Novus Origins

Prologue, Part 1

Michael Lockland considered himself to be a reasonable man who believed in reasonable things. In fact, he was so reasonable that he occasionally allowed himself to believe in things that some considered unreasonable, unbelievable even. Whether he knew it or not, it was this quality that got him to where he was today, walking down a gray corridor in the sub-basement of a nondescript building in middle America in his “inexpensive” charcoal suit, auburn hair slicked back in a way he deemed professional. To the average outsider, everything about Lockland and his current predicament might seem rather average. The average outsider would be wrong.

The hallway he was now coming to the end of was lined with small rooms, each with its own block lettered number on a cheap pressboard door. He stopped in front of room twenty-four and flipped open the manila folder he carried, giving each page (already read three times over) a once-over before slapping it shut and sighing. “Great.” He said, rubbing his eyes. After staring at the numbers for a while longer, he turned the brass knob and pushed in on the oddly warm door.

Prologue, Part 2

The scene on the other side of the door stood in stark contrast to the dull hallway it led off of: the room was probably eight-by-ten feet with a low ceiling, tiled floor and unpainted walls, one of which was in possession of a one-way window. In the middle of the room there was a stainless steel table with an untouched styrofoam cup of water on it; on either side of this table were small, uncomfortable steel chairs. What made this room so different from the hallways beyond then was not the furniture within, but its inhabitant. One of the chairs was taken by a man, by all appearances in his mid-twenties, lean and muscular. Lockland could tell all of this because the man was stark naked; aside from that, he was soaked in sweat and his eyes were clamped shut as if in pain, though there was nothing visibly wrong with him. His hands were splayed across the tabletop and would occasionally twitch and jump. Lockland walked to the table and tossed his folder on it, dragging the second chair noisily out from underneath and slumping into it.

“Hi, sweaty guy.” He said.
“Hello.” Responded the man tersely.

A few moments passed while Lockland watched the strange man, chewing on the pencil he had previously stashed behind his ear. Bite marks already riddled its yellow surface. Finally, he leaned forward:

“I’m told you don’t think you’re from this planet.” He stated matter-of-factly.
“That is correct.” Lockland leaned back now.
“Well, you don’t seem crazy. Sick, maybe; sweaty, definitely. That’s really gross, by the way.”
“Your discomfort is noted.” Grinning, Lockland pulled his chair closer to the table.
“So are you sick? Should I be calling a physician in?” He asked, flipping his folder open and pretending to review the man’s file.
“I am in no physical pain.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I am not sick, agent Lockland.” Lockland raised an eyebrow.
“How do you know my name?”
“You’re wearing an identification card.” Lockland looked down.
“Right.”

He returned to gnawing on his pencil now, examining the curious man more closely: his short blond hair was slick with sweat and his jaw line was tense with apparent strain.

“You know, sweaty guy, healthy people don’t usually perspire as much as you. Care to explain why you look like you’ve just run a triathlon?”
“I am… Restraining myself.” Lockland’s eyes narrowed.
“From what?” He asked. The man opened his mouth, then closed it. “Look, I don’t know what you think you’re going to do to me here, but if you feel the need to let loose, by all means.”
“I do not think you would want me to do that.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I do not think you would survive.” Lockland grunted, stared at the man for a moment, then stood and gathered his things.
“Alright, sweats. I think we’re done for today.” He said, making for the door.
“I need to leave this place, agent Lockland. I cannot stay here.” Called the man.
“Your discomfort is noted.” Said Lockland, closing the door firmly behind him.

That's pretty damn cool. Do you have any others?

Always Appreciate an in depth approach (story-board) Origin, Very vivid, and gritty, Bravo! I eagerly await more!

Prologue, Part Three

Once outside, Lockland took the deep, shuddering breath that he’d been suppressing since he stepped into the interview room with the strange, unsettling man. He leaned back against the wall, rubbing his eyes.

“He has that effect on people.” Came a familiar voice. Caitlyn Weisz, director of this little underground show, was just stepping out of room twenty-two, where she and a handful of analysts had watched Lockland’s interview in full.
Lockland chuckled. “Yeah… You know, he didn’t even say anything. I mean nothing that should have shaken me.” He said, holding his trembling hand out to shake hers.
Taking it, she replied, “I’m sorry, but did you miss the part where he threatened your life? Do we need to wind the tape back for you?”
Lockland smirked. “Yeah, god knows I’ve never heard those exact words sputtered by some other psychopath you’ve dragged down here.” He said wryly, “Still… There’s something different about him, isn’t there?” Weisz nodded, and for a moment both were silent.
At length, Weisz shook her silver locks, “Go home and get some sleep Michael,” she said, “We’ll need you back here bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning.”
Lockland nodded, smiling weakly. “Sure thing scary government lady; it’s not like I have a job to go to or anything. I’d love to play men in black with you tomorrow.”
Weisz rolled her eyes. “You know very well we always take care of you, Mr. Lockland.” She said.
Pushing off the wall, Lockland started toward the other end of the hall. “Yeah,” he said, “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Prologue, Part Four

As he drove home to his little apartment that day, Michael Lockland began to feel the previously ignored cracks in his reasonable mindset giving way to very unreasonable fissures. He found himself staring at the patient profile in the passenger’s seat next to him at every red light, prompting the east side’s business executives (and their assistants) to lean insistently on their horns.

