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        <Document ID="141B9F3B-52C5-41FF-8D4C-FAED14B0291E">
            <Text>@Blndgrrlxxoo
Whys nobody saying THE TRUTH! Real threat are the white domestic terrorists stop blowing smoak into our eyes</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F2054384-B990-4341-9617-3E67BF7D20CD">
            <Text>"Hell of a thing," said the driver, weaving through the traffic.
"What is ?" asked Jacob. He found he didn't want to talk but sometimes it took away the anxiety, if only for a little while.
"The Sleepwalker. Getting out."
"That name," suggested Jacob, "it was something the media came up with. It makes for better headlines."
"Well, the guy sure is making them now - what with that girl they found in the pool over on west boulevard. Do you think he picks them?"
"I've no idea."
The driver nodded at this, as if the mindless violence of the Sleepwalker somehow made sense, as if it contained some kind of queer logic peculiar only to itself. In the days since the Sleepwalker had escaped, Jacob had begun to construct an internal landscape in his mind, one populated only by the Sleepwalker and those he had encountered. It was a dark place and one that kept reaching out into the real world, threatening to engulf it.
"The Westin. Pretty busy this time of year," said the driver. "And some conference starts tomorrow. Been ferrying in all these tech types all morning. Probably deciding how they are gonna automate even more things. Probably got another five years driving this cab before it can drive itself."
Up ahead, the towers of the Westin loomed against a sky that looked bruised and black. Heavy rain was forecast for the Bay Area.
As the taxi pulled into the drop-zone, Jacob could see umbrellas opening as the first heavy spots began to darken the road. He gave the driver a twenty dollar bill, thanked him and grabbed his one and only piece of luggage. Not looking back, he made for the hotel doors.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="D2AC1A75-B8F1-4C9D-A18A-5AD1A8F844B9">
            <Title>Chapter seven</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch07-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="307BEFC2-3DB9-4D22-B4B6-F8BC6BE00404">
            <Title>Chapter nineteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch19-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9FDF7BCB-C5C9-4048-9A1E-1380D61B66D1">
            <Text>Lisa’s BMW M5 was a bit of a surprise. 
“Listen, I know what you’re trying to do. You realize this guy is messed up? It’s likely to end poorly for you. I don’t think I’ve been been too subtle regarding my personal interest in … well … you. Why should I help you knowing that I’m endangering something I’m interested in?”
“For a psychiatrist you sure don’t hide your emotions well.”
“Why should I?” Lisa was clearly irritated by his response. 
“I guess I just figured …”
“As a psychiatrist I know what a healthy display of emotion is. I also know when I need to make a move because someone else is to unsure of themselves.”
“Touché”
“Hold on. I like this little stretch of road.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="87279F32-6D8B-43A5-A58B-4713A050FDF7">
            <Text>Anonymous:
In this day and age where the world has turned into a hotbed for radicals this naive talk about supervillains is dated and counter-productive. I'm disappointed in the Chronicle's coverage and would recommend that you reporter gets her facts straight before committing her wild theories to paper.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3BDE2110-8086-4717-9186-9B4F340EF141">
            <Title>Introduction</Title>
            <Text>Time is no substitute for talent
There is a well-known saying that if you give a monkey a typewriter and an infinite amount of time then it will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. In 2003, the staff at Paignton Zoo gave a computer to six crested macaques and categorically proved that what you actually get is five pages of the letter ‘S’ and a broken keyboard. Time, it seems, is no substitute for talent. But can talent substitute for time…?
The book you are about to read was written over the course of a single day in October 2017. For those unfamiliar with the concept of Novel-in-a-Day, it’s simple: - A skeleton of a plot is worked out in advance of the day - That plot is broken into sections, which are divided amongst the participants randomly - The writers have most of the rest of the day to write and return their chapters, working with no knowledge of the wider story or their place in it. 
I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as we loved putting it together.

