and revelations work. If I spell them all out here in this document, you won’t be able to tell.) I HUNT KILLERS: GAME picks up months after the end of the first book. In New York City, the police are stymied. The “Hat-Dog Killer” is at large and no one can figure out who he is, how to stop him, or even what his pattern is. There are fifteen dead so far, all killed in similar fashion, some with hats drawn on their bodies, others with dogs. In desperation, Detective Samuel Lincoln of the NYPD travels to Lobo’s Nod to beg Jazz Dent for his help. “People are still buzzing about the way you took down the Impressionist. Figured maybe you could toss a little of that mojo our way.” Jazz agrees to help, even though it will distract him from tracking down Billy. Soon, he has a pile of police reports, which he sifts through with the help of Connie and Howie (as well as a little on-the-sly assistance from G. William and Deputy Erickson). The cases are puzzling beyond belief, and it only gets worse when three more bodies turn up in rapid succession, apparently with no rhyme or reason to them. But then Jazz realizes two things: 1) There is more than one killer. One is “Hat” and one is “Dog.” The two are playing a game against each other. To be specific, they’re playing a game of Monopoly, of all things, with each victim having something in common with a space on the game board. This makes their moves impossible to predict since each victim is chosen based on a roll of the dice. 2) More importantly, though, Jazz realizes that his father is somehow connected to these killings, too. As with the Impressionist, Billy appears to be the puppetmaster, manipulating Hat and Dog as they play their game of sick one-upsmanship. What ensues is a thrilling chase on the streets of New York as Jazz and the NYPD struggle to stop Hat and Dog before they can kill again. And even when Jazz’s insights and keen understanding of serial killers leads to their success, he realizes he hasn’t really won — the whole thing has been a game to Billy, who has deliberately put his son through his paces...all so that he can reveal something about Jazz’s mother’s death at the end of the book, in a cliffhanger moment that will  send Jazz spiralling into despair… ...and have readers desperate for the next book. Now, there can be two more books or there can be one. If one, I’ll combine all of what happens below into a single tale. But I think there’s room for it to breathe a bit. First, though, I need to backtrack a little bit and explain something: I’m a sucker for a good conspiracy theory. I don’t actually believe any of them, but I love exploring them in all of their twisted, crazy-logic detail. So it’s a happy coincidence that a few years ago — before I ever imagined writing this series — I stumbled upon a story about a crazy theory: That serial killers are, in fact, members of a nationwide cult dedicated to upending the social order by means of violent, terrifying acts of murder. In this theory, serial killers aren’t individual actors — they are part of a careful plan to wreak havoc. Obviously, anyone who’s spent more than five minutes with a lunatic serial killer knows that this can’t be the case. But. But what if some serial killers — the highly organized ones, the high-functioning ones — were part of such a conspiracy? And what if Billy Dent was at or near the top of that particular food chain? In the third and fourth books, Jazz — desperate now to uncover the truth behind his mother’s demise — ranges across the country in an attempt to find Billy...and learns of the Collective, a nationwide conspiracy of serial killers dedicated to turning the United States into their own personal hunting preserve, where horrified civilian sheep live lives of mute terror, lorded over and preyed on by their sociopathic masters. Hat and Dog, we learn, were competing to move up the ladder in the Collective’s twisted hierarchy... Jazz must make a crucial decision: Can he sacrifice his own soul to save untold victims? Is he willing to give up his friendship with Howie, his love of Connie, for the greater good? And then there’s the revelation about what Billy did to Jazz’s mother...and why. A revelation that could very well shatter Jazz into a million unrecoverable pieces. The chase intensifies and the revelations come fast and furious as Jazz attempts to navigate a grotesque series of challenges leading him inexorably to a final confrontation with his father and to a final question: Can Jazz kill his own father? Jazz will have to give up everything in his life he’s ever struggled for or dreamed of. His best friend. His girlfriend. The normal life he’s fought for. His soul. An impossible decision. A twisted path to a shocking conclusion. I think people will dig it. (This piece comes from my newsletter, which goes out monthly. For more stuff like this, and to get it first, sign up here!)