Incredibly, he made it to his building without major incident. More unbelievable was the fact that his favorite parking spot, dead center in front of the shabby west side apartment building, was open. Despite himself, Lockland began to smile and forget, if only for a moment, his many troubles. Mounting the steps, he nodded absently to Mr. Sanderson, the old building’s curator and owner, who arched an eyebrow over his newspaper in reply. Such had their relationship always been, since the day Lockland began renting the little room on the eleventh floor: quiet and respectful, if a little cold. Thumbing his number, Lockland watched the plastic numbers on the elevator light up in sequence and felt his racing mind begin to ebb and slow; somehow, this one unchangeable aspect of his life had always calmed him and given him room to think in his own head.

Today was no different, he told himself.

Looking down at the folder in his hands, he wanted to forget it, to put it from his mind; He folded it hastily and jammed it into his coat pocket. Exchanging awkward hellos with the working girls on their way down to the streets, Lockland slipped out of the elevator and strode determinedly down the hall, the walls and ceiling yellowed by years of its inhabitants’ chain smoking there in blatant defiance of local fire safety laws. Fumbling in his pockets for his keys, Lockland raised a still-shaky hand to the scratched lock on his door. After a few failed attempts and considerable cursing under his breath, he made his way into his safe haven. A skittering on the floor announced the approach of his old basset hound, Mr. Sanderson. The dog stood in front of him, demanding its daily affirmation that it truly was the only important thing in the world. Kneeling to scratch Sanderson behind the ears, Lockland could hear him whimpering softly. “What’s got you buggin’, boy?” He asked quietly. The dog only moved closer and placed its chin on his knee; Lockland sighed. “Oh, right.” He said, scooping it up under his arm and moving to the kitchen.

Cracking open his refrigerator, Lockland stared at the dismally empty shelves, searching for anything edible; in the end, yesterday’s Chinese was the only candidate. He picked up the crate and held it to Mr. Sanderson’s nose. “That smell okay, boy?” He asked. In reply, the dog began licking the contents of the box. “Fantastic.” Lockland said, grabbing his last beer. As he slowly strode toward his living room and the safety of his weathered old couch, dog under one arm and Chinese and beer in the other, Michael Lockland finally began to feel a sense of normalcy returning to his life; it wouldn’t last long. Rounding the corner to the living room, Lockland could barely hear his beer crash to the floor through his shock.

“Hello, agent Lockland.” Said the naked man sitting on his couch.

Mr. Sanderson barked.

Author's Note: Exciting stuff is happening in agent Lockland's world, and bigger and better things are coming in the next installment! That being said, I was too excited to put this through much editing before posting it for you guys, so I hope you'll forgive any errors and/or exceptionally poor writing. As always, comments are hugely appreciated, and if you link me to your own origin story/fan fiction in your comment, I would be more than happy to check it out and give you some feedback. Until then, enjoy!

Fan Base Alpha frequenters probably noticed that my latest is a shameless copy/paste job from those forums. Please don't think that means I am not reading and appreciating everything you guys write just as much as the folks over at the official forums. Thank you bunches and bunches for the feedback thusfar, and Horizon, consider your wish granted!

Love where you are going with your work, here, very Real life... very Noir, and involved. You can tell a good writer, when they can make the mundane itneresting, and manage to keep you rapt, I applaud your work Novus... Eager for more...

I totally agree. So what happens next?

Chapter Five

Michael Lockland considered himself to be a reasonable man who believed in reasonable things. In fact, he was so reasonable that he occasionally allowed himself to believe in things that some consider unreasonable; unbelievable, even. However, as he stood in his apartment, staring at his beaten old couch and the naked man currently seated on it, he found even his considerably elastic mind being tested. A thousand questions raced across his brain simultaneously, but he found he could not give voice to any of them. His mouth had gone inexplicably dry, and the words stuck in his throat. Finally, after several failed attempts, he managed:

“How the fuck did you get in here?”
The man blinked. “I followed you here, agent Lockland. I determined that our previous conversation-”
“That’s not what I asked. How did you get into my apartment?” Lockland demanded again.
The man stared at him for a moment, then turned his attention to his hands. “I followed you here.” He repeated firmly.
Lockland opened his mouth, meaning to say something else macho and indignant, but paused, then closed it. “Why?” He asked instead.

“Because,” said the man, turning his hands over slowly, “Because I can no longer waste time on Caitlyn Weisz’s games. I must be free of her and her organization, and you, agent Lockland, are going to help me.”
Lockland felt the hair on the back of his neck rise; there was something new in the man’s voice, something he didn’t recognize. “Weisz doesn’t wear an identification card…” He murmured. In reply, the man only stared silently. Finally, Lockland sank down onto the couch next to him, Chinese and pool of beer forgotten.

“What if I refuse?” He asked numbly.
“Then your world will never know why it had to die.” Answered the man.

Breathless....

That was some of the most powerful, writing I have come across...

Standing Ovation!