Tim
October 28, 2017</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="779B2503-5032-4CCE-836E-F64F5E161D86">
            <Title>Chapter nineteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch19-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="4C7C6B13-647A-4962-8B69-46B08E4733E6">
            <Text>The video continues.
The man stands up from the table and looks round.
"An' w'ere th' bloody 'ell is t'is?" he half growls.
"This ain't no pirate ship, Cap'n." says another voice, it sounds halfway between rude and arrogant, on the way to condescending. The Sleepwalker's figure turns round to tap the drawing with his index finger. His expression is changed again, it looks as if it is on the verge of a perpetual sneer.
"This here's a cruise ship." he says.
"Th' bloody 'ell we be doin' on a cru'z sh'p, Jimmy B." replies the gruff voice. "W'ere's Jibbles? Jibbles!" 
The Sleepwalker's figure shouts and looks round. "An' 't be Captain, nae 'Cap'n'!"
 After moving along the end of the table the Sleepwalker visibly shrinks down, appearing timid.
"Y…yes, Captain Bane, Sir?" replies a timid squeaky, almost child-like, voice. Under the Sleepwalker's long dark hair his eyes dart around nervously with a worried look. His lips shiver slightly, but never tremble.
"W'ere ar' we. T'is isn' our sh'p." rumbles Bane. "An' don' say, 'Sir'. all 'th toim."
"I don't know Captain, Sir." replies Jibbles politely as he slowly looks round the room. "It looks like we're not on a ship, but in a house."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CC8A7C3A-9DF4-4A66-AEFF-1FB08130A671">
            <Text>“Dr Lisa War…”
“We know who you are here to see. You know your crazy, right?” The orderly stared at Jacob like a teacher looking at the class idiot. “That man was in here for a reason. Leave this alone and let the po-po handle it.”
From over his right shoulder he heard the heels on the floor. Click-tap, click-tap, click-top. The slight rustling of the white coat over her hips as she walked, barely audible over the sound of the facilities noisey air handler. When smell of jasmine reached him he knew she was close.
“Hello Dr. Warne. Thank you for seeing me.”
Her laugh seemed less like bells this time and more like ice tinkling into a heavy high ball glass. “You always seem to know I’m here.”
“And you’re not happy to see me.”
“You are still trying to ‘be’ Terrrordon, aren’t you?”
“If I say yes, will you talk with me? Try to cure me of my ‘affliction’ and remind me who I really am?”
Her sigh reminded him of the sound his mother made when Jacob was in high school and brought home low grades. “First, you know I can’t tell you too many details about ‘Sleepwalker’, he’s my patient which makes nearly all the information privileged. Second, you aren’t sick, just … annoying. Third, I’d rather convince you how dangerous this man is so you STAY HOME and let law enforcement deal with the subject.”
“That’s just what I was saying Dr L. Just like you requested.” Jacob couldn’t tell if the orderly was trying to excuse his comments to Jacob or get the approval of Lisa. 
“Thank you B. I’ll take Mr. Heath into the offices. If you’ve completed the log…”
“Yes ma’am, he’s all set. Here’s the visitor badge.”
“Thanks.” Jacob smiled. Figuring that having B on his side would be good in the long run Jacob extended his hand. The orderly looked at him oddly and shook it. 
Lisa started to walk down the hall. As Jacob caught up with her she asked, “was that to ensure access to information on Sleepwalker or me?”
Jacob was startled. “Ummm … I uh…”
“I’m not sure exactly how you know when I’m coning up behind you, but you’ve clearly observed something about me that tips you off.”
“You wear heals, in a prison. Look at all the other feet here… soft flats.”
“That ruins it for me.”
“How so?”
“What woman wouldn’t be flattered to hear ‘I remember the scent of your soap’?”
Jacob was suddenly angry with himself. 
“Is that a blush I see?” Lisa laughed.
“Jasmine.”
“What?!”
“Jasmine. You use a jasmine scented soap or shampoo. The other female doctors use… gasoline.”
“I… I’m… I didn’t mean to… I’m truly flattered.”
The silence that accompanied them to her office could have been named Sleepwalker. She left the door open as they entered her office. As she turned the corner of her desk Jacob sat in the chair immediately opposite her leather wingback. The cold directness of her question was startling compared to her warm flirting in the hallway.
“Why are you really here?”
“I’m writing a book …”
“Stop. We have a problem,” she said. ”Either we are on the same page about … my soap… or we aren’t. I don’t want to hear about complications or books or gay men or serial killers. Let’s get it over with. You’re either gay or you aren’t. If you aren’t then you have a girl or you don’t. If you have a girl, why do you know I use jasmine soap and blush when I mention it?”
“I’m not gay. There’s no girl. Complications… just one book with a serial killer in it sits between me and you making it hard to answer about the … blush.”
“I can live with that. And I could get used to seeing you more often. Let’s make this book go away. Shall we?”
“What about your statement about ‘privilege’?”
“You ask your questions. I’ll tell you when we’ve crossed the line.”
“Where is the Sleepwalker?”
“If I knew that, it would be privileged information. But since I don’t know …” She smiled.
“When he was here, did he tell you about how he was caught?”
“That’s public record so I can say that he did.”
“Did he tell you of more hideouts, or bases, or anything like that?”
“Privileged.”
“Ok… Did he tell you his favorite places to eat?”
“Privileged.”
Jacob was surprised by that. “Hmmm… Did he tell you …”
“Privileged” she cut him off.
“I didn’t finish!”
“You need to think of what I can and can’t tell you. If the Sleepwalker ‘tells me’ then it is privileged. I’ll help you a little bit, but I want to you look behind you…”
Jacob turned and looked though the open door.
“Nothing we say in this room is privileged. You are not my patient. I’ll not lose my job for you. Yet.” The flirtatiousness was back in her voice for the last word. 
“So I need to not ask you about what he said?”
“I would not be able to answer if you did.”
“Can I ask your opinion about what he said?”
Lisa stopped for a moment. “My opinion is not privileged unless it requires me to disclose privileged information.”
“Does law enforcement have this same … I don’t want to call it difficulty…”
“They have warrants. But yes. There are things I can not tell them. But you have it much worse.” 
Jacob stopped to think for a moment. 
“Dr. Warne, in your opinion, is it likely that the Sleepwalker has more than one hideout or base?”
“In my opinion, it is very possible. I would suggest that it is likely based on the number of personalities involved. And may I suggest that you phrased that well Mr. Heath.”
“Why thank you Dr. Warne.”
They both smiled at the sudden formality. Her smile. Suddenly his day was going too quickly.
“I have to rethink my questions.”
“I can wait. Can you?”
“It’s close to lunch. Do you want me to come back after I’ve reworked these?” He was stalling. 
“No. You can take me to lunch and work on it there. There’s a nice bistro around the corner. Ask me questions there. I’ll drive.” 
Jacob was surprised. “Wait, if you’re driving, how am I taking you to lunch?”
“Because you’ll be paying.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3A285DB4-4F98-4875-93E8-5F578D09A509">
            <Title>Chapter fourteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch14-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C46F50DC-EDF1-4BA3-978C-2EC163C1EA64">
            <Text>Doubts weren’t the only thing raining down on Jacob—precipitation of the watery variety was also raining down on him. Heavy San Francisco splats thudded out a plasticky rhythm on his head and shoulders. That was at least one thing his costume had going for it—it was waterproof. He was decked out in a buttercup-yellow knee-length raincoat, a black souwester (which he now realised was two sizes too small and was compressing his skull), red waders and yellow rubber boots. The final touch to this ensemble was a rough green net that he had wrapped twice around his head, through which he could see and breathe but could not be recognised.
He was so well-wrapped, in fact, that he had begun to worry a little about his mobility: how fast would he be able to move if the Terrordon showed up? To reassure himself, he wriggled in the garden chair he had brought with him, but the movement just jangled all of those doubts inside him so that they crested in a sudden wave of terror. His bowels jiggled like a water balloon. What was he doing?
He took a deep breath.
Then another.
These vacillations were not the Fisherman’s thoughts. These were Jacob Heath’s thoughts.
Breathe in. Jacob Heath’s parents were teachers, retired and happy.
Breathe out. But this man sitting on the rooftop was not Jacob Heath.
He was the Fisherman.
And this was not a ridiculous costume. These were the clothes his father, an honest trawlerman, had worn. His father, who had been held at gunpoint by drug smugglers but who had died thanks to the vigilante actions of the Terrordon. (A pat backstory was just as important to the method writer as it was to the comic writer.)
The Fisherman felt a swell of rage. It was time to smoke out the Terrordon.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9191A032-B8D4-4C0C-8E82-986210D8CEA2">
            <Text>Jacob realized he didn’t really know anything about Sleepwalker for the umpteenth time that morning. He needed to think like Terrordon if he was going to provide his readers the ‘inside thoughts’ of his current subject. To think like Terrordon he would need to know as much as he could about his quarry. He’d read the books, but now he needed to know the details. The details that only the Dr would have. Dr. Lisa. She was a distraction. A “too easy on the eyes” kind of distraction. Those men had nothing on her. Except for jasmine. Pete and Jon must use the same soap as Dr. Lisa Appleton Warne.
“F… this is going to be a long day.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="909C5AFF-40BF-49D8-BC7E-EDE6D23D8603">
            <Text>Purple. Beautiful, magical, enigmatic purple. The hallmark colour of Roman magistrates, Byzantine rulers, Japanese emperors, Catholic bishops, and Mayor Nenshi could now count the Sleepwalker as an aficionado. Seductive, ambiguous, villainous purple. Enrobed in rich purple like some resplendent monk of an alternate reality, the Sleepwalker swept down a shabby San Francisco sidewalk through an even shabbier neighbourhood. This was not the San Francisco of your summer holidays – far removed from the clam chowder crowds and clattering cable cars.
With Rampworth State Hospital now far behind, the Sleepwalker’s progress was purposeful and single-minded. Money is what mattered right now, and cash was king of conscience. The Sleepwalker coldly sized up those along the way as if a calculating stare were enough to discern who might have the financial means to satisfy. Gangsters, drug dealers and two-bit crooks, all with filthy wads of bills rolled up in their pockets – but none with enough to matter. Threatening, dangerous even to you or I, they shrank away as the Sleepwalker passed, whether from the icy gaze or an equally imposing purple presence. It made no matter. Sleepwalker had a plan.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F7E8E091-302B-4E5B-A720-E34E207956C4">
            <Title>Chapter eleven</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch11-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="87C3196B-40FB-4174-A731-A25247194124">
            <Text>August 2017</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F968B059-0ABE-4406-9102-CED4FB94D49E">
            <Text>Jacob had been pacing the floor of his apartment for the last twenty minutes. He had a route. From the kitchen counter, around the table, down the corridor past his bedroom and bathroom and into the open plan living area. Here, he had a choice. Left or right behind the couch. Either way he ended up at the large picture with its view over the Tenderloin. Again, he had a choice. Sit at his desk and get on with it, or continue being indecisive and carry on pacing. Jacob took a deep breath, chuckled, sat, and jiggled the mouse. The screensaver vanished and his notes on Terrordon popped into view. He examined them for a few minutes, then sat back and clicked his fingers.
“Siri, open Skype and call Pete.”
“Opening Skype and calling Pete Schlamme,” Siri purred back with a psychotropic voice that Jacob had paid a good deal extra for. Frankly, he didn’t care that it was computer generated, and wasn’t entirely real. On occasion, when he asked it to read a novel, it still managed to turn him on.
After a short delay Jon, Pete’s boyfriend, answered.
“Jacob! Nice to see you. It’s been ages. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Well, nice to see you too, Jon. You’re looking well, but much as I’d like to chat, I need to talk to Pete about my next project.”
“Ah ha. Finally!” Jon said, “I can’t wait to hear.”He turned away from camera. “Sweetheart, it’s Pete for you,” he hollered, turning back to smile at Jacob. “Are you going to go undercover and be gay again? What was it you called it… oh yes, ‘method writing.’” He giggled and winked at Jacob. “Call me anytime I can help with your method, dear.”
“Stop winding him up, Jon,” Pete’s voice came from off screen.
“See ya.”Jon said, and winked again as he got up.  Pete came into view as he sat down, a towel around his shoulders.
“Sorry, I was in the shower. Sorry about about Jon, too. He still can’t believe the method writing thing.”
“No problem. So, I’m calling because I’ve decided.”
“Yes?” Pete looked apprehensive.
“Terrordon. The Myth, The Man.”
“Excellent, Jacob! I knew you’d make the right choice. So, what’s the next step?”
“Well, as Terrordon has vanished the next logical move is to interview Sleepwalker. To do that I need get an introduction to his doctor at the Rampworth State Hospital. I’ve tried all my contacts. Have you any ideas?”
Pete smiled. “Oddly enough, I have. Have I told you about my younger brother, Paul?”
“No.”
“Ah. Well, he’s a doctor. Works in a practice in Berkeley, and is straight as a die. Anyway, the last time we had dinner he brought along the delightful Lisa Appleton Warne.”
“You look like her name should ring a bell, Pete. Sorry, but it doesn’t.”
“Well, if you will use Wikipedia as a research tool, Jacob, then I’m not surprised. Okay. More properly her name is Doctor Lisa Appleton Warne, with a D.Clin.Psych after it. She works at Rampworth, and one of her patients is Sleepwalker and his merry band.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E04B04ED-645B-42EF-82DD-441A6D8A06A5">
            <Title>In Memoriam</Title>
            <Text>In Memoriam
I was incredibly saddened to learn recently that our good friend Montrée Whiles passed away earlier this year, after her car was struck by a drunk driver. 
Montrée was one of the most enthusiastic members of the NiaD family, and her passion (and chasing) certainly helped keep the event running this long! The more I’ve learnt over the past few weeks about this remarkable woman, the more and more respect I have for her. I won’t share specific details here since she deliberately chose to use a pen name for her writing, but trust me — she was one of the good ones.
Taken far too young. We’ll miss you.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7B4CDCC0-2200-4E23-AA02-C6B2D8AA3217">
            <Text>The funny thing about San Francisco weather in August is that you never knew what to expect. It could be frigid and windy one day and two days later, you’d be basking in the park in lovely 75 degree sunny weather at noon. And late that afternoon, you’d be back to sweaters because of frigid bone chilling wind and fog spilling in through the channel that separated the Marin headlands from the City shores. And that fog could drill right into your very being. Mark Twain was right when he quipped, “The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco.” You just never knew what you were going to get. So, when you woke up and saw the sun streaming solid and bright into your window on a summer morning, you jumped out of bed, got dressed, and did your best to take advantage of a good day of sunshine. 
That Tuesday broke sunny with blue skies and a forecast of 78 degrees. This was a perfect opportunity for a brisk walk to clear his mind and figure out his next steps, so Jacob set out for one of his favorite restaurants. Golden Era, was an easy fifteen minute Uber ride from his North Beach flat, but the forty-five minute power walk. The amped up adrenaline and endorphin rush, combined with a clear sky and almost balmy weather was almost too much to bear. 
The Golden Era was crowded, as usual, with a waiting line spilling over to the sidewalk. But luckily, the bar counter usually had a free space and Jacob was able to find a spot at the far corner inside. 
	While Jacob waited for his order of Curry Okra to arrive, he glanced around the packed restaurant and then out through the large picture window to the people milling around outside of the restaurant. 
	A woman in a deep plum jacket and impossibly high stiletto heels was deep in conversation on her cell phone. Her purse dangled off of her opposite shoulder via a narrow strap. Before Jacob could even formulate the observation to his brain – Gee, you are just asking for someone to swipe that purse off of your shoulder – two hooded figures swept by on a small motorbike. The one riding in the back reached out with two arms towards the woman, snatching the purse with one arm and shoving the woman’s shoulder with the other, sending her sideways careening into a large metal trash receptacle. 
	The motorbike picked up speed but just before it turned left at the opposite corner, a young, athletic looking guy cocked his hand back and snapped what looked like a football in a perfectly executed spiral that drilled right into the motorbike’s front wheel. The driver lost control and both men toppled over.
	“Whoa. Sweet pass. Stanford could have used him last week against Arizona State.” Two younger, techy looking fellows at the table behind where Jacob sat continued their meal and matter of factly discussed what was happening outside their window. “Look at those two scramble away and, heh heh, they even forgot to take the gal’s purse. What a fail day they are having.”
	“Wow. Look at those two Japanese chicks taking selfies of themselves in front of the gal that just got creamed.” “Yup. They’re going to be able to tell their friends back home about the big heist they witnessed on their vacation.” 
	“Look! The boy of the hour just picked up his ball and the purse and is going over to the gal. He pulled a great Terrordon today. Let’s get back to work.”
Terrordon. Jacob remembered a few stories that had surfaced well over fifteen years ago. The Terrordon – some guy who wore a caped crusader outfit that appeared off and on for a hand full of years back around 2000. What had happened to him? Did anybody ever find out who he was?
	Jacob did a quick Google search on his phone and saw a few hits for Terrordon, but they were mostly hits for some hip hop dude or a Pokemon type of character. But then, several links down he saw an item dated in 2005 that described a mysterious costumed man who had helped rescue a litter of puppies from a basement fire. And then another link a year before that about someone who had beat up a guy who was pushing drugs near a high school in the Richmond. 
	Was it just those two incidents? There had to be more, but Jacob’s memory was a little foggy. Jacob pulled up the San Francisco Chronicle’s website and tried a few searches there but came up blank. Who would remember? Who would know?
	All of the folks he’d worked with at the San Francisco Chronicle had retired, moved away or died, so that was a dead end. But he was having dinner Saturday night with his good friends, the Hunters. They were both in the news business and had been around for a while. Maybe he could get some good intel from them.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="D84342AD-8BEA-4941-A513-74880FBD7060">
            <Title>Dissociative Identity Disorder</Title>
            <Text>DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER
Source: Adapted from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dissociative_identity_disorder

Dissociative identity disorder (DID), previously known as multiple personality disorder (MPD), is a mental disorder characterised by an individual who exhibits at least two distinct and enduring identities or dissociated personalities. It is sometimes known as “Jekyll and Hyde disorder”, as in extreme cases it presents as multiple separate ‘people’ ‘sharing’ the same body, with those personalities exhibiting substantially different behaviour, emotional reactions, and a lack of shared memories. These symptoms are not accounted for by substance abuse, seizures, other medical conditions, nor by imaginative play in children.