Y'all! I messed up so bad! Back in January, I offered up the first part of a never-written novel set in the Smallville universe, promising to give you the second part in February. But then February was the big cover reveal for Every Hunter is Hunted and when I did March's newsletter, I completely forgot my promise and shoveled my dumb Swamp Thing/Legion of Super-Heroes fanfic at you! Anyway, with apologies, here's the rest of The Monday Man... Whatever had landed in the north field, it must have been amazing. Jonathan couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to sneak up on Clark, no less driving the pick-up truck. He had first run into the house to tell Martha what was happening, urging her to stall any police or fire personnel who might show up at the farm. Then he’d hopped into the truck and set out for the north field, bouncing and shaking over the plowed-up rows and hillocks as he went. Clark was climbing out of the crater when he pulled up. Jonathan jumped out of the truck — the engine still running — and ran to his son’s side, but Clark didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge him at all. He was staring down into the pit. “Son?” Jonathan put a hand on Clark’s shoulder. His first concern had to be Clark. “Clark? You all right?” Clark jerked as if shocked by a live wire. His eyes, normally so expressive and vulnerable, now looked hollow and almost frightened. Confused. “I can’t believe it,” he said after a moment. “It’s just...” He trailed off, shaking his head. Jonathan hunkered down to look into the pit. The spaceship lay on one side, its top ripped off and set on the ground nearby. Inside... Jonathan squinted. It couldn’t be. Inside the ship, lying in what looked like a large, form-fitting cushion of some sort, was a young man, a few years older than Clark. College age. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be sleeping or unconscious, but unharmed and peaceful. Jonathan could see why Clark was so shaken. Never mind the uncanny coincidence of another ship bearing a passenger — the man in the ship bore a strong resemblance to Clark himself. Jonathan had the feeling that — if it weren’t absolutely impossible — he could be looking at his son’s distant cousin. He was wearing — “Dad, this is... It’s...” For the first time, Jonathan realized that Clark was well and truly rattled. And who could blame him? He stood and put an arm around Clark’s shoulders to steady him, then glanced back into the crater. The passenger wore shiny blue boots that came to his shins, red leggings, and a matching red tunic that zipped up the front. But oddest of all, he also wore a cape. (This piece comes from my newsletter, which goes out monthly. For more stuff like this, and to get it first, sign up here!)

(This piece comes from my newsletter, which goes out monthly. For more stuff like this, and to get it first, sign up here!)

It was the first day of the work week, bright and early in the morning, and already the pain started just below Jonathan Kent’s left shoulder blade, spreading like hot syrup until it flared along a quarter of his back and threatened his whole left side. He ignored it as best he could, wincing, but not permitting himself even to breathe in sharply. Clark would hear any such evidence of pain, and Jonathan just couldn’t let himself look weak in front of his son. “You OK, Dad?” Despite himself — and despite the pain — Jonathan grinned. Sometimes Clark’s superior senses made Jonathan forget that his son also possessed good old-fashioned Kansas horse sense. Sure, his ears would have picked up the slightest gasp of pain...but the expression on Jonathan’s face just now had been just as obvious. He dropped the heavy bag of feed he’d been taking down from the truck bed when the pain had hit him. Clark was off to one side, balancing a stack of the fifty-pound bags on one palm, his brow furrowed as he gazed at his father. “I’m fine, Clark. Really. Stop worrying about me.” “I can do this, Dad.” Clark gestured with his free hand (the bags of feed, Jonathan noted, didn’t even wobble). “I can have the truck unloaded and all of this in the barn before you even get back to the house.” Jonathan grimaced. Yes, Clark could do all of that, and that was precisely the problem. He didn’t want to have to rely on Clark for everything on the farm. He’d