The Aberrant Series (Book 2): Super Vision

by Franklin Kendrick

  As expected, I can see the gears in Mr. Crichton’s mind turning. He taps his pen against the ledger.

  “Where did you find this journal?”

  He must be wondering if the journal was something in his company’s collection, so I dispel that immediately.

  “I found it buried in Dad’s papers in Maine, so I can guarantee that it’s exclusive to me.”

  Mr. Crichton smiles slightly, blinking.

  “Very intriguing,” says Crichton. “So, why should I be interested in this journal? Does it contain an outline for the finale? I assume you’ve read it through?”

  I nod.

  “There wasn’t exactly an outline, but in it my father details the history of the Vestige,” I answer. “It also talks about The Drone and how he came to be the villain that the world loves to hate.” A shiver runs up my arms as I detail the journal’s contents in such a nonchalant way. To Mr. Crichton and his publishing team, The Drone is just a fictional character from the depths of my father’s whimsical imagination. But, to me, The Drone is very much a real person who tried to kill not only myself, but also my grandparents and Mae only a month ago.

  He was stopped, of course. His fall from the sky ended up paralyzing him from the waist down, so the chances are remote that he will ever come for me again. But, the images of Bill Flagrant in a prison hospital somewhere still make my stomach queasy. I need to focus on separating fact from fiction, but it’s hard when the line is so blurred in my father’s notes. I continue on with my pitch, focusing on the future.

  “I would like to use this journal to direct the writing of Super Guy’s finale. If you want to give my father’s readers all the satisfying answers to the questions peppered throughout the series, then using my father’s journal entries to flesh out The Drone and his connection to the Vestige is the best way to do that.”

  “That’s exactly what I want to do,” Mr. Crichton says. “Though I don’t think the finale will be coming in the near future. We’d all like to take our time and do it right. Ideally it wouldn’t be published until next year, which gives us adequate time to produce and market the next arc.”

  I like the sentiment, but I can tell that his answer is code for stretching out the cash cow as long as he can. I don’t mind, really, as long as a percentage of that money makes its way into my pocket - a good percentage. Enough to get rid of my retail job.

  Crichton continues. “You really think you can add answers to your father’s biggest questions just with this journal? Will they be satisfying enough for the most die-hard fans?”

  “They will have to be,” I say. “Because that’s the only ending that my father left us before he died.”

  Mr. Crichton simply nods, not replying.

  At this point I know for sure that nobody at the publishing house was ever told the ending to my father’s series. This gives me all the power I need.

  “If the answers don’t turn out to be fantastic, you and your team can direct me to adjust them until they’re perfect. I’m not married to them either way. I just want to see that justice is done to my father’s magnum opus.”

  Crichton tapes his pen on the desk a bit more. I can see the gears in his head turning. Then he looks up at me with a quizzical look on his face.

  “You understand that writing for Super Guy is a full-time job,” he says. “Are you currently employed elsewhere?”

  I can’t keep the embarrassed expression off my face when I open my mouth to reply.

  “Yes,” is all I say. I don’t want to elaborate.

  Crichton raises his eyebrows.

  “Oh?” he says. “Let me guess. This job you have isn’t exactly your ideal choice?”

  I shake my head with a laugh.

  “No,” I say. “It’s…a retail job.”

  Crichton shares my amusement with a slight smile. I can tell he’s trying to remain composed and not injure my confidence.

  “Well, we all start somewhere,” he says after a moment. “I didn’t become the head of a publishing house overnight. I actually started out in a pretty low position - as low as you can get, actually. So, I’m no stranger to doing a job that you don’t exactly love. But, everything’s a starting point. You just have to focus on moving up in the world, and things will happen in time. Luckily for you, I’m very intrigued by your pitch, so you might be moving up in the world sooner rather than later.”

  My mouth opens and I inhale sharply.

  “Really?” I say.

  “Absolutely,” Crichton replies. “I’ve been hoping to reel you in for a while, and today looks like the day that you join our ranks the same way your father did years ago.” A toothy smile breaks out on the man’s lips and he pulls a sheet of paper from his desk drawer, flourishing his executive pen over the surface. “How about I adjust what I have here and draft up a three-book deal for you. That’s three hardcover special editions - eight issues each - with trade paperbacks to follow.”

  “Three books?” I say. I’m practically salivating. That would mean that I am employed for the next three years, at least.

  Crichton jots down a bunch of information on the paper. I can’t see what it is. Then he says, “Of course, there are technicalities. You don’t simply start writing and that’s that. I will need to see a detailed outline for your first book, with a character arc and all that stuff.”

  “When will that be due?” I ask, mentally pulling up a calendar of the rest of my summer.

  “Let’s say by the end of July,” Crichton replies, handing me the paper. It’s a small one-page spec agreement. “That gives you roughly a month. Of course, I’m giving you the option to bow out at any time, though something tells me that we’re going to be working together for years to come.”

  I speed read the writing and am surprised at how sparse the terms are.

  “This is a pretty laid-back contract,” I comment, and Crichton chuckles.