DID is one of the most controversial psychiatric disorders, with no clear consensus on diagnostic criteria or treatment. Research on treatment efficacy has been concerned primarily with clinical approaches and case studies. Dissociative symptoms range from common lapses in attention, becoming distracted by something else, and daydreaming, to pathological dissociative disorders. 

Diagnosis is often difficult as there is considerable comorbidity with other mental disorders. People with DID are diagnosed with five to seven comorbid disorders on average—much higher than other mental illnesses. Comorbid disorders can include substance abuse, eating disorders, anxiety, posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and personality disorders. A significant percentage of those diagnosed with DID have histories of borderline personality disorder and bipolar disorder. Further, data supports a high level of psychotic symptoms in individuals with DID, and that both individuals diagnosed with schizophrenia and those diagnosed with DID have histories of trauma. Due to overlapping symptoms, differential diagnosis includes schizophrenia, normal and rapid-cycling bipolar disorder, epilepsy, borderline personality disorder, and Asperger syndrome. Malingering should be considered if there is possible financial or forensic gain, as well as factitious disorder if help-seeking behaviour is prominent. It is not the same as schizophrenia.

There are few systematic data on the prevalence of DID. The International Society for the Study of Trauma and Dissociation states that the prevalence is between 1 and 3% in the general population, and between 1 and 5% in inpatient groups in Europe and North America. DID is diagnosed more frequently in North America than in the rest of the world, and is diagnosed three to nine times more often in females than in males.

DID rarely resolves spontaneously. Symptoms are said to vary over time. In general, the prognosis is poor, especially for those with comorbid disorders. The prevalence of DID diagnoses increased greatly in the latter half of the 20th century, along with the number of identities (often referred to as "alters") claimed by patients (increasing from an average of two or three to approximately 16). 

DID is also controversial within the legal system, where it has been used as a rarely successful form of the insanity defence. The 1990s showed a parallel increase in the number of court cases involving the diagnosis.

Dissociative disorders including DID have been attributed to disruptions in memory caused by trauma and other forms of stress, but research on this hypothesis has been characterised by poor methodology. An alternative hypothesis for the cause of DID is as a by-product of techniques employed by some therapists, especially those using hypnosis, and disagreement between the two positions is characterised by intense debate. DID became a popular diagnosis in the 1970s, 80s and 90s, but it is unclear if the actual rate of the disorder increased, if it was more recognised by health care providers, or if sociocultural factors caused an increase in therapy-induced (iatrogenic) presentations. The unusual number of diagnoses after 1980, clustered around a small number of clinicians and the suggestibility characteristic of those with DID, support the hypothesis that DID is therapist-induced. The unusual clustering of diagnoses has also been explained as due to a lack of awareness and training among clinicians to recognise cases of DID.

