Equipped with a bowl of steaming noodles and a large glass of black tea, I hole myself up in my room for the rest of the night.
The peace and quiet does little to stop the headache that’s formed from dealing with my day job. I rest my hands around the bowl of Ramen, soaking in the heat through the stoneware, then place my hands over each eye. This helps relieve a little bit of pain without needing to pop some aspirin, and I rest my head back against my desk chair for a few moments until the pain is manageable.
“Alright,” I say, done with the wallowing. It’s time for my favorite form of research - browsing the Super Guy forums.
The attention to detail that the fans of my father’s series put towards their blogitorials and forum debates is astounding. There are so many theories and so many links to fanfiction. If I wasn’t already in the know, I would have bet money that Marshall-Crichton would hire one of the many fantastic fanfiction writers to pen the continuation of my father’s series. It would be ghostwriting, for sure. But, who in big publishing doesn’t have a ghost writer?
“What am I thinking?” I mutter as I open a list of threads. “Grandpa and Mae are right. I don’t want someone else writing my father’s series. I want me writing it.”
I just have to get up to snuff - prepare my exclusive angle to the finale.
It’s been so long since I read the Super Guy series, mainly because it’s too painful to start over knowing that my father’s ending will never be written or drawn by him. For the entire time that the series was in publication, Dad was the sole person in charge. He was the one who would helm the adaptation for the movies, but that’s all scrapped now. I have no idea who’s even working on adapting the series for film, if the studio is still pursuing it at all. Maybe they canned it for now. I wouldn’t be surprised, without my father involved.
Judging by the thread I come across in the list of blue hyperlinks, fans are not too keen on a movie being made any time soon. Most think that it’s going to be a cluster.
Who will direct it?
Who will write it? Definitely not that guy!
I laugh. It’s like reading a really long conversation between a horde of fans. Some people post their dream castings for the movie. I am particularly struck by seeing the name “DiCaprio” thrown around more than once. That guy is way too old to play Super Guy, and he would never sign on to begin with, as much as he would have resembled the character in his younger years.
I click out of the thread and search for ones involving the Vestige. More than a handful of these threads include posts with photos attached of various models of the Vestige created by fans. One is a beautiful mixture of CGI and Photoshop, which renders the medallion much more glorious than it truly is. I take the Vestige off my neck and compare it to some of these fan illustrations.
They’re not too far from the mark, though the real thing is much less shiny. The metal is nothing that I’ve ever felt before. Definitely not tin or copper or anything like that. I am hesitant to say that it’s almost otherworldly.
Suddenly a headline pops out at me. It reads, Will we ever get an ending for Super Guy?
I’m curious to see what people have to say, so I click on the thread of messages and am surprised to see that there are more than two hundred replies to this question. Some are incredibly long - a page of typing each.
“Dedicated fans…”
Some of the comments are in support of Dad’s work and original vision.
“An ending will come eventually…”
“I’m sure that he left notes for someone…”
“It wasn’t all in his head, right?”
Some of these questions sound like ones I was asking just a few months ago. It’s a strange comfort to realize that I’m not the only one who’s asking.
Then I come across the not so optimistic comments from frustrated readers. Some are downright rude and self-entitled.
“Jeff Boding absolutely screwed us over by not having an ending in place!”
“He knew that the story could be wrapped up, but stretched it out for the money.”
“There will NEVER be an ending to this story! It’s a real shame, since I love these characters. There is no justice for Super Guy, or any of us.”
This causes me to sit back in my seat and take my hand away from the mouse.
No justice?
I don’t know why exactly, but this makes me incredibly angry. My hands ball up into fists and I clench my teeth.
Who do these people think they are to say things like there will be no justice for Super Guy? Of course there will be justice!
I want to log on and tell them that, but it will do no good. A few others seem to have done the same thing and received a lot of criticism for sticking up for the publishing company.
But, it’s not the publishing company that they’re sticking up for. They’re showing their loyalty to my father, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by me.
So many thoughts swirl through my head, firing off a mile a minute. Thoughts of my father’s notes in the Marshall-Crichton archives. Thoughts of where I saw the story going as I read it, and even remembering a few times where Dad might have let ideas slip when I pestered him.
I want to reach through the screen and strangle some of these commenters.
“Why didn’t he have a plan written down?” I ask, staring at the screen. Do these people really think that my father expected to die in a plane crash? That he had a heads up that the torch would need to be passed on his magnum opus?
I start to wonder if this is what Stephen King felt like when some guy ran him over with his truck. He wouldn’t have known to plot out the entire ending to The Dark Tower any more than it would have occurred to my father. He was a healthy man, and his life was taken from him in an instant.
One word keeps running through my mind: Justice.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m sorry, guys. There needs to be justice for Super Guy. And I’ll be damned if anyone else is going to serve up that justice besides me.”
I just need to line everything up first. It’s obvious that the forums are not the best place to look for ideas right now. I’m too emotionally charged.
