The line at the Metro City First National Bank was taking forever.
Alec Stevens fidgeted in line. He hated waiting. Especially just so they could tell him how badly he'd overdrafted his checking account. Since grandfather'd died and the estate had been tossed into limbo, he'd had to fight to make ends meet. The old man had left a will, but it had been intended to deal with one very specific artifact. An artifact that currently resided in the backpack that Alec had strapped to his shoulders: a two-piece masquerade mask, half white and half black, with no other discernible details. Plain, generic, boring--worthless, really. At least that's what he'd thought at first. Upon putting it on for the first time, more out of boredom than anything else, Alec had immediately felt a voice inside his mind. With a thought, he'd produced two human-sized golems--the mask had called them "dolls"--that seemed to obey his every command.
It was only last night that Alec had discovered the proviso to his inheritance: apparently, the white half of his mask was quite rare. Only two of them existed, according to the message hidden underneath the false bottom of the case in which the mask rested, and there were people who would stop at nothing to get their hands on one of them. The first copy, his grandfather had said, was buried deep within the catacombs of a monastery in Tibet. Even the monks who dwelled there didn't know of its existence. The second had been bequeathed to him, for reasons his grandfather hoped would become apparent in time.
From the corner of his eye, noticed a priest in the line for the next teller over. He appeared to be only in his early 30s, but had gone prematurely grey-haired. It was a rather striking look, especially when the priest turned and fixed a steel-eyed stare on Alec himself. Alec glanced away hurriedly. Something about those eyes bothered him deeply, though he'd be hard-pressed to say what. Better to just get through this, get the stupid mask locked in a safety-deposit, and get the hell out of here.
* * *
Marcus Caine grinned to himself. The thin young man who'd been staring at him had jerked his eyes away pretty quickly after being caught. Marcus hadn't intended that reaction, but it didn't bother him to have gotten it. He didn't really have time for unnecessary distraction. One final withdrawal, and then Marcus Caine would vanish. Because if he didn't vanish of his own volition, it'd be short order before the Vatican saw to it that it happened anyway. Better to be on the run on his own terms than being backed into the proverbial corner first. Not that any of them could so much as lay a finger on him, really...but he detested violence when it was avoidable. His finger traced the edge of the white collar he still wore--would always wear, given the choice--as a reminder of who he really was. A man of faith. A warrior against darkness of any type. A true believ--
--cut the crap, Caine. We both know you won't be in control for long. Hell, I'm surprised you've lasted this long. Give me enough time, and I'll find a way out of here...and when I do--
--er in the One he trusted. He shook his head, clearing the jumbled thoughts a bit and reasserting control. Control...that's what this boiled down to, really. The exorcism had been a colossal failure, on most points. Yes, he'd managed to free the child possessed, but not before the baby's mother had perished and before he himself had--
--had what? Shanghaied me? Locked me inside this cavernous waste you call a mind? You "holier than thou" types are all the same. You dive headfirst into all kinds of crap, expecting the Powers That Be to haul your asses out. Looks like they really screwed you over this time, didn't they, Markie? How you ever think you're gonna--
Marcus pressed a hand to his temples and willed the voice away. His thoughts drifted back to the day six months ago when his entire world had been uprooted. It was supposed to have been a standard exorcism. However, when Caine and his two associates had arrived, they found a woman dead at the bottom of a stairwell, and her toddler son barricaded in his playroom. From the moment they broke through the pile of furniture, toys, and clothing, nothing had gone right. The entity that had taken control of the child unleashed a wave of power that had thrown Caine's two associates out of the room, sending them first into the wall of the hallway and then to the ground, unconscious.
Halfway through the exorcism ritual, Marcus had sensed a shift. Almost imperceptible, and external to the situation itself...as if something else was attempting to influence the exorcism. The thought unsettled him, and he shook it off. He looked at the child, aware that the vessel the demon was inhabiting was still human, and very much a prisoner. Could something have targeted this child on purpose? If so, what could he do? He couldn't bring himself to destroy an innocent child simply to vanquish a supernatural foe. The ritual was nearly complete...but what if it killed the child instead of freeing him?
Marcus had hesitated.
The demon leapt, a crazed, hungry look radiating from its eyes....and Marcus Caine's world had gone black.
* * *
The figure on the roof of Metro City's First National Bank was silent. He was listening to the sounds of the city: the traffic, the unnatural drone as individual conversations melded into white noise, the occasional voice that filtered out, usually from being raised in anger, frustration, or fear. He'd gotten reliable information that something was going down here today...though his source couldn't tell him what...or who the perp would be. Still, the squealer'd never steered him wrong before, so for now he'd trust him. Still, if something didn't change soon, he was going to go crazy. Idleness didn't suit him. He'd lived too long and done too much. Couldn't just stand around wai---
THUD. An impact rattled the windows in the building. To anyone else, it would have been imperceptible. To the heightened sensors in the enhanced bodysuit he wore beneath his civilian clothes, however, it was as obvious as the sun in the sky. Rising to his feet, the man bolted to the edge of the roof, pulling the facemask from the suit over his shock-white hair. The built-in goggles tracked multiple readings: infrared, sonic vibrations, nightvision, etc. Nothing initially showed up...but a moment later, a wave of sonic energy moved across his field of vision, moving directly toward the bank.
The man chuckled. Time to go to work.
* * *
As the lines moved slowly forward, the patrons of Metro City's First National Bank shifted anxiously from one foot to the next. The two tellers available were swamped, and no help appeared to be forthcoming. The priest glanced over and found the thin young man looking at him again. Each of the men nodded curtly but politely. Brothers in suffering, one might say. The tinny sound of Muzak filtered from the speakers, becoming nearly maddening in the silence of the bank's lobby. Silence that probably only amplified the intensity of the explosion that blew the glass-paned double doors into the lobby, showering the entrance to the bank in tiny crystalline shards.
As the dust settled, a young man and young woman stepped into view. The young man, with a streak of blue died into his short, spiky hair, was grinning from ear to ear. The woman, a similarly-sized strip of pink dyed into her own locks, looked much less thrilled. Her glare spoke of someone who had no problem whatsoever removing obstacles.
The young man spoke. "Rant and Rave are here to make a withdrawal, sheeple!" He threw his head back and laughed. At the sound of his laughter, two marble statues standing on either side of him in the foyer toppled, shattering to the floor. "Now, we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. Your choice."
The priest bowed his head and muttered a quick prayer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the young man who'd been looking at him withdraw a strange theatre mask from his suitcoat.