The most common presenting complaint of DID is depression, with headaches being a common neurological symptom.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CEB03E9A-97B5-4EEA-9BF7-3AEF36C0A235">
            <Text>Blood spilling from the throat of one of the patrons didn’t do much to the dark brown colour of the carpet. It pooled in the lines and grooves at his feet, startled eyes wide as his hand went to his throat, dropping the cigar he lit seconds before. Jacob glanced at the Sleepwalker, stumbling back when the image caught up to him. He slit his throat. Slit his throat from ear to ear and for what? 
The Sleepwalker crushed the smoldering cigar with his foot, taking a step back when the patron fell to his knees. 
“No smoking in a public establishment.” 
Patrons uttered sounds of disbelief, a few women cried out, patrons headed towards the door only for the henchmen to shove them back towards their tables. Jacob can hear the gurgling sounds of the man, his eyes dropping to him to see his mouth moving. Blood continued to spurt outward, but Jacob knows it’s only a matter of time before he succumbs to death. Minutes to be exact. Especially if he continues to pull his hand away from the gash in his neck. 
A couple brave souls moved in to assist, grabbing cocktail napkins, and held them to the man’s throat. A lost cause if you ask him, but silence is in his best interest since the Sleepwalker hasn’t acknowledged his existence since their arrival. Jacob’s death is imminent and the writer in him is now conjuring up images on how his death is going to play out. A blade across the throat like he did with this poor gentleman right here. Maybe he will stab him in the heart. Quick and somewhat painless. But not really his style. No. Whatever the Sleepwalker has in mind, it will be long, drawn out, and torturous. 
Silence except for the occasional sniffles, hushed spoken words of comfort, ice clinking in a glass. Jacob caught sight of a man sitting at the far end of the bar. He’s not phased by the events, tossing back one drink after another. Jacob’s eyes returned to the Sleepwalker, he’s still waiting for the man to die, a sly smile spreading across his lips. It’s not the first time Jacob considered lunging at him. He can take him. There’s no doubt in his mind. But there’s the henchman. Six, maybe seven scouring the bar, gathering what few patrons are here to enjoy a cocktail, and moving them to the center tables. And let’s not forget the Sleepwalker. Locked away in the depths of Rampworth State Hospital these last twelve years. Declared insane. He has nothing to lose. Jacob, on the other hand, could lose his life. 
No sooner than the thought completed itself, the doors to the small quaint bar flew open, causing everyone’s attention to jerk towards it. Filling the doorway, dressed in dark clothing, his face obscured by a mask, the Terrordon stood. Henchmen moved towards him quickly while Jacob remained immobilized. His mind is telling him to move, get somewhere safe, this is your one and only chance, but he can’t seem to make his feet work. Something sharp skimmed past his cheek and that set him in motion. He ran for the bar, dove over the top, crashing to the floor with a grunt. There’s something wet on his cheek and he wiped it away, bringing his hand down to see blood on his fingers. 
He gripped the edge, pulling himself up to peer over the bar. The Terrordon and the Sleepwalker are tangled up, fists thrown, the henchman he brought with him lying in a pool of their own blood. Patrons are sneaking out the front door, men helping women, others shoving past with no class at all. Jacob moved along the counter, staying on his hands and knees, hearing the grunts from villain and superhero as they continued their assault on each other. He passed one of the henchman, yanking one of the ninja stars from the forehead of one of the men. He groaned softly, shifting his head slowly, and while Jacob waited to see if he attacked, his entire body relaxed. 
His eyes drifted towards the fight. He could make a run for it. He should. They aren’t anywhere near the door, tossing chairs at each other, blood dripping from one nose, a knot above the right eye on the other. But this is the closest he’s been to the Terrordon and Jacob can’t deny the excitement. If the Sleepwalker can knock his mask off, reveal the Terrordon’s true identity, he can finish the book, and finally get the kind of recognition he deserves.  
Jacob only took his eyes off of them for a few seconds to move around the bodies when he heard an angry grunt. The Terrordon shoved his knee into the back of the Sleepwalker’s neck. Curse words flew from his mouth, writhing around on the floor in hopes to break his hold. 
“You should have stayed at Rampworth.” The Terrordon muttered, grabbing his arms and yanked his hands back behind him. “It’s where you belong.” 
The Sleepwalker laughed. A sound that caused a shiver to creep down Jacob’s spine. Kiddish and almost carefree. Something Jacob didn’t expect. 
“And you should have stayed in hiding.” The Sleepwalker repeated, his cheek pressed to the dark carpet. “It’s where you belong.” 
“And let you terrorize this city.” The Terrordon tightened his hold. “I don’t fucking think so.” 
Jacob moved closer towards him, acting on pure adrenaline now. The Terrordon’s head snapped towards him. He can only see his eyes, he can’t make out the colour from here.
“I’m writing a book.” Jacob started, flashing him an uneasy smile. “I’m writing about you. Any chance you and I can sit down and…” 
“I have nothing to say.” He interrupted, slamming the Sleepwalker’s head back to the carpet with a thud. “Get out of here. And if you run into a police officer, send them my way.” 
“No one has seen you since 2005.” Jacob said, ignoring his command. “Where did you go?” 
The Terrordon stood to his feet, yanking his prisoner with him. 
“Get out.” 
“Did you come back because of him?” Jacob went on. “Because he escaped?”  
Jacob pushed himself to his feet. 
“The public has a right to know the man who protects the city. They have a right to know who you are.” 
The Terrordon narrowed his eyes. 
“I said to get the fuck out.” 
“Don’t let him push you around.” The Sleepwalker said, his eyes resting on the six point ninja star Jacob still held in his hand. 
“Shut up.” The Terrordon hissed, jerking him towards the door. 
“Throw it.” The Sleepwalker mouthed. “It’s the only way you’re going to know. The only way you’re going to unmask him.” 
The Terrordon moved quickly, his cape flowing outward from the sudden movement, slamming the Sleepwalker face first into the wall. Jacob did move towards the door. 
“Don’t do it.” The Terrordon said, his head shifting with him. 
“Do what?” Jacob asked innocently, feeling his palm sweat as he ran his fingers over it. He didn’t have to look down to see the cold steel is branded with the Pteranodon. He can feel it. The same design the Terrordon wears across his chest. 
The Sleepwalker smiled at Jacob before he mouthed “throw it.” The temptation is there. There’s no denying it. This is what he’s been after, what he’s been working towards. The unveiling of a superhero.
“Come on. Throw it.” The Sleepwalker chanted softly, his eyes flashing wildly. “What are you waiting for? Do it. Throw it.” 
“Shut your fucking mouth…” The Terrordon’s eyes rested on him. “He gets away, he will kill you.”
Jacob’s grip tightened on the star and without any warning at all, he threw it. He didn’t really think he would hit him. What are the chances. It’s a ninja star and it’s not like Jacob has any kind of experience throwing something like it. Luck is on his side and while the Terrordon made a futile attempt to avoid it, it sank into his chest, blood darkening the color of his suit. Jacob’s breath caught in his throat as he collapsed to his knees, his grip on the Sleepwalker slackened. The Sleepwalker grinned, threw Jacob a wink, and bolted towards the bar. Jacob uttered a soft protest, but it’s too late. The Sleepwalker ducked out the side door. Jacob took three tentative steps towards the Terrordon, his heart racing in his chest. 
“You have any idea what you’ve done.” 
Jacob didn’t get a chance to answer. The main door to the bar broke open, several police officers stormed in, guns drawn. 
“Hands in the air!” One of the officers hollered and he’s aiming the gun at Jacob. 
“Wait. You have the wrong man…” 
Two officers grabbed him, shoving him against the wall. They yanked his arms back, the sound of steel cuffs clinking together. If he doesn’t make his move, if he doesn’t unmask the Terrordon, he did this for nothing. He slipped from the officer’s grasp, dropped to his knees where he last saw the Terrordon, only to find him gone. </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="079E553A-73E4-4219-B677-1673F9042567">
            <Text>After his second drink, he used the lobby bathroom and then returned to where he could see anyone coming into the hotel. He reflected on the photograph Lisa had shown him back at the hospital. In all likelihood, the Terrordon would find a way to blend into the crowd of faces spilling into the reception area.
He would need to look for Joe. That was the only option right now.
Beyond the doors, a scuffle broke out. The sound of two well-dressed young men fighting. From their slurred speech and aimless attempts at throwing punches, it seemed they had been drinking.
Jacob looked away from the spectacle that hotel staff were attempting to solve and found himself staring at the solitary figure seated alone at a table by one of the large bay windows.
The figure that walked through the haunted landscape of the Sleepwalker was here.
Jacob carefully crossed the room and sat down opposite him.
The man looked up from his drink. "Do I know you friend?" His smile somehow sick and weak.
"It's Joe isn't it." Jacob replied, not offering his hand. Something about the man, his skin, sent a wave of repulsion through him. "Actually, you're not Joe are you? A recent unauthorised departure from Rampworth? That's about it, I guess."
Now the man spoke again but his voice had taken on an uncomfortable, bird-like quality. "Now, friend. You've gone and upset Joe. You see he's just the guy who lives inside. Helps me keep everything straight and proper. Kind of like my older brother. Handing on his timely advice for when things attempt to fall apart."
Like some magician performing a trick, some sleight of hand performance, Jacob watched as the Sleepwalker rose, producing a pair of surgical shears. A light glinting on metal and turning precious. In one moment, the Sleepwalker removed the head of the woman sat at the next table in a way that reminded Jacob of how his mother had once clipped roses in their garden.
A wave of blood, hot and thick washed out, drowning the white table cloth in a sea of red and carrying away the wine glasses to wear they smashed on the floor.
And as Jacob began to feel the world around him start to swim out of focus, the cutting and tearing began.
"And you, my friend," said the Sleepwalker, in that same bird-like tone, "Well, I'll save you for last."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="88EC9B02-47F2-4BA1-A221-6DBD4F1D3F8A">
            <Text>“Madam Kennedy,
The police services do not care about it but the population has already undergone an attack the author of which I am. Beware Amy, because I planned to lead other assaults against the population of San Francisco.
District after district, I shall come to fish for souls to fill my net… Tremble, population of San Francisco, and take cover if you do not want to die! In three days, the fisherman will be alongside the wharf.
The Fisherman.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="8B7150A5-0EF1-44BD-B6E4-568BE6515ED3">
            <Text>The bright yellow sou’wester hat made a great finishing touch. Jacob wasn’t quite so sure about the full-length black lycra skin suit and brown satchel, but he had no time to change his mind now. He put on the dark glasses and checked carefully in the mirror: there were no distinguishing features leaking out between them and the balaclava mask. Everything was in position, and he had to go.
He closed his eyes, let both hands relax by his sides, and allowed his usual self to drift downwards through the soles of his feet and away. Stand perfectly still. Deep breaths. Now his body was ready to welcome its new occupant – The Fisherman.
As he rode BART into the City, The Fisherman felt many pairs of eyes staring at him. Fools! Let them stare. They think they are merely looking at another Californian freak, or a failed actor on his way to earn a few dimes performing for an unappreciative public on the sidewalk. But by tonight they will know with whom they shared a train upon this day.
At Powell Street, he first approached the cable car terminus, but it was inconceivable that a figure of his stature could be required to stand in line for forty minutes, so he took the bus instead. Sitting opposite him, two Japanese tourists giggled to one another, mouths inadequately concealed behind their hands.
The man leaned forward and spoke. “Excuse me, sir, but would you mind if we took your photograph?” He raised an eyebrow and an iPhone.
The Fisherman briefly considered smiting this man for his insolence but, after a brief reflection, merely gave a nod of acquiescence. The more people that saw him the better: he sat a little straighter and thrust forward his jaw as the camera clicked.
At Pier 39, the couple rose to get off and nodded in thanks as they departed.
“Make sure you keep that picture safe,” The Fisherman said. “You might find it valuable tomorrow.”
When the bus arrived at Jefferson Street, Jacob alighted and reached for the notebook in his satchel. There was a substantial risk that whatever was about to happen would make him forget those experiences, which would be a terrible waste. Where are supervillains, or heroes come to that, supposed to keep the change for their fare on the bus? In this skinsuit, he also had to hope that he wouldn’t be needing to go to the bathroom any time soon, either.
As always, the area heaved with tourists from all over the world. They’d been told they had to visit Fisherman’s Wharf and, like sheep, they did, without having the first idea of what they were seeing or why. Whole flocks of them blocked the sidewalks, none of them inclined to give way to a man wearing a fancy-dress suit.
The air filled with a heady mix of smells; the sea, the sealions, the fast food restaurants, the gasoline. Not a pleasant place to be, but he wasn’t there for pleasure.
At Hyde Street, he glanced to his right towards the pier. Everything appeared normal. Visitors drifted to and fro, there was no unusual concentration of police, no striped tape securing the scene, and no forensics crew in white boiler suits. An ordinary day, at least for now.
He turned left into Aquatic Park where another long line for the cable car snaked around upon itself. It was 11.30. These were the tourists who’d got here early to beat the rush and, having discovered that there was nothing much here to detain them, were moving on to try to find entertainment elsewhere.
Time to get ready.
The Fisherman strode on, across the street and up the steps of the mall. He knew the position he needed to take up, a particular spot on the balcony where he would have the requisite viewpoint over proceedings.
A young couple stood, exactly where he wished to be, deeply engrossed with each other and with their ice creams. After monitoring their progress for a minute or two, he concluded that they would finish soon enough and that no action would be necessary on this occasion.
At last, they finished their chocolate fudge and moved on, so The Fisherman could occupy his place. He removed the camera from his bag, twisted the ring to full telephoto mode and took aim, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the railing.
The Hyde Street Pier was as busy as expected. From here, through his long lens, he had a clear view of the people as they ambled back and forth along the long, thin, wooden pier as it stretched away from him. On either side, four or five old boats bobbed gently in the swell. Ten minutes remaining.
A sharp thwack on his backside brought Jacob back, accompanied by “Hey, I’d know that ass anywhere, how’re you doing, you old sonofabitch?” from a deep voice behind him.
Jacob spun round, almost hitting his assailant in the face with the extended lens of his camera. He was an older man wearing the apron of a café waiter, in his early fifties, with the first signs of grey appearing at the temples. It had been ten years or more, but Jacob’s conscience would never let him forget Travis.
Travis, on the other hand, was not now so sure. He stared intently at the mask and sunglasses, searching for a clue. He looked up and down at Jacob and tilted his head on one side. “Pardon me, sir, but – do I know you?”
Jacob hesitated. He contemplated trying to bluff this out, but could not bear the thought of causing any further pain to this fine man. He took off the shades.
Travis beamed. “Thank Christ for that! I thought I was about to get arrested for assault, or sexual harassment.” He indicated the logo on his apron: “I’m working just a block from here.” Then the beam faded, and transformed into a frown as he began to take in the scene. “What’s all this about, Jacob? Are you up to your games again? I hope you aren’t about to hurt anyone else like you did me.” He edged away, shaking his head.
Jacob lowered his camera. “Look, Travis, I’m sorry. I’ve said so a thousand times. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I just needed to understand the Bay Area scene. And it was fifteen years ago–”
“Thirteen, actually.” Travis looked down. There was a pause while both of them remembered. “Was it worth it? Your Harvey Milk book?”
Jacob shrugged. “Who’s to say?” He glanced at the clock, high on the wall behind Travis’ head. Two minutes to twelve. “Look, you’re right, I am working, and I’m sorry but I really need to–”
“That’s ok, I get it. Work ahead of people, every time. Someday you’ll understand what that leads to. I’ll leave you to it.” Travis, head bowed, trudged up the steps to the upper area of the mall, away from the bay.
Jacob replaced the glasses, turned around, and trained his camera on the critical spot.
A smattering of people on the pier were coming and going. A group of three on their way out; a couple coming back. A child on her own, followed by a larger group. He checked his watch – two minutes past.
A family of four went out. Now there was a gap; he reached for the burner phone and selected the number for the first message.
Damn! A woman with a stroller walked back. He lowered the phone and waited. She passed, and a space opened up where he needed it to be. One last check – and the message was sent.
A second later, as if his command had flown on the wings of one of the gulls, came a bright flash as though the sun itself had fallen upon the bay, followed immediately by a loud bang. A thousand birds scattered upwards, and every head turned to look.
Pieces of broken timber fell from the sky, and a gaping hole appeared on the left of the pier.
Jacob’s heart was in his mouth as he assessed the results. It was perfect – all those calculations had not been in vain. Just a small explosion, enough to damage but not destroy, and sufficient to encourage everybody to get the hell out of there.
Which they surely did.