Instead I pull out Dad’s journal and begin reading where I left off, searching for anything that will help me catch a glimmer of his thoughts for the finale.
I pick up where I left off.
The date for the current entry is a long time ago - February 16th, 2011. Dad’s handwriting starts out tight and clean, the way that most of the journal is written. Then as I scan down the page the words become loose and frantic, as if Dad wrote it in a quick burst of inspiration or a need to get the words on the page quickly.
I settle back in my chair with my pen clenched between my teeth and begin to read.
Shaun,
It’s amazing what a little thing like obsession does to a person - particularly a writer. Amazing, and scary. While other people deal with little anxieties, daily nerves about meetings, needing to pick up their children at the bus stop, and having enough money for groceries, it seems that my writer’s brain is fixated on things that are much larger and utterly more terrifying.
What sort of things am I talking about? The main thing is the Vestige.
The day that I told your grandfather that I had messed with the medallion was one of the scariest in my entire life. Take the anxiety of going through puberty and multiply that by one hundred. Not only was my biology changed while I possessed the Vestige, but the power that I could now make use of was so difficult to control. There would be times where I was at school and my hands would flare up in the most painful way that they would turn beet red. I had to rush to the bathroom just to close myself into a stall and let out the pulse blasts as easily as I could - siphoning them out of my fingers one at a time.
Not only was I terrified that I would hurt myself with these unpredictable powers at first, I soon became terrified that the forces at play would intensify and turn into something like a nuclear meltdown. We were all awa
re of the horrors of a nuclear holocaust, and I did not want to be the first biological cause of one.
So, it was a relief when your grandfather let me know that I wasn’t alone. He had gone through the same things as me, for the most part. His powers were different, but he knew the fear that I had in my stomach. I thought for the first time that things would be alright.
But, then Bill broke my confidence and threatened to use the power of the Vestige to harm others. It wasn’t a clear cut decision. He wasn’t evil, as far as I was concerned. But, the story is too long to tell here. I’ll try to write it down in the future.
My eyes began to water because I didn’t want to blink. I didn’t want to look away from the words on the page. Dad was finally getting to the meat of things, but it seemed once more that I was going to have to wait for the story of what really happened between him and The Drone. I read on.
Once the Vestige was cut into two pieces, I began to face a new fear. If a mere shard of the medallion could allow someone to become an Aberrant - even a lesser one - then what if there was more than one Vestige? Of course, these other Vestiges might not be star shaped. They could be any shape made of the same material, but I realized that it was foolish to think that there was only one medallion like this in the world. The odds were astronomical.
So, I set out looking for the source of the Vestige, to determine if there truly was more than one. There had to be some string through history about the medallion - some etching, or a passage in an antiquated tome - that would lead me to where the Vestige came from.
In the end, I came up empty handed. There seemed to be no mention of the Vestige, if it was even called that, in any book that I got my hands on. I scoured nearly every encyclopedia available, but no luck.
Then, years later, the internet was born and I found a new doorway opened to information that excited me beyond anything else. I found a set of Native American legends that sounded strangely like they could be linked to the Vestige. This made me wonder. Your grandpa mentioned finding the medallion in a cave up north. Perhaps there were leads up in the northern area of the state that weren’t written down in any book.
That wasn’t the beginning of my obsession with finding the origin of the Vestige, but it was the beginning of my journeys across the state - and New England - in search of physical answers.
I take the pen out of my mouth and stare at the last few sentences.
Grandpa found the Vestige in a cave? That’s not what he told me. He said he found it while he was working on a logging job. He found it in some rubble. Now, Dad writes here that Grandpa found it in a cave?
I jot down a few notes on my notebook.
It seems like Grandpa has some explaining to do. I want to know where this cave is, and if Dad ever found the answer to his question about multiple medallions.
But, when I turn the page, I find that his entry ends abruptly. Again, there are no answers. Only questions.
I sigh. Why did my father have to be such a great mystery writer?
I tap my pen against the notebook, mulling over my options for plot lines and finale options. I need a hook to get the finale going, and it needs to be something that the fans want to have revealed.
My eyes rest on the computer monitor in front of me, absently scanning the forum headings.
Then it jumps out at me.
Where does the Vestige come from?
That’s it! That’s my angle. The origin of the Vestige. Even if I don’t spell out the origin for the fans, I can at least give them enough options to choose which explanation they like out of all of them. I start to jot down ideas.
As for me, I don’t agree with the whole alien origin theory. But, the Vestige as an ancient Native American artifact is intriguing to me - interesting enough for me to use that as the hook for my outline of the finale.
I scribble down ideas on my notebook, my words looking as loose and frantic as my father’s in his journal. Things are coming together in my mind.
But, then I come to the end of my sentence and the point of Dad’s journal entry settles in.
He was afraid of the Vestige falling into the hands of a super villain. That’s why he hid it in the end, so that nobody would know that it was real.