  “It’s just for the outline. I’ll have a formal one drafted up for the three books and you can read it over when you submit your ideas. You may even want to get your mother involved, if that’s helpful. I know she has experience with our contracts from your father’s days here. But, I want to assure you that we are fair here at Marshall-Crichton. I love your father’s work, and we want to make sure that you have everything you need to continue his legacy. That includes assigning you a dedicated artist.”

  I am just finishing my signature when I set the pen down.

  “An artist?” I say with a dumb look on my face.

  “Of course,” says Mr. Crichton. “Your father was well versed in the art department, but I don’t think it’s fair to throw you into the thick of things completely on your first outing. I have taken the liberty of reaching out to one of our most talented artists, and I’m glad to say that he is very keen on working with you.”

  I blink a few times. I hadn’t even thought of the art department. Writing is one thing, but drawing and inking, coloring and laying out dialogue and all that are things that seem even more daunting if I were to be on my own. Everything is digital now, and I’m not up to snuff when it comes to working with pixels or a stylus. My chances of failure are much higher if I factor in all those details.

  Still, even though it should be a relief that I won’t have to handle everything, my gut twists at the thought of having to partner with someone. I’m getting flashbacks to horrible school projects where my partner dropped the ball and made me a laughing stock.

  I try to steel my expression and reply, “Which artist were you considering?”

  Crichton motions behind me.

  “He’s already in the room, in fact.”

  I look over my shoulder and see the man who I thought was Crichton’s assistant come walking forward. He is ridiculously handsome and wearing what I would consider to be a hipster artist outfit. I can hear the click of his expensive-looking shoes against the floor as he approaches, reaching out a hand to shake.

  “This is Austin Spencer,” says Mr. Crichton, and Austin
stops beside me with a smile that makes me think of a fanboy, though I have no reason to be celebrated in public other than due to my father’s works.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Boding,” says Austin.

  I shake his hand, noticing that his fingers are very cold, and am glad to take my own hand away quickly.

  “Austin will work with you over the course of the month to come up with detailed concept sketches of characters, places, and events based on your outline, and together the two of you will shape the first book. I want you to work closely with him. The more in tune you two are, the stronger your presentation will be. It makes for a great book in the end.”

  I force a smile, though I was looking forward to being on my own to create. Now it feels a little like I have a supervisor again, albeit a more nerdy one.

  “Excellent,” I say, hoping that this is the end of the talk about working together for a bit. My mind needs to reset itself to grasp dealing with a secondary creative force.

  Austin steps back, giving me my space, while Crichton smiles at both of us.

  “As far as school goes,” he says, “you’re a Senior, correct?”

  “Yes,” I say. “One more year of torture.” Another wonderful piece of information to stress over.

  This elicits a laugh from Crichton.

  “Torture. I like that. Incorporate your feelings of being a Senior into your proposal. After all, Super Guy is supposed to be a high-schooler in the series. It would be nice to have an authentic up-to-date point of view for the hero.”

  I press my lips together, mulling the idea over. It’s not a bad one.

  “I will give it a shot,” I say and we get to our feet.

  Crichton walks me and Austin out of his office.

  “You have your work cut out for you,” he says. “Don’t wait until the last minute. Thirty days will be gone just like that. I’ll be awaiting your proposal eagerly. We will reconvene when your proposal is ready.”

  He holds out his hand, and I shake it.

  “Hopefully this is the beginning of great things,” I reply.

  “I have no doubt that it is. And, of course, if you have to do any travel for research, or come up with any expense…” he says, reaching into his pocket. “Put it on your card. We will flip the bills until your official contract begins.”

  He hands me a shiny new credit card, complete with the business name stamped on the front in silver letters and, to my surprise, my own name below it.

  Wow, I think. He really was prepared.

  I hold the credit card in my hands for a few moments, mesmerized by it.

  “Thank-you…” I mutter, not sure what else to say.

  Then I look back up at Mr. Crichton to see a showman smile on his face.

  “As far as your retail job goes,” he says. “Feel free to treat this as your official job moving forward.”

  9

  Austin Spencer

  Austin approaches me once we’re dismissed from the meeting. He follows me out into the brightly lit common area, dotted with black leather couches and exotic-looking potted plants. Our shoes make clicking noises against the marble floor and the echo makes me feel like I should be quiet, but the young man is already shaking off the stuffiness of the executive meeting.

  “Mr. Boding,” he says. I stop and turn to him. “I know that had to be pretty awkward in there, having me forced onto your project. I thought I should introduce myself a little more formally. Austin Spencer.”

  I pause for a moment to get a good look at this man. He can’t be more than twenty-three. His hair is so dark that great bands of reflected light stretch here and there across it. The messy cut is parted on one side and cascades down over his ears so that his glasses disappear into the hair. He smiles with thin lips that cancel out his thick eyebrows and begins to unbutton his shirt, revealing a dark T-shirt underneath.

  “I don’t normally dress like this,” he says, completely removing his button-up and folding it over his arm. The T-shirt he has on is much more casual - the kind of thing I expect a graphic novel artist to be wearing. It’s an X-Files tee. He shakes his head a little, stretching his neck with a groan. “That’s better. I always dress up for meetings like that, just in case. It makes a good impression. You’re not half bad yourself.”