Those on the far side of the crater were looking at the damaged pier section, trying to judge if it was safe to cross on the remaining boards. A woman in uniform took the lead, testing the surface cautiously with a pole. She must have decided it was secure as she beckoned those on the other side to follow. One by one, holding hands or in huddled family groups, they came by the splintered hole and then, as soon as they were past, ran for their lives.
Meanwhile, those on the shore side of the blast site had long gone, sprinting up Hyde Street and then fanning out in all directions. Jacob could hear the shouts and screams as the contagion of terror spread. The line at the cable car had already dissolved, its constituent people scattered like leaves in the wind.
Now for the main event. Jacob needed to wait until the pier had been completely evacuated: it didn’t take long.
The Fisherman set up the next message on his phone. This next blast would be the real message. He looked again at the target, to make one last check. All clear. His finger hovered over the button, and was just in the action of pressing when –
A small figure ran into the frame of his viewfinder. A child, perhaps three or four years old. It stopped, only a few feet away from the location of the second, much larger, bomb. The child bent down to pick up an unseen object, perhaps a dropped toy. From the side, another figure, a woman waved her arms as she ran, her long red hair flowing behind her.
Jacob froze. It was Emmy, so that must be Pacey – he’d been a millisecond away from blowing up his own sister and nephew. His stomach churned and he fought to keep control, resisting the urge to rip off his mask and scream at them to get out.
It wasn’t necessary. Emmy grabbed hold of Pacey and carried him off, running with her head down to protect her precious cargo.
Now the pier really was clear.
He’d come this far; he might as well see it through. As first one siren and then another wailed in the distance, he looked down at the phone, and pressed the button.
This time it wasn’t a bang, it was the end of the world, or at least sounded like it. After the initial flash, a huge cloud covered the remains of the pier and the sky turned red as dust obscured the noonday sun.
The Fisherman had just one remaining aim: to see The Terrordon, should he dare to appear. If this double explosion didn’t bring him running from his lair, what would? All of those pathetic little creatures, scattered and screaming below, were surely hoping for their hero to come and save them, if he can.
A scan of the sea and the skies yielded nothing but some pathetic police helicopters, buzzing uselessly over the bay. They had no idea what they were looking for or with whom they were dealing, and could safely be ignored.
But wait – a different sound, coming across the water. A roar, as of a waterfall? The Fisherman could not identify its nature or origin until his eye was caught by a streak of foam on the surface.
A circular fan, behind a tilted platform, kicked up the spray; a hovercraft, no less. On it stood a single figure, masked and suited like himself, with a flowing cape. It was The Terrordon.
Jacob snapped away with his camera. The hovercraft was a nice touch, a new gimmick and very handy for reaching the shoreline. Quicker than taking the bus, for sure.
Now his day was nearly done, all missions accomplished. He’d carried out the attack as promised, and been seen by enough people that no-one else would be able to claim credit for HIS bombs. He’d flushed The Terrordon out from his cover, and was getting some great shots to prove it.
The craft pulled up to the shoreline and its passenger alighted, leaping over the barriers and thrusting himself into the air with his cape acting as a glider.
So now he should quit while he was ahead. He had no intention of embroiling himself in a fight with a well-armed psychotic vigilante, especially as he had nothing more lethal than a Nikon in his hand.
The plan was sound: the crowds were, as anticipated, fleeing in every direction at once. All he had to do was dip out of sight, change out of this costume – which had been carefully designed for exactly this situation – and then mingle with everyone else.
He dropped the burner phone into a fire bucket and raced into the mall and then downstairs into the basement where the restrooms were located. A cubicle might be slightly less glamorous than a phone box, but it would have to do.
Just as he reached the door of the men’s room, it opened from the inside and a burly uniformed figure stood in the entrance, blocking the way. “Sorry, sir, this facility is closed. Part of our emergency evacuation plan. Please go back up the stairs to the street.”
Shit. This wasn’t in the script. Of course, if he’d been a real supervillain this would have presented no problem at all: by now the janitor would be lying dead on the floor, and The Fisherman would have been going wherever he wanted.
But he wasn’t The Fisherman, he was Jacob Heath, and he couldn’t kill anyone.
The janitor wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, and Jacob had no option but to allow himself to be shepherded up to the main level and then out onto the street. Here, although there were plenty of people, they didn’t constitute what you might call a crowd, certainly nowhere near enough to provide meaningful cover.
He couldn’t ditch any part of his costume without risking revealing his real identity to those nearby, but this bright yellow hat didn’t now seem like such a good idea. A swoosh in the air above confirmed his fear: The Terrordon was swooping around on his hang glider, scanning the street below like an eagle looking for a stray rabbit.
And Jacob was the rabbit.
He started to run up the road, but it was too late.
The Terrordon’s voice, amplified as if by a Marshall stack, boomed down: “I see you, little Fisherman.”
Jacob glanced up: the glider was diving towards him, howling through the air. He knew what would be coming next, and threw himself to the left as a weighted net bounced off the sidewalk where he had just been.
Now The Terrordon swished past, and had wheeled up and around to face him head on, before beginning another attack dive.
Jacob sprinted directly towards his attacker, hoping to close the gap before the glider could complete its descent. At the last millisecond he dropped to the ground and felt the rip of a claw bouncing off his right shoulder. Missed!
He jumped to his feet. He was running out of road, and out of options. Just to his left, a café door stood open. Standing in the doorway was a man in his fifties, wearing a waiter’s apron and a resigned expression. While the glider was still turning upwards and away, the man reached out a hand and pulled Jacob in as he ran past.
“I really don’t know why I did that, Jacob,” said Travis.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="AD732782-1922-4276-9F85-5EAD4CCAA9DA">
            <Text>Blood spilling from the throat of one of the patrons didn’t do much to the dark brown colour of the carpet. It pooled in the lines and grooves at his feet, startled eyes wide as his hand went to his throat, dropping the cigar he lit seconds before. Jacob glanced at the Sleepwalker, stumbling back when the image caught up to him. He slit his throat. Slit his throat from ear to ear and for what? 
The Sleepwalker crushed the smoldering cigar with his foot, taking a step back when the patron fell to his knees. 
“No smoking in a public establishment.” 
Patrons uttered sounds of disbelief, a few women cried out, patrons headed towards the door only for the henchmen to shove them back towards their tables. Jacob can hear the gurgling sounds of the man, his eyes dropping to him to see his mouth moving. Blood continued to spurt outward, but Jacob knows it’s only a matter of time before he succumbs to death. Minutes to be exact. Especially if he continues to pull his hand away from the gash in his neck. 
A couple brave souls moved in to assist, grabbing cocktail napkins, and held them to the man’s throat. A lost cause if you ask him, but silence is in his best interest since the Sleepwalker hasn’t acknowledged his existence since their arrival. Jacob’s death is imminent and the writer in him is now conjuring up images on how his death is going to play out. A blade across the throat like he did with this poor gentleman right here. Maybe he will stab him in the heart. Quick and somewhat painless. But not really his style. No. Whatever the Sleepwalker has in mind, it will be long, drawn out, and torturous. 
Silence except for the occasional sniffles, hushed spoken words of comfort, ice clinking in a glass. Jacob caught sight of a man sitting at the far end of the bar. He’s not phased by the events, tossing back one drink after another. Jacob’s eyes returned to the Sleepwalker, he’s still waiting for the man to die, a sly smile spreading across his lips. It’s not the first time Jacob considered lunging at him. He can take him. There’s no doubt in his mind. But there’s the henchman. Six, maybe seven scouring the bar, gathering what few patrons are here to enjoy a cocktail, and moving them to the center tables. And let’s not forget the Sleepwalker. Locked away in the depths of Rampworth State Hospital these last twelve years. Declared insane. He has nothing to lose. Jacob, on the other hand, could lose his life. 
No sooner than the thought completed itself, the doors to the small quaint bar flew open, causing everyone’s attention to jerk towards it. Filling the doorway, dressed in dark clothing, his face obscured by a mask, the Terrordon stood. Henchmen moved towards him quickly while Jacob remained immobilized. His mind is telling him to move, get somewhere safe, this is your one and only chance, but he can’t seem to make his feet work. Something sharp skimmed past his cheek and that set him in motion. He ran for the bar, dove over the top, crashing to the floor with a grunt. There’s something wet on his cheek and he wiped it away, bringing his hand down to see blood on his fingers. 
He gripped the edge, pulling himself up to peer over the bar. The Terrordon and the Sleepwalker are tangled up, fists thrown, the henchman he brought with him lying in a pool of their own blood. Patrons are sneaking out the front door, men helping women, others shoving past with no class at all. Jacob moved along the counter, staying on his hands and knees, hearing the grunts from villain and superhero as they continued their assault on each other. He passed one of the henchman, yanking one of the ninja stars from the forehead of one of the men. He groaned softly, shifting his head slowly, and while Jacob waited to see if he attacked, his entire body relaxed. 
His eyes drifted towards the fight. He could make a run for it. He should. They aren’t anywhere near the door, tossing chairs at each other, blood dripping from one nose, a knot above the right eye on the other. But this is the closest he’s been to the Terrordon and Jacob can’t deny the excitement. If the Sleepwalker can knock his mask off, reveal the Terrordon’s true identity, he can finish the book, and finally get the kind of recognition he deserves.  
Jacob only took his eyes off of them for a few seconds to move around the bodies when he heard an angry grunt. The Terrordon shoved his knee into the back of the Sleepwalker’s neck. Curse words flew from his mouth, writhing around on the floor in hopes to break his hold. 
“You should have stayed at Rampworth.” The Terrordon muttered, grabbing his arms and yanked his hands back behind him. “It’s where you belong.” 
The Sleepwalker laughed. A sound that caused a shiver to creep down Jacob’s spine. Kiddish and almost carefree. Something Jacob didn’t expect. 
“And you should have stayed in hiding.” The Sleepwalker repeated, his cheek pressed to the dark carpet. “It’s where you belong.” 
“And let you terrorize this city.” The Terrordon tightened his hold. “I don’t fucking think so.” 
Jacob moved closer towards him, acting on pure adrenaline now. The Terrordon’s head snapped towards him. He can only see his eyes, he can’t make out the colour from here.
“I’m writing a book.” Jacob started, flashing him an uneasy smile. “I’m writing about you. Any chance you and I can sit down and…” 
“I have nothing to say.” He interrupted, slamming the Sleepwalker’s head back to the carpet with a thud. “Get out of here. And if you run into a police officer, send them my way.” 
“No one has seen you since 2005.” Jacob said, ignoring his command. “Where did you go?” 
The Terrordon stood to his feet, yanking his prisoner with him. 
“Get out.” 
“Did you come back because of him?” Jacob went on. “Because he escaped?”  
Jacob pushed himself to his feet. 
“The public has a right to know the man who protects the city. They have a right to know who you are.” 
The Terrordon narrowed his eyes. 
“I said to get the fuck out.” 
“Don’t let him push you around.” The Sleepwalker said, his eyes resting on the six point ninja star Jacob still held in his hand. 
“Shut up.” The Terrordon hissed, jerking him towards the door. 
“Throw it.” The Sleepwalker mouthed. “It’s the only way you’re going to know. The only way you’re going to unmask him.” 
The Terrordon moved quickly, his cape flowing outward from the sudden movement, slamming the Sleepwalker face first into the wall. Jacob did move towards the door. 
“Don’t do it.” The Terrordon said, his head shifting with him. 
“Do what?” Jacob asked innocently, feeling his palm sweat as he ran his fingers over it. He didn’t have to look down to see the cold steel is branded with the Pteranodon. He can feel it. The same design the Terrordon wears across his chest. 
The Sleepwalker smiled at Jacob before he mouthed “throw it.” The temptation is there. There’s no denying it. This is what he’s been after, what he’s been working towards. The unveiling of a superhero.
“Come on. Throw it.” The Sleepwalker chanted softly, his eyes flashing wildly. “What are you waiting for? Do it. Throw it.” 
“Shut your fucking mouth…” The Terrordon’s eyes rested on him. “He gets away, he will kill you.”
Jacob’s grip tightened on the star and without any warning at all, he threw it. He didn’t really think he would hit him. What are the chances. It’s a ninja star and it’s not like Jacob has any kind of experience throwing something like it. Luck is on his side and while the Terrordon made a futile attempt to avoid it, it sank into his chest, blood darkening the color of his suit. Jacob’s breath caught in his throat as he collapsed to his knees, his grip on the Sleepwalker slackened. The Sleepwalker grinned, threw Jacob a wink, and bolted towards the bar. Jacob uttered a soft protest, but it’s too late. The Sleepwalker ducked out the side door. Jacob took three tentative steps towards the Terrordon, his heart racing in his chest. 
“You have any idea what you’ve done.” 
Jacob didn’t get a chance to answer. The main door to the bar broke open, several police officers stormed in, guns drawn. 
“Hands in the air!” One of the officers hollered and he’s aiming the gun at Jacob. 
“Wait. You have the wrong man…” 
Two officers grabbed him, shoving him against the wall. They yanked his arms back, the sound of steel cuffs clinking together. If he doesn’t make his move, if he doesn’t unmask the Terrordon, he did this for nothing. He slipped from the officer’s grasp, dropped to his knees where he last saw the Terrordon, only to find him gone. </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3557C4A7-562F-4CD4-B4DC-4DB9A789CF7A">
            <Title>Chapter twenty</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch20-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A08E74D3-FB3E-4602-B1D2-74CFAD194D80">
            <Title>Chapter nineteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch19-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="BB8B287B-5820-4964-94E4-0999DC0489E8">
            <Text>No hero can exist without a nemisis, and so it is with the figure who calls himself the “Terrordon”. One might be inclined to think that even someone with the nearly fetishistic collection of superhero acouterments would be battling his own, personal demons, that his nemisis is sanity itself. While there is some small merit to that hypothesis, insomuch as his disappearance a decade ago mirrors that of serial killers who seem to go dormant for long periods.
Jacob stopped his typing and stared at the screen, loating everything. Not just the words, but the computer, and his chair, and the little ache in his neck from hunching over the keyboard. “One might,” he mocked himself with an Ivy League accent, “some small merit.” What a waste of electrons. “At least I don’t have an overflowing wastepaper basket,” he said as he selected the paragraph and hit DELETE. 
He pushed the laptop away and got up to stretch. A glance at the TV proved pointless; just the typical early evening local news, the woman with the Betty Page bangs was shoving her microphone into some Joe Everyman on the Street. Definitely the wrong Joe for Jacob’s purposes. 
Jacob lay down the knobby rug to do a little mind-clearing exercise, but thought better of it and relocated to a patch of the bamboo ‘hardwood’ floor. After thirty, everything fell away but the burn in his abs, and the pleasing stretchy feel of well-used lungs, drawing in the last of the warm afternoon air. Exercise always helped him focus, and he’d been neglecting himself a bit this last week. 
If only The Sleepwalker would surface. Well, the “Joe” part of him anyway. That part was easy to predict—if The Sleepwalker did something awful, good old Remorseful Joe would surface, and that meant a calming tea at the Westin. With a bit luck and some fast talking on his part, the tea would come with a plate of tell-all confessional. And maybe a gluten-free blueberry scone. He poured on the crunches to earn those future calories. All in the pursuit of his art.
At one hundred crunches, Jacob stopped to catch his breath and cool down. He heaved a big sigh, mind empty of the frustration and many dead-ends he’d already written and discarded.
A new opening to the chapter began to form, but Jacob just let it swim around in his brain, ignoring the low chatter of the TV. If knowing your enemy is to learn about yourself… then there is a treasure trove to glean from the mind of the Terrordon’s opposite number.
“Enemy and self…” there was something there. An elusive thought that was immediately interrupted.
“Breaking news!” a deep, masculine voice chimed in. 
A blonde woman appeared on screen this time, her face pulled down into a frown that could freeze hot coffee, “Preliminary reports are coming in that the infamous kill who goes by the pseudonym “The Sleepwaliker”, a patient who recently escaped the maximum-security mental health facility Rampworth State Hospital, has struck again.
“What you are about to see may not be suitable for young or otherwise sensitive viewers. Discretion is advised.”
Jacob stared at the screen as they panned from the reporter on the scene, finally getting to the actual crime, as viewed from beyond the police tape. He waited for the inevitable, harrowing phrase. They were not long in coming. “He is still at large, and considered very dangerous...” 
But what he felt was not dread, nor even fear. This rush wasn’t anything like fear—it was the thrill of the chase.
“Finally!”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3F0E4316-57F6-4713-8DEA-6227199036E0">
            <Title>Jacob Heath</Title>
            <Text>Name:
Jacob Heath