been running the farm before the miracle that brought Clark to Smallville, and he knew — deep down — that someday Clark would move on, and Jonathan would still be running the farm, whether or not he’d bruised a rib while hitching a stump to the big tractor last week. “That’s not it,” his wife, Martha, had scolded. “There’s nothing wrong with letting Clark take care of things while you heal. You just don’t want to admit you’re hurt. You don’t want to admit you’re not some twenty-five-year-old any more, who can take a beating and still work from sunup to sundown.” “I can handle this,” Jonathan said now to Clark, meaning both the work and the pain. “I’m worried about you, Dad. The doctor said—” “I’ve been looking after myself longer than the doctor’s been doing it. I know what I can do.” Clark frowned and narrowed his eyes. “I still see swelling around the third—” “Clark!” Jonathan resisted the urge to cover himself with his hands, not that it would help. “Haven’t we had a talk about respecting people’s privacy?” “But, Dad—” “Stop it right now.” Clark blinked and turned away slightly, eyes downcast. Jonathan sighed under the bright sun and the concerned gaze of the child that had literally come to him from the heavens. “Clark, I don’t expect you to understand this just now, but maybe someday... Sometimes you just have to do a thing to prove that you can do it.” Unexpectedly, Clark’s face broke into a grin. He started to juggle the big bags of feed. “Like this?” The sight was so strange and yet so Clark, that Jonathan couldn’t help himself — the tension bled away, and he threw back his head and laughed. It pulled on his injured rib even more, but it felt good just to relax and share a normal — well, almost normal — moment with his son for a change. He had a truck full of feed, a clear day to move it in, and the help of his son. Things didn’t seem so bad. Just then, he noticed something. Overhead, something was cutting an arc over the flawless blue sky, like a jet contrail, only a boiling gray/black rather than white. It sketched across the field of Jonathan’s vision in less time than it took him to realize what was happening. Whatever it was, it was moving fast. And if his eye was any decent judge of trajectory and speed, it would crash in his north field. “What in the...” he started, and looked over at Clark to get his reaction. The bags that Clark had been juggling were stacked neatly by the barn door, and Clark was nowhere to be seen. ************** Clark vaulted the fence that separated the north field from the central hub of the Kent farm. He looked up — the object he’d seen before was closer now. Squinting, he focused all his concentration on it, but the object’s speed and the sheath of smoke and flame around it made it almost impossible to tell what it was beyond a basic cylindrical shape. He turned his attention back to the path he was running. It wouldn’t do to trip over something or run into a fence post. He couldn’t be hurt, but it would slow him down. Clark did some quick calculations in his head. Judging by how fast it was moving, the object would land soon, not far from here. Please, please, please, he thought. Don’t let it be another meteor shower. His first thought upon seeing the trail of smoke and fire had been that the object might be another massive kryptonite meteor, some lost interstellar flotsam from his home planet. The last time the stuff had come to Earth, he had come with it. As had the horrific plague of glowing green meteorites that could kill him with their mere presence, and had also so changed the innocent, unsuspecting town of Smallville. And killed one of his best friends’ parents, too. He couldn’t forget that, no matter how much he tried. He came to a stop about thirty yards from where he judged the object would impact. Maybe some thing blazing down from the upper stratosphere could hurt him and maybe it couldn’t, but didn’t it make sense to play it safe...especially if it turned out to be kryptonite after all? When it hit, the object shattered the very air, sending powerful sonic vibrations out in all directions. Clark’s teeth rattled. The impact kicked up geysers of dirt and stone that rained down on him. He reflexively held up a hand to shield his face, even though the largest stones only shattered into pebbles against his skin. After a moment, the soil and rocks stopped falling around him. Smoke purled up before him, boiling from a new pockmark on the field. Fortunately, it was late fall — the field had been reaped already, so there were no stalks of corn to catch fire. Clark edged close to the lip of the crater. Waves of heat radiated out at him, but he didn’t feel the tell-tale prickling in his muscles and burning at the pit of his stomach that meant kryptonite poisoning had begun. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the green glowing mineral he’d grown to hate. His vision, which could see through walls and more, now focused on the smoke-swaddled scene before him. He couldn’t believe what he saw! He had to be sure it wasn’t some trick of his heightened senses, so he took a deep breath, then blew away the smoke. The crater was no more than ten or twelve feet deep and twice as long. Jammed into it was a roughly cylindrical craft, pointed at the tip where it bit into the earth, with flaring wings and flaps that jutted out of the pit. “A spaceship...” Clark whispered, disbelieving. Since learning of his alien origins, he’d made something of a hobby of studying Earth’s various space programs. Unless it was classified beyond the sort of secrecy even his prying eyes could get to, this thing resembled no Earth craft he had ever seen before. He stood at the lip of the crater and gazed down on it. It was larger than the ship that had brought him to Earth as a baby, but not by much. He squinted again, this time trying to look through the hull. No good. Somehow, the composition of the ship’s skin was impervious to even his sight. He looked around quickly, then dropped into the crater to stand near the ship. He touched it, testing its weight with one hand. He would need to move it. Soon. No telling who had seen the trail of smoke overhead. Someone might come to investigate, and if they saw one spaceship, they might suspect another. And that could lead them to the ship hidden on the farm, and to the secret Clark and his family had fought so hard to preserve. The enormity of the coincidence struck him. What were the odds? Two spaceships landing a dozen years apart, one almost on top of the other. The odds had to be astronomical. Unless, he realized with a chill, it wasn’t a coincidence. Could this have somehow been done on purpose? All the more reason to move the ship. But before he moved it, he’d better see what was inside, right? On one side, he saw a seam, where a hatch was supposed to open. There was no mechanism for activating it, though. After a moment, he gripped the seam as tightly as he could, feeling the metal yield slightly under his fingers. It was stronger than anything he’d ever felt before, and there was a brief instant where he thought he’d finally encountered something stronger than he was. But then the metal finally gave; his fingers crushed it, creating their own purchase, and he ripped the hatch off with a triumphant cry. And inside the ship... He couldn’t believe it. All right, I'll give you the rest next month! Some of you have probably already figured out why it was titled "The Monday Man!" (This piece comes from my newsletter, which goes out monthly. For more stuff like this, and to get it first, sign up here!)

When I posted the opening to Super-Her last month, I ended up reading all of what I’d written of the story. Which isn’t a lot, honestly, just about 10,000 words of prose and a bunch of notes for what was to come. But I really like it! So here’s what comes next, following Lindsey’s awful rope-snap moment… This is gonna hurt, Lindsay thought as the high twenties zipped past her. She gritted her teeth into the wind and went spreadeagled. Greater surface area meant more places for the air to catch on her, slowing her descent. Some part of her managed to count the stories as she hurtled past, and she knew she'd just passed nineteen when suddenly the world went massively still and so quiet that the silence roared in her ears. A warm, golden light surrounded her. For just a moment, she was convinced she'd died. Then her other senses kicked in. Strong arms encircled her. Something like commingled musk and lavender filled the air. Before she could do or say anything, the stories flew by her again, this time in reverse: Nineteen, twenty-five, thirty, higher. She could see the dangling tail of