Well...so much for "get in and get out."
Time to go to work.
To be continued...
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Mutants And Masterminds: Let the Story Begin
So, I've also decided to track my gaming group's Mutants and Masterminds adventures, from a bit more of a story perspective. Successive posts will be a bit more detailed and stick closer to the adventures...but for these first few posts, I'll be winging it from memory, so I'll be taking a LOT of license with what happened, but sticking to the major plot points and their impact on the story as it stands.
Let's start with the cast, shall we?
Spectre: A mysterious, frail young man who speaks very little, Spectre was given an heirloom when his grandfather passed away: a masquerade mask. One half black, the other half white, the mask was kept in an ornate wooden case in his grandfather's study. Spectre discovered that both sides carried supernatural abilities to call golems into the service of the wearer of the mask. The dark side of the mask summoned vicious guardians who would attack at the whim of their master, and the light side summoned companion golems who strove to protect and augment their master and his contemporaries. Spectre appears only briefly in our tale, for reasons that may or may not become apparent.
Hellraiser: Marcus Caine was a respected (nearly feared, truth told) priest. Possessed of an almost uncanny ability to read people and situations, his quiet demeanor and inflexible personality made him perfect for the priesthood, and ultimately a sect of exorcists called in when typical rituals were of no effect. However, no one is flawless...on his final exorcism with the sect, Marcus Caine found himself facing a demon whose inhibitions were nonexistent: it had taken over the body of a young toddler, murdering the child's mother before the exorcist and his team could arrive. In the midst of the exorcism, Caine hesitated, unable to harm the frail child potentially. The demon leapt at the priest, and Caine finished the ritual, but a bit too quickly. Unbeknownst to anyone but Caine, the ritual backfired. Now, the demon is trapped within Caine's psyche, bound to the priest's will and desires, but constantly striving to free itself. Caine wields the dark servant's powers: he can generate, project, and manipulate cold blue-green flame in a variety of ways. This "hellfire" is terrifying to those who encounter it, and still burns like typical flame upon contact with other materials--perhaps even hotter, though no one's ever bothered to test the theory.
White Wolf: Don't let the grey hair fool you. White Wolf is not to be trifled with, as anyone who's ever had the misfortune will tell you. Ever seen in a technologically-enhanced stealth suit, this nameless wanderer is a mystery even to his partners in crime-fighting. Military-trained, he learned Thai, Chinese, and Japanese while a prisoner of war. Fleeing to China upon escape, he also began studying martial arts, using the combination of skills to fight for money in an attempt to get himself back home. Upon arriving back home, he discovered the love of his life dead and had an emotional breakdown. He fled to the frozen north, where he took up residence on a small island. An encounter with an albino wolf led him to a long-forgotten stash of buried treasure. Cashing in some of the collection, he bought the island and its mineral rights, and prepared for a life of solitude. However, he could not escape the memories of his time in the military, nor could he silence the voices that call out to him to do something. Initially, this was simply patrolling the area of the great lake that his island was nearest. Unfortunately, his vigilante exploits against poachers and the like drew the attention of law enforcement, forcing him to flee yet again. He finds himself now in Freedom City, living from motel to motel, still seeking a way to make the world a better place.
Rubix: Daniel Kirk had the stereotypically hard life. Abandoned as a child, he spent his formative years in various orphanages and homes, being bullied and slowly retreating into his only method of escape: imagination. Mostly in the forms of games, movies, and the like. He would conjure endless worlds, create vast cities, structures, and anything else his mind could envision. Upon his "graduation" into the real world at 18, he moved from dead-end job to dead-end job, listless and without any true direction, settling into a job at a retail electronics chain that he held for nearly five years--until the night it was robbed. The perpetrators beat Daniel into a coma, leaving him for dead. When he awoke, it was 3 years later, and he was paralyzed completely from the neck down. Doctors gave him no hope of a recovery, but because his mind was in pristine condition, they "encouraged" him to make the most of his situation. Incensed, Daniel retreated into himself again, becoming the lord of his own reality and disconnecting himself from the day-to-day goings-on in his hospital room. Blinded by anger and frustration at his situation, he was all but unreachable until the day of the incident. A young woman had been assigned the second bed in his hospital room, suffering from several broken bones, lacerations, and a minimal amount of internal bleeding, according to the conversation he overheard the nurse having with the doctor. She was pretty, even through the bruises. For three days she lay in the room with him, occasionally engaging him in conversation. She treated him like a person, though he could not even shake her hand. On the third day a scowling, brutish man stormed into the hospital room and yanked her off her bed. Helpless, Daniel watched as she fought back, kicking, crying, pleading. He watched as the hulk sent doctors sprawling, nurses scurrying, and security guards reeling into walls. Horrified, he watched as this monster gripped a handful of blonde hair and prepared to smash the woman's face into the floor. Time froze. His mind seemed to slip for just a moment, then all he could see was the man's watch. Expensive, silver...so shiny...he felt captivated by the way it seemed to dig into the man's meaty wrist and forearm...if only...
A scream startled Daniel out of his thoughts...the man was sitting on the floor, cradling a bloody stump and crying like a newborn baby. The blonde, her hair now streaked with dark splotches, stared at the brute in shock, then her eyes traveled to the now-severed hand that'd been entangled in her hair moments before--and the circular, silver blade that now lay glittering in the florescent lights of the hospital room. Daniel gazed at it in wonder, and on a whim, imagined the watch again. To his suprise, the silver disc slowly morphed itself back into the shiny timepiece right before his eyes.
Three days later, he was released from the hospital. The doctors claimed that the shock of seeing such violence, and his desire to help the young woman had motivated his body to overcome its limitations. Perhaps that was somewhat true, as Daniel discovered his ability to transmute inorganic material would now work only only if he were in contact with the object being changed. Suddenly revitalized and aware of himself, Daniel Kirk took the name Rubix and set out to right wrongs, balancing the scales of justice by whatever means necessary.