Job:
Writer / Biographer

Gender:
Male

Age: 40

Appearance:
6’0” caucasian
Athletic build - works out a lot and easts healthily to keep his body fat low
Short cut dark straight hair, stylishly textured.

Family:
Unmarried. Not seeing anyone at the moment.
Older sister, Emily (“Emmy”) Roberts (age 42) - lives with her husband Tom (age 44) and their son, Pacey (age 4).
Emmy works in a gift shop called “Teal and Taupe” in the Noe Valley area of San Fran. Tom is an accountant.
Parents, Luke (age 69) &amp; Jane (age 65) are retired (both teachers).

Background:
Studied English Literature at Seton Hall University, graduating in 1999. 
After university got a job at the New Jersey Star-Ledger. 
Couldn’t get into the job there, so after a year (Oct 2000) he moved back to San Francisco, taking a low wage job at the San Francisco Herald. He was there for just under a year before taking a job at the San Francisco Chronicle (Sept 2001 - the week before 9/11).
He worked at the Chronicle for 4 years. After a year there (Sept 2002) he realised that it was actually journalism that he didn’t like, and started working on a novel in his spare time. He was still in the outlining stage eight months later (May 2003) when he was asked to write a short piece on Harvey Milk for the upcoming 25th anniversary of Milk’s murder. 
Heath was very unhappy with the Milk piece, feeling like he’d only skirted the surface of the man. When the article was published in Nov 2003, Heath abandoned his novel planning (deleting the files from his laptop), and set about writing a biography of Milk in his free time.
During this time, Heath developed what he calls ‘method writing’. In order to better understand Milk’s background and motivation he learnt to dive, participated in various civil rights groups, and spent time in San Francisco’s LGBT scene including dating a guy called Travis for a month (although they never ‘consummated’ the relationship and Travis wasn’t exclusive at the time).
The Milk biography was published in October 2005, at which point Heath quit the paper to work on biographies full-time.
 </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="72BB3EA2-2E52-4FF0-ABE0-2086A87CFD46">
            <Title>Chapter eight</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch08-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A6AD1F22-0995-4F41-966A-EB8365AD299A">
            <Title>Full Title Page</Title>
            <Text>Start Wearing Purple