  I blush a little, suddenly self-conscious.

  “I tried my best,” I reply. “I’m not used to these kind of meetings. My father kept me out of that side of things. It’s pretty intimidating. But, it’s par for the course, isn’t it?”

  Austin lets out a soft laugh and straightens his shoulders.

  “Big publishing,” he says. “The guys in the penthouse cram artists together and hope that they make art that people want to buy. Your father was one of the lucky ones who got to be completely in control of his own story. I’m pretty envious of him, Mr. Boding. I’m not going to lie.”

  I start to let my guard down. The guy seems like he’s just as much of a geek as me or Mae. I can see art supplies sticking out of his messenger bag, which reminds me of my father and settles my nerves.

  “My father was pretty lucky,” I say. “And it’s Shaun, by the way. Nobody calls me Mr. Boding, except for Mr. Crichton.”

  “He’s very formal, isn’t he?” Austin smiles and his teeth are dazzlingly white. He motions to a set of leather chairs, his eyebrows raised. “Would you mind sitting with me for just a few minutes? I promise I won’t keep you long.”

  We take a seat and I watch as Austin takes out a notebook and fancy black pen that has to be expensive.

  “I’m not sure if you’ve seen any of my previous work,” he says, “but, I’ve collaborated with some of the biggest names in comic books. I’ll jot down a few titles for you to check out. You can email me and I’ll give you links to some free downloads. I’m sure you’ll be impressed. Everyone else usually is.”

  He hands me the paper with his email address and a small list of five graphic novels. I recognize a few names. This guy actually is good. Most of them are sci-fi related, which is a good sign to me.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll be sure to email you tonight.”

  That’s not the end of the conversation because Austin leans forward, looking more like an eager fanboy now than a professional artist.

  “I also wanted to let you know that I am a huge fan of your father’s work. I actually attended a few sit-in classes that he taught here in the building and I have to say, he was a real talent. The drawings he came up with, and the story ideas - they were just out of this world. I lobbied for months to even be on the list of potential artists to continue his legacy, and I was ecstatic to get the call that I was chosen. I know that you had no say in my participation, but I want you to know that I’m here to serve your story in any way that I can.”

  I’m a little speechless from the enthusiasm, which I did not expect. From all the stories that my father told me about publishing, I assumed that most of the artists treated their work as if it were a day job, doing the bare minimum on a page before handing it over to be finalized. It’s refreshing to hear the excitement that flows from Austin’s words.

  “Uh…” I start, not sure what to say. Then I settle for, “Thank-you. I’m excited to work together as well. I’m not a professional artist by any means, but I think I can write well enough to get the job done.”

  Suddenly my phone goes off in my pocket and I pull it out. It’s a text from Mae asking how things went.

  “Sorry,” I say, motioning to my phone. “Friends asking how it went.”

  Austin grins. “Don’t keep them waiting!” he says. “It’s an exciting time.”

  I text a quick reply to Mae as I get to my feet. There’s a lot to think about, not to mention my retail job to take care of, when Austin speaks up once more.

  “Before you go,” he says, “I wanted to say that if you do any traveling for research - anything at all - I’d love to be there with you. I do some of my best work on scouts, so keep me posted on your plans. Drawin
g from photos is fine, but it’s nothing like getting to study the real thing. I’m always up for a little adventuring.”

  I nod.

  “Sure,” I say. “I will keep you posted.”

  I waste no time in getting to the elevators now, anxious to be out the door and celebrating my victory, however small it is.

  The elevator doors open and I step inside. Austin remains in the reception area.

  “It was really nice meeting you, Austin” I say.

  “Likewise,” Austin replies. “I look forward to your email. Until we meet again.”

  Then the elevator doors shut and I jab my fist in the air.

  10

  Back To The Woods

  “So, he seems like he’s up to the task?”

  Mae glances over at me as she drives up Interstate 95 through New Hampshire. It’s Saturday morning - too early for me - and we’re on our way to Grandpa’s for the day and perhaps part of the evening, depending on how things go.

  I shield my eyes against the 7:00 a.m. sunlight and watch the trees roll by, dotted every couple seconds by clusters of houses. The White Mountains loom beautifully in the background, with their dark purples and greens catching the rays of light coming down through the clouds.

  “Austin?” I reply. “Yeah, he seemed very enthusiastic. I have a feeling he’s a giant nerd like us. I just hope he doesn’t get too overbearing, you know?”

  I flick through one of the digital issues of his work that he sent me. His response to my email popped into my inbox literally two minutes after I emailed him on Thursday night. If that doesn’t say ‘eager’ then I don’t know what does.

  Mae glances at me again, shaking her hair out of her face. She adjusts her grip on the steering wheel.

  “At least he’s ready to work with you,” she says. “And he’s a good artist. You can’t ask for more than that. I mean, you could have been partnered up with some old guy who wants everything done his way. That could be as torturous as working retail.”