Roadblock: A 14-year-old boy, Roadblock is the "kid brother" of the group. The source of his powers remains a mystery, as he tests negative for any mutant genetics and his parents are average human beings. At the age of twelve, Jordan Walters was playing football with some friends when a wild pass sent him bolting across a street to attempt to make a catch. Intent on his game, Jordan never saw the garbage truck whose inebriated operator was driving too fast. The impact threw the young boy nearly 200 yards, where he landed on the top of an SUV parked in one of his suburbian neighborhood's many driveways. After shaking off some mild disorientation, Jordan climbed off the now-ruined roof of the vehicle to discover that not only was he not dead...he was completely unharmed. Not a scratch. With a shout of glee, the boy raised a fist into the air and leapt--nearly 100 feet in the air. When he landed, the pavement cracked beneath the force of his landing, but he found himself once again unharmed, and the garbage truck was barreling down the street behind him. Suddenly angry at the realization that the driver didn't seem to care who he hurt, Jordan turned and leapt forward, landing a few yards in front of the truck. Bracing himself, Jordan threw his shoulder into the grill of the mammoth truck, which struck him and then flipped, flying over the boy's head and landing across the road on its roof. The drunk driver, eyes wide in shock, began to climb out of the cab of the truck as Jordan dialed his cell-phone:
"Hello? Freedom City Police? Yeah...I need to report a drunk driver..."
Hanging up the phone, Jordan Walters smiled. This could be fun...
Tinman: This super-suited hero is a total enigma. None of the rest of the group have seen his face or heard his name. "Tinman" is the moniker they've chosen to give him, given his staunch refusal to give them other information. Clad in chrome metallic body armor, Tinman is the typical blaster/flyer one expects from such a hero, but is there more to him than what the party has seen thus far? Only time will tell. One thing is for certain, though. The man can kick butt and take names, and for now, that's all that matters.
The Pharmacist: Logan Chambers and his sister Bethani were good kids. Upper-middle-class upbringing, a good private high school, and a stable family life. Sure, Logan got picked on, bullied somewhat, and didn't have many friends. But he and Bethani were quite close, being only a year separate, and that was enough. Until some guys at school introduced him to drugs. Sophomore year, he smoked his first joint, and when he felt the troubles of his day float off his shoulders, he was hooked. When Bethani asked him why he seemed so much more laid-back, he showed her, and she was hooked, too. Their addiction soon graduated to more powerful substances, and Logan eventually began producing his own product while Bethani dealt. They told themselves they'd only do it long enough to save enough money to allow them to seek help for their addictions and move on with their lives, but we all know how those plans go. Eventually, they were discovered by their parents and forced into a rehab program. With no discernible results and the requisite lying and sneaking around back in full force after the program, the Chambers' parents kicked them out of the house. This perceived abandonment was enough to snap Bethani out of her lethargy and helped her kick her own habit, but Logan found it much harder. Wanting to help him any way she could, Bethani opted to stay with him instead of returning home to her parents.
It was during a particularly bad drug-induced panic attack that Logan saw three men in matching unrecognizable uniforms burst into the tiny single-room apartment he and Bethani shared. Two brandished guns and grabbed Bethani. The third shouted something Logan couldn't make out and punched the young girl in the stomach, doubling her over in pain. Dragging himself partially to his feet, Logan tried to scream at the man to stop, but nothing came out. The assailant turned, and with a gesture lifted Logan off the floor and slammed him into the wall across the room. Stunned, Logan lay and listened to the sounds of his sister begging the men to stop. Climbing to his feet once again, Logan staggered into full view of the strangers. Bethani looked at him and screamed for him to run, but Logan couldn't move. All he could see was his bruised, beaten sister and the men responsible. As a red tinge began to creep into the edges of his vision, one of the men holding Bethani raised a sawed-off shotgun and pointed it directly at Logan. Logan saw the man's finger tense on the trigger...
...then the gun clattered to the floor, along with the man's headless body. Logan stared, incredulous, at the spray of organic material now coating the wall behind where the man had been standing. The second guard holding Bethani locked eyes with Logan, and in Logan's eyes the tinge grew deeper. A second later, the man had turned his gun on himself. Now completely in shock, Logan stared at the bodies of the two attackers. The third man, seeing his opportunity, grabbed Bethani and bolted from the apartment. Logan staggered out after them just in time to see the man soaring into the sky with Logan's sister in tow. Not knowing what else to do, Logan turned to his parents, who turned to the police. At first helpful, the police dropped the case when it was discovered that Logan had been on LSD at the time, making his story and all its relating evidence suspect.
Torn by guilt, Logan dove deeper into his drug dependency, only to find that now every time he took something, some part of his mind awakened, and superhuman powers were his to command. After much study and research, he discovered that he (and probably his sister) carried latent psionic abilities. Through experimentation, he learned that the drugs were both curse and blessing - they had caused such damage to him neurologically that his natural abilities no longer functioned on their own, but they also re-awakened those abilities, going so far as to grant him different powers based on whatever was in his system at the time. Through further "scientific study" he discovered a dosage of each med type that granted him limited ability without impairing his basic motor skills and cognitive strength, which allows him to function in society even while under the influence of illegal substances. He's taken the codename "The Pharmacist" as a nod to a claim he made in simpler days to avoid conviction on a possession charge. He is inherently distrustful, and though he does much good for others, his usage of his powers has one ultimate goal: to find the men who took his sister.
And gods help them if she's not alive when he gets there.
Let's start with the cast, shall we?
Spectre: A mysterious, frail young man who speaks very little, Spectre was given an heirloom when his grandfather passed away: a masquerade mask. One half black, the other half white, the mask was kept in an ornate wooden case in his grandfather's study. Spectre discovered that both sides carried supernatural abilities to call golems into the service of the wearer of the mask. The dark side of the mask summoned vicious guardians who would attack at the whim of their master, and the light side summoned companion golems who strove to protect and augment their master and his contemporaries. Spectre appears only briefly in our tale, for reasons that may or may not become apparent.
Hellraiser: Marcus Caine was a respected (nearly feared, truth told) priest. Possessed of an almost uncanny ability to read people and situations, his quiet demeanor and inflexible personality made him perfect for the priesthood, and ultimately a sect of exorcists called in when typical rituals were of no effect. However, no one is flawless...on his final exorcism with the sect, Marcus Caine found himself facing a demon whose inhibitions were nonexistent: it had taken over the body of a young toddler, murdering the child's mother before the exorcist and his team could arrive. In the midst of the exorcism, Caine hesitated, unable to harm the frail child potentially. The demon leapt at the priest, and Caine finished the ritual, but a bit too quickly. Unbeknownst to anyone but Caine, the ritual backfired. Now, the demon is trapped within Caine's psyche, bound to the priest's will and desires, but constantly striving to free itself. Caine wields the dark servant's powers: he can generate, project, and manipulate cold blue-green flame in a variety of ways. This "hellfire" is terrifying to those who encounter it, and still burns like typical flame upon contact with other materials--perhaps even hotter, though no one's ever bothered to test the theory.