I’m suddenly aware of the cold metal medallion against my chest and pull it out, taking it off my neck. It glints in the lamplight.
“Should I be afraid of using you?” I mutter, studying the medallion. “Should Mae be afraid?”
I don’t know. It’s a little too late to be debating the question of using the power or burying it.
I set the Vestige down on the desk and sit back, folding my arms.
“Whatever you were worried about, Dad,” I say softly, “you don’t have to worry about it any more. The Drone is gone. Your story has a triumphant end in sight. And your publishers are going to beg me to be the one to write it.”
I launch my email and fire off a request to meet with Mr. Crichton at his earliest convenience. It feels like writing a cover letter, though I know that I don’t have to be as formal as if I were cold-calling the office. Still, I keep it as professional as possible.
Then once the message is sent, I get ready for bed.
To my surprise, ten minutes later after brushing my teeth, I return to my room to see that a reply has already been sent to me. I open the email eagerly, my fingers trembling with anticipation.
“I look forward to meeting with you,” I read off. “Stop by on Thursday if that works for you.”
I practically collapse onto the desk.
“Thursday is perfect.”
8
The Proposal
“That didn’t take long at all,” says David Crichton, the co-president of Marshall-Crichton publishing, as an assistant lets me into his office. “I knew you would come back around eventually.”
His penthouse office is massive, spanning nearly the entire left half of the steel and glass sky rise. Floor-to-ceiling windows allow ambient light to stream inside and showcase gorgeous views of the Boston skyline. I feel like I can see all the way out to the middle of the ocean from here.
Mr. Crichton stands as I approach his desk with my backpack in tow. His handshake is as firm as I remember, though not due to intimidation. Everything from his stance to his broad smile is friendly and I feel comfortable, which is something I didn’t expect.
“You thought I wouldn’t come?” I ask, which gets a rise out of him.
“I didn’t expect you to initiate the meeting,” Crichton clarifies and motions to a comfortable leather armchair. “Please, have a seat.” He takes his own place behind the desk and flips through a ledger of information, no doubt containing his notes for the meeting. He must have scrambled to get paperwork together after I called, and he definitely seems to be prepared judging by his relaxed expression.
With the gap of quiet between us, I have a chance to notice that the assistant has not left the room. The young man stands by the door with his hands clasped in front of him. Everything about the young man is sharp, from his crisp black pants and his patterned button-up shirt, to his jet-black, perfectly coifed hair and glasses. I am starting to feel very underdressed.
I turn back to Mr. Crichton and put on a smile.
“They definitely heightened security here,” I say.
Crichton raises his eyebrows.
“We were forced to,” he says. “After what happened the last time you were here…”
I remember that day vividly.
Mae and I were held at gunpoint by The Drone - except he wasn’t the drone back then. He was just Bill Flagrant, an ordinary man with a weapon. Mae and I managed to flee through the street, but Flagrant was fast. We escaped by the skin of our teeth, using my flying ability officially for the first time. It was the first successful sustained flight for me that lasted more than a few seconds. It was a miracle we didn’t crash to our deaths.
From that day on, Bill Flagrant knew who I was and what I was capable of - though I didn’t know wh
o he was until it was too late. I practically handed him my secret identity and essentially I had a target on my back. Luckily my mother’s home is unlisted due to her level of associated fame with my father’s work, so there were no stop-ins at our house, thankfully. Still, I was a nervous wreck for a long time after that encounter.
The images of the event are seared into my mind and a shudder runs up my spine. It’s a relief when Crichton moves the conversation back to the business of fiction.
“So,” he says. “Peyton down at the front desk says you have a pitch for me.”
I laugh slightly, uneasily. What was a sure thing in my head before is now being picked apart by my inner critic.
Even so, I suddenly hear Grandpa’s encouragement in my mind, take in a deep breath, and exhale the anxiety…for the most part. There’s no choice but to fake it until I hopefully make it.
“I absolutely do,” I answer, folding my hands in my lap so that they don’t tremble. “I understand that you’re interested in finishing off Super Guy with a bang.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Crichton. “With the number of fans that your father’s series has attracted, we want nothing more than to give them the finale that they - and your father - deserve. You believe that you can give us that ending?”
I play it cool and smile.
“Without a doubt.”
I am aiming for Mr. Crichton to be enticed by overplaying my confidence, but the result is actually better than I anticipated. Mr. Crichton leans forward onto his desk, eating up my every word.
“Do you have a writeup for me? An outline?”
He stares at me expectantly, but I don’t move. I don’t even glance at my backpack because what I need more than a written document is a clear image in Mr. Crichton’s mind.
“I have a journal,” I reply.
Crichton blinks.
“A journal?” he says, picking up his pen which he hovers over his ledger. “What sort of journal?”
“My father’s personal creative journal,” I reply. “He left it to me with specific instructions that it is for my eyes only. I know this because there’s an inscription on the first page.”
The Aberrant Series (Book 2): Super Vision Page 4