her grappling line as she soared higher and she thought, Oh no and opened her mouth to say it, but it was too late -- she was now at the roof, and a pair of shadowy figures standing at the helicopter pad suddenly broke off and turned in her direction. "No!" Lindsay said, struggling against the arms that held her. "No!" The two figures broke apart, running for opposite ends of the roof. One of them leapt off and ignited a personal jetpack, which threw off hot blue sparks against the black night sky. The other one clambered into the helicopter. “No!” Lindsay screamed now, still struggling. “Don’t! Don’t!” “Don’t worry, miss,” said the man holding her, the man who glowed, who smelled so good, who was ruining everything. “I have it all covered.” The arms released her and Lindsey tumbled to the roof of the GTT. Long blonde hair — it was a wig, to help disguise her real identity — fell into her eyes and when she shoved it away, she saw a figure in skintight purple and red with a flowing crimson cape launch itself off the roof and directly at the fleeing jetpacker. “No, no, no,” she muttered to herself, eyeing the one in the helicopter. Maybe…  Maybe this would still work out… Three weeks. Three weeks of detective work — both online and off — was about to get flushed right down the toilet. Unless… The flying figure grabbed the jetpacker. They were still close enough to the rooftop that Lindsay could hear the captee’s surprised shriek and the sudden high-pitched whine of the jetpack as it went into overdrive. After a moment, it gave up and sputtered to death. “Don’t drop me!” the wearer screamed, kicking and flailing, and making it more difficult to hold him. “Don’t drop me!” “I would never even imagine it,” the flying man said in a soothing, almost-injured voice. Take your time, Lindsay thought. Take your time…  Keeping one eye on the floating duo and the other on the helicopter, she felt along her belt until she found the third pouch from the left. Popped it open. The guy in the helicopter had the rotors moving. Lindsey knew that there was pretty much no chance of this night going down the way she’d planned, but she had to at least try to salvage it. She palmed the little self-propelled GPS tracker, then fired it at the helicopter. The tracker’s tiny electromagnetic thruster could only carry it about the length of a football field, but that was enough to get it to the other end of the roof, where it clicked into place along the fuselage of the helicopter. Still flailing, the guy who’d tried to escape by jetpack cried out as he was dumped unceremoniously on the rooftop. The caped figure sped overhead, aiming for the helicopter, which was just lifting off from the helipad. “No!” Lindsey shouted. “It’s OK! I’ve got it all—!” “No worries!” the cape shouted back to her. “I have it well in hand!” “Hand” turned out to be a misnomer. He never even got within arms-length of the ‘copter. Instead, he aimed two piercing white beams of heat from his eyes at the chopper’s rear rotors. They fused almost instantly and the chopper wobbled back into place on the helipad. A moment later, the erstwhile pilot stumbled out of the cockpit and raised his hands. The caped figure glided over to her, arms folded over his chest as he looked down at her from a few feet up. “Do you have any sort of handcuffs or ropes or—“ “You jackhole!” Lindsay yelled. “Who do you think you are?” He landed and stood before her with arms akimbo, his stupid blond hair and his stupid shining white teeth practically glowing. “You are the Huntress. I am the Magne—“ “I know who you are,” she snarled. “And I’m the Hunter, not the Huntress.” He tried again. “I represent the Teen—“ “And you,” Lindsay snapped, jabbing a finger at him, “are the guy who just ruined almost a month of research, investigation, and set-up. I don’t care about the Teen Team or about your studly powers, OK?” “But… ” “No buts. I already rejected your unfash Teen Teamers four months ago when they tried to get me to join their group. I wasn’t interested then, and I don’t want to hear about it now. Got it, Magnetar?” The Magnetar tilted his head as though confused. Now that they were both on equal footing, Lindsay realized that he wasn’t much taller than she was. And she knew from news reports that he was a teenager, but somehow on 3V he’d always come across as older