White Wolf: Don't let the grey hair fool you. White Wolf is not to be trifled with, as anyone who's ever had the misfortune will tell you. Ever seen in a technologically-enhanced stealth suit, this nameless wanderer is a mystery even to his partners in crime-fighting. Military-trained, he learned Thai, Chinese, and Japanese while a prisoner of war. Fleeing to China upon escape, he also began studying martial arts, using the combination of skills to fight for money in an attempt to get himself back home. Upon arriving back home, he discovered the love of his life dead and had an emotional breakdown. He fled to the frozen north, where he took up residence on a small island. An encounter with an albino wolf led him to a long-forgotten stash of buried treasure. Cashing in some of the collection, he bought the island and its mineral rights, and prepared for a life of solitude. However, he could not escape the memories of his time in the military, nor could he silence the voices that call out to him to do something. Initially, this was simply patrolling the area of the great lake that his island was nearest. Unfortunately, his vigilante exploits against poachers and the like drew the attention of law enforcement, forcing him to flee yet again. He finds himself now in Freedom City, living from motel to motel, still seeking a way to make the world a better place.
Rubix: Daniel Kirk had the stereotypically hard life. Abandoned as a child, he spent his formative years in various orphanages and homes, being bullied and slowly retreating into his only method of escape: imagination. Mostly in the forms of games, movies, and the like. He would conjure endless worlds, create vast cities, structures, and anything else his mind could envision. Upon his "graduation" into the real world at 18, he moved from dead-end job to dead-end job, listless and without any true direction, settling into a job at a retail electronics chain that he held for nearly five years--until the night it was robbed. The perpetrators beat Daniel into a coma, leaving him for dead. When he awoke, it was 3 years later, and he was paralyzed completely from the neck down. Doctors gave him no hope of a recovery, but because his mind was in pristine condition, they "encouraged" him to make the most of his situation. Incensed, Daniel retreated into himself again, becoming the lord of his own reality and disconnecting himself from the day-to-day goings-on in his hospital room. Blinded by anger and frustration at his situation, he was all but unreachable until the day of the incident. A young woman had been assigned the second bed in his hospital room, suffering from several broken bones, lacerations, and a minimal amount of internal bleeding, according to the conversation he overheard the nurse having with the doctor. She was pretty, even through the bruises. For three days she lay in the room with him, occasionally engaging him in conversation. She treated him like a person, though he could not even shake her hand. On the third day a scowling, brutish man stormed into the hospital room and yanked her off her bed. Helpless, Daniel watched as she fought back, kicking, crying, pleading. He watched as the hulk sent doctors sprawling, nurses scurrying, and security guards reeling into walls. Horrified, he watched as this monster gripped a handful of blonde hair and prepared to smash the woman's face into the floor. Time froze. His mind seemed to slip for just a moment, then all he could see was the man's watch. Expensive, silver...so shiny...he felt captivated by the way it seemed to dig into the man's meaty wrist and forearm...if only...
A scream startled Daniel out of his thoughts...the man was sitting on the floor, cradling a bloody stump and crying like a newborn baby. The blonde, her hair now streaked with dark splotches, stared at the brute in shock, then her eyes traveled to the now-severed hand that'd been entangled in her hair moments before--and the circular, silver blade that now lay glittering in the florescent lights of the hospital room. Daniel gazed at it in wonder, and on a whim, imagined the watch again. To his suprise, the silver disc slowly morphed itself back into the shiny timepiece right before his eyes.
Three days later, he was released from the hospital. The doctors claimed that the shock of seeing such violence, and his desire to help the young woman had motivated his body to overcome its limitations. Perhaps that was somewhat true, as Daniel discovered his ability to transmute inorganic material would now work only only if he were in contact with the object being changed. Suddenly revitalized and aware of himself, Daniel Kirk took the name Rubix and set out to right wrongs, balancing the scales of justice by whatever means necessary.
Roadblock: A 14-year-old boy, Roadblock is the "kid brother" of the group. The source of his powers remains a mystery, as he tests negative for any mutant genetics and his parents are average human beings. At the age of twelve, Jordan Walters was playing football with some friends when a wild pass sent him bolting across a street to attempt to make a catch. Intent on his game, Jordan never saw the garbage truck whose inebriated operator was driving too fast. The impact threw the young boy nearly 200 yards, where he landed on the top of an SUV parked in one of his suburbian neighborhood's many driveways. After shaking off some mild disorientation, Jordan climbed off the now-ruined roof of the vehicle to discover that not only was he not dead...he was completely unharmed. Not a scratch. With a shout of glee, the boy raised a fist into the air and leapt--nearly 100 feet in the air. When he landed, the pavement cracked beneath the force of his landing, but he found himself once again unharmed, and the garbage truck was barreling down the street behind him. Suddenly angry at the realization that the driver didn't seem to care who he hurt, Jordan turned and leapt forward, landing a few yards in front of the truck. Bracing himself, Jordan threw his shoulder into the grill of the mammoth truck, which struck him and then flipped, flying over the boy's head and landing across the road on its roof. The drunk driver, eyes wide in shock, began to climb out of the cab of the truck as Jordan dialed his cell-phone:
"Hello? Freedom City Police? Yeah...I need to report a drunk driver..."
Hanging up the phone, Jordan Walters smiled. This could be fun...
Tinman: This super-suited hero is a total enigma. None of the rest of the group have seen his face or heard his name. "Tinman" is the moniker they've chosen to give him, given his staunch refusal to give them other information. Clad in chrome metallic body armor, Tinman is the typical blaster/flyer one expects from such a hero, but is there more to him than what the party has seen thus far? Only time will tell. One thing is for certain, though. The man can kick butt and take names, and for now, that's all that matters.
The Pharmacist: Logan Chambers and his sister Bethani were good kids. Upper-middle-class upbringing, a good private high school, and a stable family life. Sure, Logan got picked on, bullied somewhat, and didn't have many friends. But he and Bethani were quite close, being only a year separate, and that was enough. Until some guys at school introduced him to drugs. Sophomore year, he smoked his first joint, and when he felt the troubles of his day float off his shoulders, he was hooked. When Bethani asked him why he seemed so much more laid-back, he showed her, and she was hooked, too. Their addiction soon graduated to more powerful substances, and Logan eventually began producing his own product while Bethani dealt. They told themselves they'd only do it long enough to save enough money to allow them to seek help for their addictions and move on with their lives, but we all know how those plans go. Eventually, they were discovered by their parents and forced into a rehab program. With no discernible results and the requisite lying and sneaking around back in full force after the program, the Chambers' parents kicked them out of the house. This perceived abandonment was enough to snap Bethani out of her lethargy and helped her kick her own habit, but Logan found it much harder. Wanting to help him any way she could, Bethani opted to stay with him instead of returning home to her parents.
