It was time to start over. I put my stylus back down on the desk, blankly watching the motionless images on my screen and trying to see what they would do next. The character just didn't feel right. I had put too much of my pain, my fear, my anxiety into the character, and it made him flat. He wasn't interesting, he was just a rage monster like I used to be. He wasn't well rounded or human, just super. A supersomething. The clock continued to tick up towards midnight, and I turned off the computer, tossing the latest draft of the story into the recycling bin.
The next morning, I began to draw the story again, sketching lines and writing dialogue. Somehow, my character's suit looked more ominous than before, like Anthony was a living weapon, an expression of what I didn't want to be real in the world. I didn't even bother to save the draft and walked downstairs, turning on the television for some mindless entertainment. The news quietly blared as I meandered into the kitchen, turning on the lights. I heard a quiet knock at the front door, and I closed the refrigerator door almost as soon as I opened it. I peered through the peephole, but didn't see anyone. I opened the door and craned my head out, looking for a package. I didn't even notice when someone slipped past me, or, perhaps, teleported. I heard footsteps behind me and turned just in time to see a blur in the corner of my eye. I slammed the door, bolted the lock, and grabbed a pan from the kitchen counter. Footsteps upstairs revealed the presence of an intruder, and I carefully crept up the stairs, listening for anything unusual. I heard the sound of drawers closing and then silence, and I peered around the corner into my room, wondering what waited inside. A man with glowing yellow eyes stared at me.
"Hey."
I nearly jumped through the ceiling, then calmly collected my breath. Glowing yellow eyes, a hair over six feet tall, blond hair, and... one of my old t-shirts and jeans? That part wasn't quite right, but the rest of it added up. It was Anthony, like he sprung off the page and into the world. Well, off the screen, perhaps.
"Anthony?"
“Yeah, that’s me.”
I regretted not writing better dialogue, but at least he was somewhat informal. I meekly ventured a question.
“So, how are you doing? And, uh, how are you here?”
“Well, I think there’s a lot that we need to talk about, but before we begin, let’s have breakfast, yeah?”
The smell of French toast wafts through the air as sunlight streams through the kitchen window. I sat at a messy cluttered table, having found a spot to perch my plate. Anthony stood, eating with his hands. He might have some of the same fears I have, but not my compulsion for cleanliness. I should know; he lived on the streets for six months, so he’s used to filth. He speaks first.
“I guess there’s a lot of explaining I have to do. This world is so different from mine. Everything is so mundane. There are no villains pilfering secret technology, no government conspiracies worth mentioning, no alien invasions looming on the horizon. I’ve done my research, you know. Once I realized I was in a comic, I read through all the ones I could find. My world is based on your world, after all, and DC and Marvel are still the same on the other side. Well, some of the names and stories are different, but all the convoluted weirdness is still there.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know why I was so angry all the time. My family was safe and I had good friends. Well, a few of them were kind of rotten at times, but most of them were good. Sure, I had a hard time with that whole dying thing, but I got better, you know, and I’d like to think that I’ve learned from my mistakes.”
“Oh?”
“You know, pushing everyone around me away, all the violence, that one guy I broke into a prison and killed.”
“Yeah, my bad, I was a bit angsty when I wrote that arc.”
“Did you write it though? Nothing I did was compelled by you. I made all those choices, and all the ones in between that
you didn’t see. I’m a free man. If I wasn’t, how could I be here?”
“What do you mean? I’ve been writing your story. I know everything about you- the California years where everything was a frenzy of drugs, sex, and rock and roll; the shock of dying and waking up with a different face and no identity; the time you spent on the streets. That’s not written down, but that’s you, right?”
“Yeah, but just because you know it doesn’t mean you shaped it. That’s my life. I was the one who made all those choices.”
“Why are you here, then?”
“Because I wanted to let you know that things are changing. I’m going to go a different direction with my life. I found these people, you know. Ones who I can trust. I have friends now, and I’ve been acting on my own for too long. I don’t want you to think that I’m still the man who did all those things. I want you to know that you’re free to change how you draw me, because I’m changing who I am. I guess you’d call it a reboot.”
“A reboot? Like, starting from scratch?”
“Sort of. I mean, I am who I am, but I can’t keep doing what I’ve been doing. I’ve hurt too many people. I came here to apologize for my actions, because I can’t help but feel that we’re related somehow. Like you’re the scribe of my story, and I’ve made you see things that are pretty messed up. I wanted you let you know that I’ll work to be a person who doesn’t make you toss drafts in the recycle bin. Yeah, I checked your computer. That password is pretty weak.”
“Oh. I’m sorry if I’ve drawn you badly.”
“It’s a style, even if it’s not perfect. I appreciate that you’re telling my story. I really should be getting back at some point, but I just wanted to say…”
“Say what?”
“Thank you for sticking with me, even through the rough spots. I know that to you, I was just a character, but on my end, I felt that someone knew what I was going through. My pain, my fear, my anxiety. You didn’t let my story end, even when I wanted it to. When I was high as a kite and throwing my life away, you watched over me and felt sorry for me. When I was alone, you were with me.”
I sat, speechless, unable to find words to answer.
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re not a god or anything. I don’t know how you know my story. I just found your signal with my sensors and teleported to your computer one day. Well, I missed and got an underground cable box junction, but you know, close enough. But I watched you for a few days and saw that you were worried about me, and that made me happy. After all, who wants to live alone and unloved? Even if just through the words you write and the pictures you draw, people know me and follow my story, watching as it unfolds with baited breath. Thank you for letting me have a purpose.”
With a slight pop, air filled the void Anthony left behind as he stepped between worlds, following some signal I still can’t comprehend. I cleaned up breakfast and the rest of the table for good measure. I turned on the computer and flipped through email, trying to figure out how I would draw Anthony now that I knew what I did. A file caught my eye on the desktop, and I clicked on the icon to open it. As it loaded into the editor, I saw a rudimentary sketch. Anthony stood in a new supersuit, saving a family from a burning car as smoke billowed in the distance. I smiled, and began to ink the picture. As I finished the yellow glowing lights on Anthony’s suit, I saved the file.
Reboot was finally ready to save the day.
About the story:
Reboot is the name of a character I played in a Mutants and Masterminds campaign. He remains a compelling character to me because of how he changed; he went from being an isolated, violent person to someone who found hope in his friends and fellow heroes and sought to redeem himself in the world, almost without me consciously recognizing it. It was almost like the character wanted to find redemption. When I started writing for this prompt, I changed my role in the story to being an artist instead of someone playing a role playing game, but otherwise just let the character talk.
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