looking. In person, he looked young. Almost innocent. Which didn’t stop her from being pissed at him. “I’ve been stalking these guys for weeks,” Lindsay said. “You have?” the guy nearby asked. “Shut up.” Lindsay did, in fact, have a bunch of zip-cords in the belt-pouch nestled against the small of her back, under her cape. She zip-corded the guy at her feet — wrists and ankles — then stepped out of earshot. The Magnetar — annoyingly — followed her by gliding, as though walking were too much work. “I don’t understand,” he said. “They were stealing from this building. Weren’t you here to stop them?” “No, you moron. I was here to watch them. And then follow them back to their boss.” The Magnetar blinked. “Their boss?” “Yeah. Their boss. These guys have been breaking into labs, hospitals, and — now — think tanks for a couple of months. I smash-hacked the CCPD database—“ “You broke the law?” “—and found their fingerprints on file. They’re breaking and entering way above their pay-grade. Someone’s financing them. Planning for them. I want to know who and why.” “So you were going to let them go?” “Duh.” She shoved past him and stalked over to the would-be helicopter pilot, who by now had dropped to his knees, his hands clasped behind his head. Lindsay had to admit that a part of her wished the bad guys would give up so easily when it was just her. If she had decided to take down both of these guys, she would have worked up a sweat. They wouldn’t have surrendered so readily. But to the doucheus with the godly powers… ? He had followed her over and loomed again, floating, silent, as though used to people worshipping him. Maybe women especially. “You ruined it all,” Lindsay told him again. “So if you’re waiting for my gratitude, you’re not going to get it. So go back to the Teen Team’s satellite headquarters or wherever you came from and keep out of Charm City from now on. I’ve got it covered.” “You were going to die.” He didn’t say it triumphantly or snarkily. It was worse than that — he said it matter-of-factly. “I had slowed my descent,” she told him, chewing each word. “I still had time to deploy my backup line or my BASE parachute.” She enjoyed the gobsmacked expression on his face. His stammered “I—I—“ was even better. “Just go away,” she told him. “And when you think about coming back, don’t.” The Magnetar considered this for a moment, then nodded once and began to drift upwards. Lindsay zip-corded the pilot. “Hey! Too tight!” he whined. “Shut up,” Lindsay told him, and kneed him in the gut. It accomplished two things — it shut him up and it made her feel better. “I understand you’re angry,” the Magnetar called down to her, “and I hope you’ll feel friendlier the next time we meet.” “Won’t be a next time,” she muttered, already thinking of how to approach interrogating her two captives. “I can’t go away,” the Magnetar added. “I live here now.” “You what?” Lindsay looked up, but he was gone. 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PAGE ONE: We set the scene, throwing the reader into a bizarre and incomprehensible situation right off the bat. This page consists of three panels. Panel 1 is a large panel, taking up 2/3 of the page from top to bottom. The second two panels are equally-sized, along the bottom of the page. Shotgun Mary is in a threadbare room. The floors are naked wood, dusty and ill-kept. This is the living room area of an apartment in a bad part of town, part of an apartment complex that has been neglected and forsaken for years. The furniture is patched and sagging. On the floor are two dead bodies—a man and a woman. Both died from shotgun blasts. The man’s chest is a gaping cavity, trailing viscera and blood. The woman’s head is a single wound, bleeding profusely from a variety of holes made by the close-range shotgun blast. The entire head seems scraped and blasted raw. Mary herself is in the center of the room. She is in what looks similar to a push-up position, with her legs stretched and her body straight at an angle to the floor. In her right hand, she holds a wicked knife. She has the handle of the knife firmly planted on the floor. The point of the knife is perhaps half an inch from her throat. Mary’s left hand is palm-down on the floor, steadying her in her precarious position. Her whole body trembles and she is sweating. Her teeth are clenched