It was during a particularly bad drug-induced panic attack that Logan saw three men in matching unrecognizable uniforms burst into the tiny single-room apartment he and Bethani shared. Two brandished guns and grabbed Bethani. The third shouted something Logan couldn't make out and punched the young girl in the stomach, doubling her over in pain. Dragging himself partially to his feet, Logan tried to scream at the man to stop, but nothing came out. The assailant turned, and with a gesture lifted Logan off the floor and slammed him into the wall across the room. Stunned, Logan lay and listened to the sounds of his sister begging the men to stop. Climbing to his feet once again, Logan staggered into full view of the strangers. Bethani looked at him and screamed for him to run, but Logan couldn't move. All he could see was his bruised, beaten sister and the men responsible. As a red tinge began to creep into the edges of his vision, one of the men holding Bethani raised a sawed-off shotgun and pointed it directly at Logan. Logan saw the man's finger tense on the trigger...
...then the gun clattered to the floor, along with the man's headless body. Logan stared, incredulous, at the spray of organic material now coating the wall behind where the man had been standing. The second guard holding Bethani locked eyes with Logan, and in Logan's eyes the tinge grew deeper. A second later, the man had turned his gun on himself. Now completely in shock, Logan stared at the bodies of the two attackers. The third man, seeing his opportunity, grabbed Bethani and bolted from the apartment. Logan staggered out after them just in time to see the man soaring into the sky with Logan's sister in tow. Not knowing what else to do, Logan turned to his parents, who turned to the police. At first helpful, the police dropped the case when it was discovered that Logan had been on LSD at the time, making his story and all its relating evidence suspect.
Torn by guilt, Logan dove deeper into his drug dependency, only to find that now every time he took something, some part of his mind awakened, and superhuman powers were his to command. After much study and research, he discovered that he (and probably his sister) carried latent psionic abilities. Through experimentation, he learned that the drugs were both curse and blessing - they had caused such damage to him neurologically that his natural abilities no longer functioned on their own, but they also re-awakened those abilities, going so far as to grant him different powers based on whatever was in his system at the time. Through further "scientific study" he discovered a dosage of each med type that granted him limited ability without impairing his basic motor skills and cognitive strength, which allows him to function in society even while under the influence of illegal substances. He's taken the codename "The Pharmacist" as a nod to a claim he made in simpler days to avoid conviction on a possession charge. He is inherently distrustful, and though he does much good for others, his usage of his powers has one ultimate goal: to find the men who took his sister.
And gods help them if she's not alive when he gets there.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Blur...
The restraints were cutting into his wrists. Again.
The facemask killed his vision. Again. Plus, it stank of sweat and morning breath.
They'd even replaced the earplugs. Funny. What difference would that make?
He wanted to scream. To let them know that he was angry, frightened, hungry, lonely, whatever. He knew, though, that it wouldn't matter. He'd shouted himself hoarse more than once. No one ever responded.
This was life. All he'd ever known...yet something didn't feel right. They'd decreased the pictures; he wasn't being forced to sit for endless hours viewing images of mangled bodies, explosions, emaciated children, and the like. Oh, they still made him look, yes, but only for an hour or so a day. A good chunk of the rest of his day was spent like this: blinded, restrained, and alone. It was punishment. Punishment for his disobedience.
His stomach began to growl, then to clench a bit. He felt the gurgling deep in the pit of his gut. He was starving. They'd had him running at least six hours yesterday, and no meal yet today. Of course, like this, he had no idea what time it was. Nor could he ask. Born deaf, he'd never learned to speak...and none of the men in the coats had ever bothered to try and learn to communicate. Even the reality of his punishment was something he was only guessing at...but he was fairly sure the red faces and arm-waving and the wide open mouths were a pretty good indicator that he was in deep trouble.
He hadn't meant to disobey. It was the exercises. Day in, day out, the same thing. The half-mile track the facility maintained. Lap. Lap again. And again. And again. He just ran. Ran and ran and ran. He was fast. How fast, he wasn't sure, but apparently, it made him special. He hadn't seen anyone else on the tracks, so either he was the only one, or they didn't want other people like him crashing headlong into each other. The track never changed--it was an 's' shape within an 'o' shape--he did one lap around the 'o,' then switched for a lap around the 's' from both directions, then repeated. He'd grown so tired...so bored...he just wanted to do something different.
A bead of sweat began to trace its way down his temple, then his cheek. It itched, but he couldn't reach up to scratch it. A single tear of frustration crept from the corner of his eye, joining the path of perspiration already there.
He hadn't meant to disobey...
* * * * * * * *
"Dr. Kirksen?" The voice was timid, quiet. Perhaps even a bit fearful. Kirksen smiled to himself before turning in his chair and letting his gaze settle on the waifish intern. She was perhaps eighteen, nineteen years old, very pretty, and obviously out of her depth.
She could just as easily have been on the other side of this project, he thought to himself. His eyes traveled the length of her body quickly. Not that he couldn't have taken his time; she was so busy staring at her feet that he could have been drooling and she'd just as likely not noticed. He made a mental note: Easily manipulated. Good.
His split-second assessment of her complete, Heinrich Kirksen let a smile break out upon his face. "Yes, my dear..."
"J-Jenks," the young girl stammered.
"Miss Jenks," he repeated, "what brings you to my office?"
Jenks finally raised her eyes and met his own. Her demeanor softened as she saw the warmth in his eyes--a warmth that was carefully calculated to achieve a specific effect. It did not disappoint. It never did. The intern relaxed visibly, then spoke. "Sir, it appears there've been some strange fluctuations in subject 653's biosigns. The monitors think you might want to look."
With a sigh, Kirksen pushed himself away from the desk. He drew himself to his lanky 6'4" height and stepped around to join Jenks, dwarfing her petite 5' 4" frame. Placing an arm on her shoulder, he said brightly, "lead the way!"
Thirty seconds later, they entered the primary monitoring station for Subject 653. Kirksen peered through the glass into the containment chamber. "Alright, people...what am I looking at?"