tightly and her eyes are closed as if she is warding off a frightening vision. We get the impression that the slightest move could send her collapsing onto the blade. - TOP CAPTION: Stop fighting. Stop fight— - MARY: You better— - MIDDLE CAPTION: Let me in. I’ll do it any— - MARY: You’d better not— - BOTTOM CAPTION: —do it anyway, you know I will— Now close up on Mary’s face. She concentrates mightily, focusing all of her mental energy on one task. - TOP CAPTION: Come on, Mary, make it easy. - BOTTOM CAPTION: Maybe we can make a deal. Would you like that? Now Mary’s concentration breaks. She screams, filled with anger and rage. - TOP CAPTION: A deal, yes. We’ll— - MARY: Shut up! Shut up! I won’t let—! PAGE TWO: This page is a flashback page. All panels should have rounded corners. Mary is sitting in a seedy diner, smoking a cigarette. Across the table from her is a priest, Father MacMahon. MacMahon is nervous, fidgeting. He is obviously uncomfortable being here with Mary. Mary, for her part, is calm and cool as always. - MACMAHON: You came quickly. More quickly than I had expected. - MARY: The email address you used is one I check pretty frequently. Mary stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray. - MARY: Plus I was only a hundred or so miles away. MacMahon leans in close, almost whispering. - MACMAHON: I don’t mind telling you that I feel a bit nervous doing this. Going outside channels, I mean. Mary sneers. - MARY: Look, if you play this by the book, no one wins and you know it as well as I do. - MARY: Resources are scarce, Father. And with the regulations the Church has got in place... - MARY: It would take weeks for them just to confirm that there’s something worth looking in to. And then it would be another month before anyone got around to sending a Magic Priest or even a Warrior Nun to check things out. - MARY: By then, the game would be over. MacMahon nods slowly. He knows that she’s right but he still feels dirty circumventing Church procedures. - MACMAHON: Yes, I know. That’s why I notified you. - MACMAHON: It’s a— MacMahon breaks off as the waitress comes over and puts a cup of coffee down in front of Mary. He fidgets as the waitress slaps down a check, relaxing only after she’s left. - MACMAHON: No one has been seen going in or out for weeks. Some of my parishoners have heard some mighty strange things. But since it’s the Projects, no one seems to care. - MARY: And? MacMahon slides a folded piece of paper across the table. - MACMAHON: There’s the address. God be with you. PAGE THREE: Back to the apartment and the present. Mary is in the same position as before. - MARY: Shut up! I won’t let—! - MIDDLE CAPTION: Oh, but you will... - BOTTOM CAPTION: You will... Mary’s eyes snap shut again. She scowls with intense concentration. - MARY: I’ll do it. I don’t care. I’ll do it. - MIDDLE CAPTION: You won’t. Not you. You’ve fought too long to give up now. - MARY: It’s not surrender. It’s victory. We see the scene from above now—the bodies, the apartment, Mary in the bizarre position in the middle of it all. - MARY: Victory over you. Get it? - MIDDLE CAPTION: Mary, what did I ever do to you? - MARY: Nothing. But what you did to the people in this building sucks. - MARY: And I’m not going to forget about it. Now close in on the knife, which is trembling mere centimeters from Mary’s exposed throat. - TOP CAPTION: What makes you think you’ll have a chance? - MIDDLE CAPTION: What makes you think I’ll let you? - MARY: You haven’t won yet. Back to Mary’s face. Beads of sweat are collecting on her forehead. - MIDDLE CAPTION: But it’s only a matter of time... PAGE FOUR: This page is a flashback page. All panels should have rounded corners. Mary pulls up to the building on her motorcycle. It’s dusk, and the sky is purplish-pink through the haze of smog. The street is dirty, cluttered with garbage. Rusted cars line the street. A wind stirs Mary’s hair as she takes in the building. - MARY: Uh-huh. She looks down at the piece of paper, now unfolded in her hand. - MARY: This is it. Mary dismounts her motorcycle. She pushes a button on the chassis and a monitor lights up, reading “DEFENSIVE MODE.” Mary climbs the steps to the building carefully, wary of her surroundings. Then, cautiously, she pushes the door open and enters the lobby. Mary immediately recoils, a look of shock