"Doctor?" One of the techs responded, his face comically quizzical. "I'm not sure I follow--"
Kirksen silenced him with a glare that could have flash-frozen the clueless technician. "I said, 'what am I looking at?' Is that a confusing question for you, young man?"
The technician backpedaled, stammering, "N-n-no sir...it's just that you're already aware--"
The doctor smiled, this one nothing like the warm, accomodating grin that he'd recently given Miss Jenks. "Yes, lab-monkey, I am already aware. What I want to know is...are you? Do you know what's in that room? Does your tiny, feeble mind have any inkling of what we have bound in there?"
The deer-in-the-headlights expression the young tech was now wearing was priceless. Dr. Kirksen grinned, sincerely...yet the effect was more disturbing than anything else. The young man nodded. "Yes, s-s-sir..." he began, "I'm aw--"
"Then start talking!" bellowed Kirksen.
The lab tech paled, then began to relate the information. "Subject 653 is a 15-year-old male, of mixed heritage. We believe his mother to have been caucasian and his father to have been African-American. The initial experimentation unlocked a latent ability to move at speeds undetectable to the human eye and all but the most sophisticated tracking and security measures." He paused, "they've also--"
"The point, lab-monkey. Get to the point. What is going on now?" Dr. Kirksen's face was a mask of apathy. "Why was I pulled from my office?"
A woman--another doctor, judging by the stethoscope around her neck and her lack of fear of Kirksen--cleared her throat. Both men looked at her. She grinned thinly. "The subject is agitated, Doctor," she said plainly. His pulserate has leapt, perspiration is increased, and the adrenals have been engaged."
"Anger?" Kirksen asked.
The woman, whose name badge identified her as Marion Broche, shook her head. "We don't believe so. It's fear."
"Fear?" Dr. Kirksen laughed. "Ridiculous. 653 can't feel fear."
* * * * * * * * *
Subject 653 could feel the tears, but he was powerless to stop them. He wasn't sure why the white-coat men were angry. He didn't know what he'd done wrong, and no one was going to explain it to him--that much was certain. The "punishment" had been going on for two weeks already, as nearly as he could estimate. And it showed no sign of ending soon.
The thought of remaining like this indefinitely was more than 653 could handle. A fresh wave of sorrow overcame him, and he began to weep. It hurt to cry. His body wanted to curl up and couldn't. The sobs tightened his stomach muscles, but he couldn't bend to alleviate the tension. It hurt to cry.
But he couldn't stop.
A mechanical whoosh, however, took his mind off the tears. He felt the facemask beginning to lift, and closed his eyes tightly against the sudden inflow of light. The recirculated air in the containment chamber brushed against his skin, its icy fingers a welcome reprieve from the sweat-filled stagnance of the mask. After a few seconds, he slowly opened his eyes, allowing them time to acclimate to the room. Its pristine walls, in stark lab-white, amplified the light coming from the two flourescent panels fifteen feet above his head. He looked around, his eyes drinking in the emptiness of the room as if it were priceless art.
Directly in front of him, he saw himself. The two-foot by six foot glass pane was reflecting his image back at him. He could see his own short-buzzed hair, and just make out the intense green of his eyes. The steel restraints that bound his shoulders and chest, ribs, waist, and legs shone beneath the light. He knew, somehow, that they were watching him behind that glass.
And they were still angry. Angry because he'd almost--
* * * * * * *
"Sir, has he been...crying?" This monitor, a twenty-something college student with auburn hair and green eyes, looked at Kirksen incredulously. "Th-that's not possible, is it? I thought their isolation was to ensure that no real emotional ability developed?"
Kirksen eyed her, one brow raised, a smile playing across his lips. "Problem, miss? Rethinking your career choice? Sudden attack of conscience?"
She shook her head slowly. "No sir...it's just worrisome. If they really are going to develop the same mental and emotional weaknesses as standard soldiers--"
A raised hand silenced her. Kirksen was no longer interested in what she might have to say. He was studying the specimen on the other side of the glass. What are you doing, he thought to himself, the anxious redhead's right. This shouldn't even be in your emotional repertoire. You've never experienced joy...why would you experience sadness?
Better yet, thought the doctor, why does it matter? So long as the programming holds, I could care less what "feelings" they experience for now. Clearing his throat, he turned back to the first technician he'd accosted upon arriving in the room. "You, boy."
The tech turned to face him, apparently attempting to prepare himself for another tirade. "Yessir?"
"Has there been any shift in his biomass?" Kirksten asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"What," hissed the doctor, "are you daft as well as useless? Has. There. Been. Any. Shift. In. Biomass? Is that confusing? Has his weight shifted noticeably since the agitation began?"
The tech's lips quivered. "No sir, nothing that would regist--"
At that moment, everything went red. The instrument panels began to flicker, and a steady wail issued from somewhere deep within the compound.
"Sir...something very strange is happening with 653."
The doctor rolled his eyes. "Yeah? No sh--"
* * * * * * *
635 felt it before anyone else. Slight. Imperceptible. But there.
Vibrations. His deafness made sound irrelevant to him, but certain frequencies affected his physiology enough to be noticeable, and the lack of auditory stimuli made his other senses stronger. Vibrations, even the most subtle, were as clear to him as words spoken usually are to the rest of humanity.
When the resonance first began, it was so faint he nearly overlooked it...then he caught the pattern...
...pop-pop-pop...pop-pop-pop-pop...
...and then, suddenly...BOOM.
His hand pressed against the cold metal of the table on which he was restrained, 653 felt the vibrations rush through the room. An icy realization gripped him, though he had no idea what it meant: it's over. A new fear tore at his heart and mind and with each successive--
--BOOM--
--it became harder and harder to ignore. His body now covered in a thin layer of persperation, 653 felt his shirt beginning to stick to his skin. Even though he could see the space around him, his breathing became more and more ragged as he began to feel closed in. Trapped, even beyond his restraints.
--BOOM--
The door to the chamber opened. On the other side, everything seemed red. 653 watched the man who'd locked him onto the table as he slowly walked around the boy, occasionally rubbing his chin or his temple, a dark smile clouding his face. 653 disliked him intently...but never so much as when his face looked like this. The man reached for his face, and 653 tried to pull away. Cruel fingers gripped his cheeks and forced his head back around. His gaze met the dark man's, and for just a moment, revulsion swept over 653 so strongly that it caused him to physically shudder. That made the dark man smile even more broadly.
--BOOM--BOOM-- Vibrations so powerful they startled 653. So very close.
Suddenly the room went black. The grip on his face was gone. A moment later, watery green light flooded the room. The dark man was already opening the door to the chamber. He stepped outside the room and gestured wildly to someone else out of sight. 653 thought, he doesn't look happy, just before someone in a coat like the dark man's stepped into his view, gave him one last look, then shut the door.
Everything was quiet, except for the occasional
--BOOM--
from somewhere. Time passed. The vibrations kept sweeping through the room...sometimes gaining intensity, other times losing it...but always every few seconds. 653 kept his hands against the table, feeling the pulse...again. Again. Boom. Boom. Boom.
The flickering of the sickly green lights caused his eyes to fly open. He looked around the room, startled. Apparently the vibrations had lulled him to sleep. He pressed palm to table, and felt the now-comforting boom...immediately followed by a single, cacophanous BOOM that literally shook the table on which he lay. The lights flickered madly for a split second, and then the room was once again shrouded in darkness.
This time, however, they never came back on.
The facemask killed his vision. Again. Plus, it stank of sweat and morning breath.
They'd even replaced the earplugs. Funny. What difference would that make?
He wanted to scream. To let them know that he was angry, frightened, hungry, lonely, whatever. He knew, though, that it wouldn't matter. He'd shouted himself hoarse more than once. No one ever responded.
This was life. All he'd ever known...yet something didn't feel right. They'd decreased the pictures; he wasn't being forced to sit for endless hours viewing images of mangled bodies, explosions, emaciated children, and the like. Oh, they still made him look, yes, but only for an hour or so a day. A good chunk of the rest of his day was spent like this: blinded, restrained, and alone. It was punishment. Punishment for his disobedience.
His stomach began to growl, then to clench a bit. He felt the gurgling deep in the pit of his gut. He was starving. They'd had him running at least six hours yesterday, and no meal yet today. Of course, like this, he had no idea what time it was. Nor could he ask. Born deaf, he'd never learned to speak...and none of the men in the coats had ever bothered to try and learn to communicate. Even the reality of his punishment was something he was only guessing at...but he was fairly sure the red faces and arm-waving and the wide open mouths were a pretty good indicator that he was in deep trouble.
He hadn't meant to disobey. It was the exercises. Day in, day out, the same thing. The half-mile track the facility maintained. Lap. Lap again. And again. And again. He just ran. Ran and ran and ran. He was fast. How fast, he wasn't sure, but apparently, it made him special. He hadn't seen anyone else on the tracks, so either he was the only one, or they didn't want other people like him crashing headlong into each other. The track never changed--it was an 's' shape within an 'o' shape--he did one lap around the 'o,' then switched for a lap around the 's' from both directions, then repeated. He'd grown so tired...so bored...he just wanted to do something different.
A bead of sweat began to trace its way down his temple, then his cheek. It itched, but he couldn't reach up to scratch it. A single tear of frustration crept from the corner of his eye, joining the path of perspiration already there.
He hadn't meant to disobey...
* * * * * * * *
"Dr. Kirksen?" The voice was timid, quiet. Perhaps even a bit fearful. Kirksen smiled to himself before turning in his chair and letting his gaze settle on the waifish intern. She was perhaps eighteen, nineteen years old, very pretty, and obviously out of her depth.
She could just as easily have been on the other side of this project, he thought to himself. His eyes traveled the length of her body quickly. Not that he couldn't have taken his time; she was so busy staring at her feet that he could have been drooling and she'd just as likely not noticed. He made a mental note: Easily manipulated. Good.
His split-second assessment of her complete, Heinrich Kirksen let a smile break out upon his face. "Yes, my dear..."
"J-Jenks," the young girl stammered.
"Miss Jenks," he repeated, "what brings you to my office?"
Jenks finally raised her eyes and met his own. Her demeanor softened as she saw the warmth in his eyes--a warmth that was carefully calculated to achieve a specific effect. It did not disappoint. It never did. The intern relaxed visibly, then spoke. "Sir, it appears there've been some strange fluctuations in subject 653's biosigns. The monitors think you might want to look."
With a sigh, Kirksen pushed himself away from the desk. He drew himself to his lanky 6'4" height and stepped around to join Jenks, dwarfing her petite 5' 4" frame. Placing an arm on her shoulder, he said brightly, "lead the way!"
Thirty seconds later, they entered the primary monitoring station for Subject 653. Kirksen peered through the glass into the containment chamber. "Alright, people...what am I looking at?"
"Doctor?" One of the techs responded, his face comically quizzical. "I'm not sure I follow--"
Kirksen silenced him with a glare that could have flash-frozen the clueless technician. "I said, 'what am I looking at?' Is that a confusing question for you, young man?"
The technician backpedaled, stammering, "N-n-no sir...it's just that you're already aware--"
The doctor smiled, this one nothing like the warm, accomodating grin that he'd recently given Miss Jenks. "Yes, lab-monkey, I am already aware. What I want to know is...are you? Do you know what's in that room? Does your tiny, feeble mind have any inkling of what we have bound in there?"
The deer-in-the-headlights expression the young tech was now wearing was priceless. Dr. Kirksen grinned, sincerely...yet the effect was more disturbing than anything else. The young man nodded. "Yes, s-s-sir..." he began, "I'm aw--"
"Then start talking!" bellowed Kirksen.
The lab tech paled, then began to relate the information. "Subject 653 is a 15-year-old male, of mixed heritage. We believe his mother to have been caucasian and his father to have been African-American. The initial experimentation unlocked a latent ability to move at speeds undetectable to the human eye and all but the most sophisticated tracking and security measures." He paused, "they've also--"
"The point, lab-monkey. Get to the point. What is going on now?" Dr. Kirksen's face was a mask of apathy. "Why was I pulled from my office?"
A woman--another doctor, judging by the stethoscope around her neck and her lack of fear of Kirksen--cleared her throat. Both men looked at her. She grinned thinly. "The subject is agitated, Doctor," she said plainly. His pulserate has leapt, perspiration is increased, and the adrenals have been engaged."
"Anger?" Kirksen asked.
The woman, whose name badge identified her as Marion Broche, shook her head. "We don't believe so. It's fear."
"Fear?" Dr. Kirksen laughed. "Ridiculous. 653 can't feel fear."