and disgust on her face! She draws her sawed-off shotgun immediately. We swing around behind Mary so that we can see what she is looking at. There in the lobby, on the wall, is a teenaged boy, nailed in an upside-down crucifix. Dried blood covers the wall behind and beneath the body. - MARY: Oh, sweet God... Mary steps over to the first door and pushes it open with the barrel of the shotgun. - MARY: Hello? I’m a friend of Father MacMahon’s. I— As Mary enters the room, a man lunges at her! Swinging a knife, he attacks her, a mad glare in his eyes. - MARY: No! Don’t— But the man is beyond listening. As he slashes down, Mary brings up her shotgun and shoots him in the chest at point-blank range. The man goes down, twitches. Mary crouches down near him, examining the body. - MARY: What on Earth— PAGE FIVE: This page is a flashback page. All panels should have rounded corners. Suddenly a woman comes running from an open doorway, a broken bottle in her hand. She leaps at Mary, who spins and instantly fires the other barrel, unloading shot into the woman’s face. - MARY: Have they all gone— As Mary watches, a putrid steam begins to rise from the woman’s body, yellow and grisly gray. Mary’s eyes widen as comprehension begins to settle in. - MARY: Oh, no—! Mary fires at the coalescing cloud, but nothing comes of it. Suddenly, the cloud stretches through the apartment and settles on Mary, enveloping her. Her shotgun clatters to the floor as her hands go to her own throat. We get a close-up panel of her choking, her eyes watering. - MARY: No! And then she reaches down for the knife strapped to her leg. - TOP CAPTION: You are...Mary. You are mine... - MARY: No! Get— The steam dissipates, even as Mary flings herself onto the floor in the position we found her in on Page 1... PAGE SIX: Back to the present. Mary is still in the same position. - MARY: Should have known— - MARY: Should have known you were an occupier... - MIDDLE CAPTION: I’ve had my sport with everyone in this building, Mary. Possessed and slaughtered them all. - MIDDLE CAPTION: You’ll be next. Mary groans. We have a close-up of her left arm, which is trembling. She can’t hold herself up much longer. - MARY: Not a chance. - MARY: You’re inside me, but if I feel you begin to take control... - MARY: If you try to control me in the least... - MARY: All I have to do is relax my arm. Back to Mary’s face, which is set into a determined expression. - MARY: I fall and die. You lose. - MIDDLE CAPTION: You wouldn’t. - MARY: To stop you? I would. Tight close up now. Mary’s throat. The point of the knife is just sinking into her throat, just enough to draw blood. - TOP CAPTION: You’re bluffing! - MARY: Try me. - MIDDLE CAPTION: You’re bluffing! Same scene. The point of the knife is a millimeter into the flesh of Mary’s throat. Blood is running down the steel of knife and dripping off panel onto the floor. - TOP CAPTION: I don’t believe— - MARY: Oh, ye of little faith— PAGE SEVEN: We pull back to see Mary’s entire body. The disgusting cloud of steam is rising from it. - TOP CAPTION: NOOOOO!! - MARY: go—go— Now the cloud coalesces into a filthy demonic form, only partly finished. - DEMON: You’re crazed— Mary brings her knees down, lifting her torso so that she is away from the knife. Blood is running down her neck. - MARY: No. Mary reaches for the revolver at her side. - MARY: Just dedicated. Mary fires four times. - MARY: Eat blessed silver! We see the bullets strike the demon and he screams one last time before exploding in flames. Mary shields her eyes against the blast. PAGE EIGHT: Mary rises from the floor, dusts herself off. She pulls a handkerchief from a pocket and ties it around her throat. Just then, she hears a baby cry. Mary walks into the next room. In a crib is a tiny, innocent baby. - MARY: He didn’t get everyone, did he, sweetheart? Mary picks up the baby and holds it close. - MARY: I know some people who’ll take good care of you. We have a panel of Mary looking quickly at her watch, and then we cut to Mary walking down the steps outside the building, the baby in her arms. - TOP CAPTION: Evil quelled. - MIDDLE CAPTION: Innocent life saved. - BOTTOM CAPTION: Elapsed time: five minutes. (This piece comes from my newsletter, which goes out monthly. For more stuff like this, and to get it first, sign up here!) Read the full article