* * * * * * * * *
Subject 653 could feel the tears, but he was powerless to stop them. He wasn't sure why the white-coat men were angry. He didn't know what he'd done wrong, and no one was going to explain it to him--that much was certain. The "punishment" had been going on for two weeks already, as nearly as he could estimate. And it showed no sign of ending soon.
The thought of remaining like this indefinitely was more than 653 could handle. A fresh wave of sorrow overcame him, and he began to weep. It hurt to cry. His body wanted to curl up and couldn't. The sobs tightened his stomach muscles, but he couldn't bend to alleviate the tension. It hurt to cry.
But he couldn't stop.
A mechanical whoosh, however, took his mind off the tears. He felt the facemask beginning to lift, and closed his eyes tightly against the sudden inflow of light. The recirculated air in the containment chamber brushed against his skin, its icy fingers a welcome reprieve from the sweat-filled stagnance of the mask. After a few seconds, he slowly opened his eyes, allowing them time to acclimate to the room. Its pristine walls, in stark lab-white, amplified the light coming from the two flourescent panels fifteen feet above his head. He looked around, his eyes drinking in the emptiness of the room as if it were priceless art.
Directly in front of him, he saw himself. The two-foot by six foot glass pane was reflecting his image back at him. He could see his own short-buzzed hair, and just make out the intense green of his eyes. The steel restraints that bound his shoulders and chest, ribs, waist, and legs shone beneath the light. He knew, somehow, that they were watching him behind that glass.
And they were still angry. Angry because he'd almost--
* * * * * * *
"Sir, has he been...crying?" This monitor, a twenty-something college student with auburn hair and green eyes, looked at Kirksen incredulously. "Th-that's not possible, is it? I thought their isolation was to ensure that no real emotional ability developed?"
Kirksen eyed her, one brow raised, a smile playing across his lips. "Problem, miss? Rethinking your career choice? Sudden attack of conscience?"
She shook her head slowly. "No sir...it's just worrisome. If they really are going to develop the same mental and emotional weaknesses as standard soldiers--"
A raised hand silenced her. Kirksen was no longer interested in what she might have to say. He was studying the specimen on the other side of the glass. What are you doing, he thought to himself, the anxious redhead's right. This shouldn't even be in your emotional repertoire. You've never experienced joy...why would you experience sadness?
Better yet, thought the doctor, why does it matter? So long as the programming holds, I could care less what "feelings" they experience for now. Clearing his throat, he turned back to the first technician he'd accosted upon arriving in the room. "You, boy."
The tech turned to face him, apparently attempting to prepare himself for another tirade. "Yessir?"
"Has there been any shift in his biomass?" Kirksten asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"What," hissed the doctor, "are you daft as well as useless? Has. There. Been. Any. Shift. In. Biomass? Is that confusing? Has his weight shifted noticeably since the agitation began?"
The tech's lips quivered. "No sir, nothing that would regist--"
At that moment, everything went red. The instrument panels began to flicker, and a steady wail issued from somewhere deep within the compound.
"Sir...something very strange is happening with 653."
The doctor rolled his eyes. "Yeah? No sh--"
* * * * * * *
635 felt it before anyone else. Slight. Imperceptible. But there.
Vibrations. His deafness made sound irrelevant to him, but certain frequencies affected his physiology enough to be noticeable, and the lack of auditory stimuli made his other senses stronger. Vibrations, even the most subtle, were as clear to him as words spoken usually are to the rest of humanity.
When the resonance first began, it was so faint he nearly overlooked it...then he caught the pattern...
...pop-pop-pop...pop-pop-pop-pop...
...and then, suddenly...BOOM.
His hand pressed against the cold metal of the table on which he was restrained, 653 felt the vibrations rush through the room. An icy realization gripped him, though he had no idea what it meant: it's over. A new fear tore at his heart and mind and with each successive--
--BOOM--
--it became harder and harder to ignore. His body now covered in a thin layer of persperation, 653 felt his shirt beginning to stick to his skin. Even though he could see the space around him, his breathing became more and more ragged as he began to feel closed in. Trapped, even beyond his restraints.
--BOOM--
The door to the chamber opened. On the other side, everything seemed red. 653 watched the man who'd locked him onto the table as he slowly walked around the boy, occasionally rubbing his chin or his temple, a dark smile clouding his face. 653 disliked him intently...but never so much as when his face looked like this. The man reached for his face, and 653 tried to pull away. Cruel fingers gripped his cheeks and forced his head back around. His gaze met the dark man's, and for just a moment, revulsion swept over 653 so strongly that it caused him to physically shudder. That made the dark man smile even more broadly.
--BOOM--BOOM-- Vibrations so powerful they startled 653. So very close.
Suddenly the room went black. The grip on his face was gone. A moment later, watery green light flooded the room. The dark man was already opening the door to the chamber. He stepped outside the room and gestured wildly to someone else out of sight. 653 thought, he doesn't look happy, just before someone in a coat like the dark man's stepped into his view, gave him one last look, then shut the door.
Everything was quiet, except for the occasional
--BOOM--
from somewhere. Time passed. The vibrations kept sweeping through the room...sometimes gaining intensity, other times losing it...but always every few seconds. 653 kept his hands against the table, feeling the pulse...again. Again. Boom. Boom. Boom.
The flickering of the sickly green lights caused his eyes to fly open. He looked around the room, startled. Apparently the vibrations had lulled him to sleep. He pressed palm to table, and felt the now-comforting boom...immediately followed by a single, cacophanous BOOM that literally shook the table on which he lay. The lights flickered madly for a split second, and then the room was once again shrouded in darkness.
This time, however, they never came back on.
Musings...
Okay, so initially, this was going to be a blog about a very specific singular project...well, in the 3 weeks since I last posted (or first posted, depending on whether you have a half-full/half-empty mentality), two other projects have come into my world, with a third being revitalized somewhat.
Needing somewhere to put my thoughts together, I've decided to turn this blog into a basic spot where I can brainstorm about any of the projects I'm working on. I'll use the blog tags to ensure that if you're wanting to keep up with a specific project, you can access those specific posts.
Needing somewhere to put my thoughts together, I've decided to turn this blog into a basic spot where I can brainstorm about any of the projects I'm working on. I'll use the blog tags to ensure that if you're wanting to keep up with a specific project, you can access those specific posts.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Reason for Being (the blog's...not mine) :-D
This is a site I tossed up to post excerpts, brainstorms, and images/thoughts for a graphic novel I'm currently working on. It's a relatively new endeavor, so bear with me. :-)
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