written as a
Novel-in-a-Day

 #
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="5FD00988-D823-4F06-AE82-9B278CBFB515">
            <Title>Chapter 8</Title>
            <Synopsis>Terrorist attack in the city - Jacob invents the Fisherman to claim credit. Regular police / FBI investigate but find nothing. </Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
JACOB HEATH is a professional biographer. He has decided his next book should be about the TERRORDON - the masked vigilante that was credited with cleaning up the streets of San Francisco at the turn of the millenium before disappearing in 2005.
Things that have already happened
Jacob has decided that he needs to convince San Francisco that there are super villains again in order to convince the Terrordon to come out of retirement
Starts with
There is a terror attack in San Francisco.
Chapter details
Jacob decides not to let a good tragedy go to waste and invents a super villain in order to quickly claim credit for the terror attack. He comes up with the name "The Fisherman".
Jacob comes up with a way to notify the San Francisco Police.
There is some police investigation and it's on the news. The news reports that several organisations have claimed credit, but doesn't mention the Fisherman.
Ends with
Jacob is upset by the lack of credit / publicity being given for the Fisherman
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FE41BB05-79C0-447A-9670-B33992B9E780">
            <Title>In Memoriam</Title>
            <Text>In Memoriam
I was incredibly saddened to learn recently that our good friend Montrée Whiles passed away earlier this year, after her car was struck by a drunk driver. 
Montrée was one of the most enthusiastic members of the NiaD family, and her passion (and chasing) certainly helped keep the event running this long! The more I’ve learnt over the past few weeks about this remarkable woman, the more and more respect I have for her. I won’t share specific details here since she deliberately chose to use a pen name for her writing, but trust me — she was one of the good ones.
Taken far too young. We’ll miss you.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A98B1D12-FBDD-4B09-8E3E-A0C06BF29BAE">
            <Text>He had managed to make up enough biography questions to take them way past the appetiser and into the main course. But finally, it was time for him to get around to his real reason for the dinner with Amy. He closed his notebook and set his pen down and picked up his wine glass again. “But enough about my work. Thank you so much. I guess they’ve got you working really hard on that recent attack,” he said, looking over the glass, and watching Amy sip from hers.
“Well, it’s all sort of drying up….” she shrugged.
“Police without any ideas?”
“Exactly,” she said, “no real trace of forensics, and the detective in charge…”
“Browning,” he supplied the name and she nodded.
“...he’s just scratching his head.”
“So… organised terrorism?”
“For lack of a better explanation…”
He stopped himself from asking Hasn’t anyone claimed responsibility? … Too direct. Instead he hinted: “I guess there are all kinds of nut-cases out there, wanting to cause random damage just to show themselves that they can have some impact in the world.”
She paused, staring down at what was left of her fettuccini, and he knew she was thinking of the claim of responsibility that she didn’t know came from Jacob, and not from The Fisherman.
He put down his knife and fork. He made as if to change the subject, but … “How’s the pasta? My fish was….”
She said, “There is a possibility. We had a claim for responsibility come to the paper.”
“Oh?” He tried not to let her hear the relief flooding his body.
She nodded, “One that would be up your street.”
“My street? I’m not sure I want to live on a street with terrorists!”
“No, no,” she said, smiling, “I mean, given your interest in Terrordon — vigilantes and villains.”
“What? Terrordon has claimed responsibility? Turned terrorist?”
“Sorry, no, that’s not what I mean. There’s no direct connection to Terrordon. It’s just that someone calling himself The Fisherman has claimed responsibility for the attack.”
“Fisherman,” he repeated, to keep the sound of the name in the air.
“Yeah. That doesn’t sound so deadly, does it?”
“Strikes terror into the heart of every turbot,” he joked, looking at his plate, while also second-guessing his name choice.
She chuckled softly, “Well, the name might be a little lacklustre but it’s like he sees himself as a villain of the sort that Terrordon used to tackle.”
“I see. So the police do have a lead?” he asked.
“Not really. They’re not actively following that up; they’ve dismissed the claim.”
“But…?”
“Browning and his partner have only been on the force a few years. Super-villains are off his radar, outside of his experience. And no one’s ever heard of The Fisherman.”
Jacob nodded sympathetically, “New guys on the force who weren’t around back in the day —  they don’t remember Terrordon or his opponents like we do. Twelve years is a long time. To people without our history, it’ll all seem like fantasy and comic books. But maybe they’re right.”
And to his great satisfaction, Amy Kennedy’s normally bright, inquisitive eyes were focussed on the middle distance over his shoulder as she parroted distractedly, “Yeah, maybe they’re right.” The tone in her voice clearly betrayed to her dining companion — a fellow writer, a former journalist himself — that she was thinking precisely the opposite to what she was saying. He knew that she was already composing lead sentences of an article about the possibility of The Fisherman.
His work here was done. “Dessert?” he asked casually, signalling the waiter over.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="BD85FCDC-2AFD-4CA1-8015-C41F8391F5BD">
            <Title>Chapter 16</Title>
            <Synopsis>Sleepwalker starts kidnapping wealthy businessmen and politicians to see which one fights back</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
The SLEEPWALKER has broken out of Rampworth State Hospital and the TERRORDON is back on the streets of San Francisco after being away since 2005. 
Things that have already happened
The Sleepwalker has taken it on himself to find out who the Terrordon's secret identity really is -- basically to tell a writer called JACOB HEATH who it is (Jacob is writing a book on the Terrordon).
Starts with
The Sleepwalker is with his henchmen
Chapter details
The Sleepwalker hatches a simple plan. There are only so many people that could have access to the sort of money or influence to get the kind of toys the Terrordon enjoys. So he decides to start kidnapping random playboys, socialites, politicians, and other likely candidates until one of them fights back... since the one that fights back in the face of the Sleepwalker is the sort of person that could be the Terrordon.
He kidnaps a few without resistence.
Then he kidnaps a wealthy playboy turned politician -- JASON RICHARDS -- who does fight back!
(NOTE - kidnap him from somewhere other than his home!)
Ends with
The Sleepwalker leaves with a subdued Jason Richards.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1A323C10-5719-4D61-BFFF-6462784CAE17">
            <Title>Chapter seven</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch07-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="59BF9A07-97D5-46F4-9E78-F9F6ECD5B208">
            <Text>@JacelynMrsBumbi
Open you'r eyes this is a FALSE FLAG opperation to keep the people scared and not think about how Congreess is DESTROIYNG AMERICA!!!!!!!!</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2197635B-8F31-469A-BAF5-95114F6788BB">
            <Text>The room was full and the speeches were over. Jacob was backed against the marble fireplace with a line of people waiting for him to sign his new book. 
"I loved your book about Harvey Milk," the woman said, and he felt his cheek twitch. He looked over her head to get his equilibrium back, and then he saw — no. It couldn't have been. 
"James!" the guy said, pushing past the line, hand out to shake. He engulfed Jacob's hand in a clammy, icy two-handed clasp. "Darling, don't you remember?" The guy sparkled with diamante, from his running shoes to his shades to the faux pearly king cap tipped over one eye, but as he pulled the shades down to give Jacob a flirty glance, a chill of terror ran down Jacob's back. The eyes were green. The green the Bedouin call Satan's Eyes. He remembered that green. He had scars that remembered those eyes.
Jacob froze there. He finished the signing, trying frantically to call over Schlamme, his agent, whispering to fans to get him over to talk to him. But Schlamme was oblivious. He waved to Jacob — a "keep it going" wave — and remained deep in conversation with obvious publishers: seedy people with shifty eyes, all of them holding free copies of the new book, not a penny in royalties out of any of them. 
Jacob had to keep signing. Then one of the fans said, "You haven't even had a glass of wine!" And he drank it. Fool.
He'd heard of girls being roofied. In fact, his research had included the use of Rohypnol in gay bars. But at book launches?
He came to with a headache lifting the top of his head off. He raised his hand to cover his face against the light. The gesture stopped after a couple of inches. He couldn't see, his vision was blurred, the light was too bright. He was stiff from sitting. He tried to shift his position. He heard someone moaning. 
"Oh, poor man," said a voice, a child's voice. 
Jacob blinked his eyes hard, opened them again. A bit clearer. Again. 
The Sleepwalker was sitting there, a sugary smile on his stubbled face. He was wearing a tiny pink top sparkling with sequins outlining the slogan "Love U Mommy" and a thigh-length frou-frou skirt with black-and-white stripes, strappy gold sandals on his hairy feet. His toenails were varnished shell-pink, matching the shell-pink slides in his hair and the pink sparkly heart-shaped sunglasses. 
Jacob turned his head slowly to look at the light pouring in — he was handcuffed by one hand to a steel window frame. The other hand was free! He slammed his fist on the window. But it was no use. They were in an empty room in a penthouse apartment at the top of a building high above San Francisco. Far, far below, the windows of automobiles flashed as they waited to cross the bridge. Tiny ships steamed through a toy ocean. 
"You're wasting your breath," said the Sleepwalker, in a deep, grating voice with a waft of an Australian accent. The child's voice was gone. 
He turned back to the Sleepwalker. "What do you want?"
The Sleepwalker shook his head. "Don't be naughty! Mommy will have to put you on the naughty step." Kid was back.
"What the fuck do you want?"
"Mommy!" the Sleepwalker squeaked, "Mommy! He's a bad rude man." 
"Don't you get testy with me." It was a new voice, some kind of standard educated American accent.
Jacob lunged at the Sleepwalker and got a handful of the pink top. The Sleepwalker teetered back, squealing, and tore away. "I'm going to get my mommy. She'll fix you!" He ran out of the room, frou-frou skirt rustling as he wiggled on his high gold heels. 
Jacob heard clangs and then the low scream of a whistling kettle building to a screech, and the sound of quarrelling. Thank God — there were more people here! He shouted for help, pounded on the window with his free hand, and his heart rose as he heard the quarrelling voices come closer. But no… the Sleepwalker came back alone — but, well, not alone. 
"Mommy! Stop being such a bitch!" 
"Don't you dare talk to your mother like that. You just wait till your father gets home."
"Fuck you!" 
The Sleepwalker slammed down the tray he was carrying and hit himself a ferocious blow on the ear, and instantly howled — "I'm telling Daddy what you did, you nasty man."
A calm upper-class voice intervened. "I say, steady on, old chaps. Let's stick to the agenda here."
Jacob relaxed a fraction where he cringed against the steel window frame. He remembered this voice from Rampworth: the voice of reason. The Sleepwalker picked up the teapot from the tray, and poured a stream of tea from a height into one of the two flowered china cups. "Milk and sugar, doll?" he asked.
"Just milk, thanks." Jacob reached for the cup.
"You'll take sugar and like it." This was the camp, oh-la-la-duckie voice again, with an edge of flirtation. The Sleepwalker took the lid from the sugar bowl and poured half the sugar from it into the cup. "Makes it stick. I like the pain," and he licked his lips. He threw the boiling tea straight into Jacob's face. 
Jacob roared in shock as the boiling tea hit him. The skin felt as if it had been stripped from his face. The pain was incredible. His heartbeat raced to a pounding crescendo in his throat. He was afraid to open his eyes — but terrified to keep them shut. There would be more coming. 
He heard the thin child's giggle, and arched his body out of the way as the next cupful came straight for his groin. 
It missed him and landed on the wall, and actually melted a patch of paint. 
"Strewth! Landlady's not going to like that." 
"Stop! We have to talk!" Jacob said. "Isn't there something you want from me?"
"Very good," confided the upper-crust accent. "He's gone through fear and anger and now he's at bargaining. Death will follow soon, inevitably."
"Inevitably," mocked the oooh-duckie voice. "Aren't we fancy today?"
"Oh!" — Jacob couldn't identify this one. "The pot's empty. Put the kettle on again."
"You do it. I'm tired."
"Oh go on, it's fun! Make him squeal again, Mommy." 
They — he — went out again. Jacob pulled hard on the handcuff and almost fainted. In the agony from his face he had not felt some of the tea splashing onto his wrist. 
He fell back against the window, groping in the empty air. He heard himself moaning. 
And a memory came to him.
Last year he had interviewed an old woman, Mrs Rubenstein, a Quaker survivor of the German death camps. He had been eager to hear what techniques she used to survive. Simple friendship, mostly, she said. There is that of God in everyone, she said. Though with some people — she sighed — it was hard to find that spark. He had pressed her. What did you do if they were coming at you with the batons. She fell silent. Well, she did that a lot during the interview. It must have been five minutes. Then she leaned over and traced her finger along the mother-of-pearl on the hexagonal Indian table in front of her, some remnant of her childhood that still remained. "Well," she said, "traditionally, the first thing to do is to draw them into a meeting, and then, then to speak truth to power." A meeting, he'd said, baffled though he had attended meetings for worship with her as research, and she said yes, centre down, go into the silence together. Perhaps for five minutes if you can make it last that long. Then speak truth. "And that worked? In the camps?" Worked, she asked, and gave a dry laugh. Well, a lot of people died, you know.
Something about the memory calmed him, and he waited for the Sleepwalker to come back in. 
When he minced in with a new tray of tea, the voices quarrelling again, Jacob really looked at him. The green eyes. He remembered a saying of his mother's: nature breaks out through the eyes of the cat. Where would you see some spark of good in those eyes?
"Let's go! Can I do it, Mommy?" The child's voice, there was something particularly nasty about it. This was a personality that would like to catch little animals and hurt them. 
Jacob pushed away the knowledge. Centre down. He took a deep breath, looked into the green eyes. 
"What? What does this cobber mean, centre down?" The Australian voice.
He hadn't known he spoke out loud.
"Shut up. Pour the flaming tea. Give me the billy."
Jacob kept breathing deeply, trying to pull the Sleepwalker into the same breathing pattern. The tea came at him. He jumped out of the way, but kept breathing. 
"He's put something in the tea, Mommy! It's making me sleepy!"
"No worries! Beaut!" He was pouring again. Then he sighed.
The cup of tea went down on the tray. The Sleepwalker's eyes closed. The two of them stood breathing in concert.
Outside, far below, a boat hooted. The roar of traffic came up here as a faint purr. They breathed on. 
The spoon overbalanced and fell out of the sugar bowl, with a clink and a spray of sugar. Jacob opened his eyes, and reached out his hand as at the end of the meeting Mrs Rubenstein had brought him to, and taking the Sleepwalker's hand, said "Good morning, friend."
The Sleepwalker's eyes opened wide and green, and he snorted with laughter. "Thought he'd vibe me out, did he? At least that was refreshing." He took up the teapot and again poured out the stream of tea into the cup. 
"What is it you want from me?" Jacob asked. 
"Your pain, darling, just pure pain." It was the Sleepwalker's own voice, none of his inhabitants were here now. But this could be worse.
"You want more than that."
"Yes I do." The Sleepwalker absently mixed two spoons of sugar into the tea and added milk, and picked it up and sipped it. "I want to know who your new subject is. Your new biography."
"Why do you want to know that?" It was a mistake. He saw the eyes begin to kindle. He added, fast, "It's not a biography. It's a work of research."
"Into me?" The Sleepwalker preened.
"Not you." Jacob prepared to dodge, watching the Sleepwalker's gaze to see which way he would throw. "But someone you know."
"Oh, let me guess. Oh, let me… What? You mean… you couldn't mean…?"
"The Terrordon."
The Sleepwalker thrust the cup at Jacob. "Oh, you darling! Biscuit? Cake?" He sliced into the cake — yellow, coated with dark chocolate — did he bake it, wondered Jacob — and tried to give Jacob the plate, with an adorable silver cake fork sitting beside the slice. "Oh, wait, silly me." He pulled a key from his pocket and tenderly unlocked the handcuff. "Come — sit!" 
Jacob followed him out of the empty room into a comfortable book-lined living room, and joined him on a low black leather couch facing a freestanding stove with flames playing behind a glass door.
"Eat! It's good!"
Jacob tried to open his mouth enough for a piece of cake. The burned skin stretched horribly.
"Oh, dear me, how inconsiderate of me. This will take the smart away."
Jacob took the cream and tried to apply it, but he could not bear to touch the scalded skin. 
"We'll get you to a hospital. But do go on. Tell me about the 'Terrordon' —" a moue of scorn — "What is this research? Sounds exciting!"
Jacob managed a cautious sip, and slipped a morsel of the cake between his lips. Painful. But delicious. "I'm working to find out who he is."
The Sleepwalker gave a squeal of delight, and for a horrified moment Jacob thought the others were back. But no. "My dear, how perfectly wonderful! I'm definitely on your team. Such fun! Many hands make light work."
"On my… team?"
"Oh yes. We're working together now."
An hour later, Jacob rolled out of the moving car as it passed the doors of the hospital. He staggered in, took a porter by the sleeve and whispered, "Burns unit." 
He lay on the stretcher as it rolled through the corridors, and felt the salt tears squeezing between his eyelids and burning their way down his temples into his hair.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="93AE60C3-1084-42BD-B738-4D5CA4A8F53C">
            <Text>August 2017</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="6001DD51-5901-4677-9BF4-76148BBEA638">
            <Title>Character sheet</Title>
            <Text>Name:


Job:


Gender:


Age: 

Appearance:


Family:


Background:</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A959E04E-677A-43E4-B2EF-A7B18A662D80">
            <Text>"Sleepwalker!" Terrordon stood at the far end of the room.
Sleepwalker sprang to his feet, green eyes wide. This was no staged moment. No henchmen, no gas, no escape route. Sleepwalker didn't even have his own gun.
Terrordon held a weighted cord in one hand, coiled length of it in the other. As he strode forward, he began swinging it around over his head. There was no place to get away here — on all three sides of them was nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows, thirty-two stories up.
Terrordon dropped suddenly to one knee and swung low. Sleepwalker jittered a moment but the sweeping cord caught him in the shin. Jacob jumped wide as the weighted end swerved round — and then round and round, quickly binding Sleepwalker's legs together. The weight spun faster and closer until it slammed Sleepwalkers shins with a loud crack. Sleepwalker collapsed to the floor.
Terrordon approached, stood over him — a prehistoric reptile over its fallen prey. There was no mercy in this physiognomy of a creature so ancient mercy had not yet been born into the world.
Sleepwalker winced and clutched with one arm round his side. "Oh, what's this?" Sleepwalker said, drawing his arm back out. He grimmaced. "A taser!"
The electrodes shot out and pinned Terrordon right in the chest.
Sleepwalker laughed excitedly. "Oo ouch, right in the pteradactyl."
But _Terrordon swatted the taser cables away, uneffected.
Sleepwalker tossed the taser and tried to scramble upright, but Terrordon was on him and punched him back down. He put his boot down on Sleepwalker's throat.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CE4471BD-86D4-4BAD-AEEB-EB84171AEA22">
            <Title>Chapter four</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch04-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="04DB3A76-F71C-466C-AFF7-4284BED77491">
            <Text>Taking San Francisco’s BART train over to Oakland, Jacob landed at the Rockridge station and walked the three short blocks to the Hunter’s home. For all the bad stories about Oakland being a continual crime scene, the Rockridge area felt like a comfortable and calm slice of suburbia. Neat lawns fronted somewhat charming homes with deep lots and an array of late model cars, either SUV’s or small Prius sedans, parked on the curbs or in driveways suggested families and people who worked. 
	“Hey! It’s the Jimmy-man! Still drinking the same blue bullet Coors? Think I will have one too. How’s the world of television news? And where’s Joyce? It’s been a while since I’ve seen either of you.”
	“Well, you know the news business. It keeps happening. I’m on call right now, so I hope nothing big happens or I am going to have to make this a short party night.” Just then Joyce, tall and lanky, came out from the kitchen with a drink in one hand and a plate of bruschetta in the other. “Jacob! It’s been ages! It’s going to be so much fun catching up! Here, have one of these. It’s my new recipe.”
	As they settled in to talk, Jacob wasted no time in bringing up his subject. “Do either of you remember any news stories from about 2000 to 2005 about a guy who called himself the Terrordon? He went around doing good deeds and stopping bad guys. Or at least, that’s what he said he did.”
	“Oh my God! That’s so funny that you brought him up! I was just about to put together a special about vigilantes. You know, there’s a guy who rides BART all over the city and he seems to be waiting for something to happen so he can be a hero. But this guy doesn’t wear a costume. Jimmy, what was that guy’s name? Do you remember.”
	“Yeah. I remember vaguely something about that. I think he was into Parkour. You know, that crazy French sport that Raymond Belle and his son, David did. The Yamakasi was David’s group. They’d plot out courses in the City and then race through and go up and over whatever was in your path. You just conquered everything in your way. Intense sport. That was real big in the late ‘90s as an extreme sport.”
	“Didn’t this guy have a costume that made him look like a Pokemon character? And nun chucks, didn’t he carry those?”
	“Nah,” Jimmy interjected, “he used those ninja stars and throwing knives, Joyce. Except I don’t think he ever used them – he just showed a few people that he had them. What he used a lot was his grappling gun. Guess he got a little tire of the Parkour rules.”
	Something nudged Jacob’s memory. “And he had an armored car of sorts. And a utility belt.”
	“What a Batman rip off! I don’t even know if he actually did any real saving. Think he just beat up a few bad guys and claimed he was cleaning up the City,” Jimmy offered.
	“But what happened to him? I mean he would pop up every so often but then went completely dark after about 2005. Did anybody ever find out who he was?”
	Joyce placed a large platter of roasted chicken and root vegetables, a spinach and feta salad, and a bowl of curried rice on the nearby dinner table and she and Jacob settled into their seats as Jim opened a bottle of Tribunal red. “The problem is that 2000 was an election year. And remember how crazy that was, especially at the end. We were all concentrating on learning about hanging chads and butterfly ballots from Florida. Nobody was really paying attention to local stuff. And then, just when things were settling down, we get September 11th and then all the news went national news again, nothing local unless it was related to terrorism.
	“We are bringing in some shrinks for our special on vigilantism to discuss the psychological profile of vigilantes. And what drives them,” Joyce said. “Did you know that the largest vigilance committee was here in San Francisco during the Gold Rush times? The city was overrun by bad guys and it really was the wild west here. Almost eight thousand members worked together to get rid of people they thought were terrorizing the townspeople. They hung four people, but they drove out scores of gamblers and people who they suspected were thieves. Gosh, I wonder where those people are now. We could sure use them in Oakland!”
 “Joyce, only you would pull this type of information out of your ass,” Jim added.
Joyce continued, “But, since I am doing this special, I think we should include this Terrordon guy. I mean, yes, vigilantism is supposed to be a mob action, but isn’t that what these hero types do? They take the law into their own hands because they think the police aren’t doing the job right.”
“But, Jacob wondered out loud, “what happened to this Terrordon? He never got caught. We never knew his name. I want to know more. Did he take on the wrong dude and end up as a dead John Doe in the morgue? Is he still around somewhere in the City – heck, he’d be about 60 now, practically a geezer getting ready to retire. I want to find him.”
“Well, you know, Jacob, Facebook and Twitter didn’t go really main stream until ten years ago. Before that it was MySpace and just the kids were into it. But now, practically everyone understands social media and you have so much more access to information. I think, Jacob, that you ought to dig around and find out who this guy was and where he is now. Wouldn’t that be a fantastic hook for my special, Jimmy?”
“Joyce, what, are you signaling to me that this is now a closed subject for me because you’ve scooped me again? It’s a good thing that you do news specials and I do actual news. But I think I liked it better when we both worked at the same station.”
	By the time he was on BART and headed back into the City to his flat, Jacob was furiously taking down notes and making a rough outline. He was feeling that familiar and distinct BUZZ that he got when he was about to dive into an interesting project. Another book. About the Terrordon. He could do it. He WOULD do it. He NEEDED to do it. And this wouldn’t just be a biography like his last two books. This would be a mystery case too. That he would solve.
And maybe the Jimmy man was right on target - that this Terrordon was into Parkour. He’d track those local players down and they might be able to provide a lead. That was it! That’s where he’d find him.
	While Jacob was coming up the escalator from his BART stop, he pulled out his cell phone and hit his agent’s speed dial number, but it went straight to voicemail. “Pete. I know you had to clean up a lot of mess for me. But you already know all of my reasons. Now listen to this. I have a new biography that I am going to begin. You’re going to love this… Do you remember anything about The Terrordon?”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="296F556F-6D29-4F00-AECA-23BC0A096DE8">
            <Title>In Memoriam</Title>
            <Text>In Memoriam
I was incredibly saddened to learn recently that our good friend Montrée Whiles passed away earlier this year, after her car was struck by a drunk driver. 
Montrée was one of the most enthusiastic members of the NiaD family, and her passion (and chasing) certainly helped keep the event running this long! The more I’ve learnt over the past few weeks about this remarkable woman, the more and more respect I have for her. I won’t share specific details here since she deliberately chose to use a pen name for her writing, but trust me — she was one of the good ones.
Taken far too young. We’ll miss you.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="BE3A4DC6-DFA3-4893-86E9-201C09D178AA">
            <Text>"Hell of a thing," said the driver, weaving through the traffic.
"What is ?" asked Jacob. He found he didn't want to talk but sometimes it took away the anxiety, if only for a little while.
"The Sleepwalker. Getting out."
"That name," suggested Jacob, "it was something the media came up with. It makes for better headlines."
"Well, the guy sure is making them now - what with that girl they found in the pool over on west boulevard. Do you think he picks them?"
"I've no idea."
The driver nodded at this, as if the mindless violence of the Sleepwalker somehow made sense, as if it contained some kind of queer logic peculiar only to itself. In the days since the Sleepwalker had escaped, Jacob had begun to construct an internal landscape in his mind, one populated only by the Sleepwalker and those he had encountered. It was a dark place and one that kept reaching out into the real world, threatening to engulf it.
"The Westin. Pretty busy this time of year," said the driver. "And some conference starts tomorrow. Been ferrying in all these tech types all morning. Probably deciding how they are gonna automate even more things. Probably got another five years driving this cab before it can drive itself."
Up ahead, the towers of the Westin loomed against a sky that looked bruised and black. Heavy rain was forecast for the Bay Area.
As the taxi pulled into the drop-zone, Jacob could see umbrellas opening as the first heavy spots began to darken the road. He gave the driver a twenty dollar bill, thanked him and grabbed his one and only piece of luggage. Not looking back, he made for the hotel doors.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="4412C0EC-5F46-4E01-B513-09D6C32DFEAF">
            <Title>Chapter 3</Title>
            <Synopsis>Jacob decides to write about Terrordon - researches old press - decides sort needs to be about who Terrordon was - some theories!</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
JACOB HEATH is a professional biographer. He has just released a book on Lance Armstrong.
Things that have already happened
Jacob has stormed off his book tour and his agent, PETE SCHLAMME has had to cancel the remaining dates.
Starts with
Jacob enjoying his normal everyday life.
Chapter details
Jacob is involved in an armed robbery in a cafe (or some similar event) -- Jacob is upset, but unharmed and something should trigger Jacob to think about the TERRORDON, the masked vigilante that was credited with cleaning up the streets of San Francisco at the turn of the millenium before disappearing in 2005.
Jacob decides that his next biography should be about the Terrordon - and a key part of that should be trying to come up with a plausible theory of who the Terrordon actually was behind the mask.
Ends with
Jacob contacting Pete to tell him that he has a new book idea.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="D20E9235-7C6E-415A-9C21-EA3BA8B2B31A">
            <Text>It had been days since the Mayor's Office said they would call Jacob back but it would appear that his luck in that direction had run dry too. "It is only to be expected," he grumbled. While he surmised that would happen, he still held within his heart a slight hope that things would change but once again was sorely disappointed. Fortunately though, during the time of futile waiting, Jacob had managed to contact Amy Kennedy. He had already failed once, no, twice. At this point, besides Amy, he could not think of anyone else he could approach. If he were to fail again, no - he could not, or rather would not try to imagine it. Since the last conversation he had with Pete, Jacob had already started blocking his calls for a while until he could keep his thoughts straight without Pete's constant pestering about the progress of his research.
Jacob and Amy were not close when he was still working with the paper so she only came to mind when he was collecting articles about the Terrordon where he noticed her name coming up several times. It seemed that the Terrordon had almost become a pet project of hers since she joined so there could be something she could tell him. Sensing her passion for the Terrordon, he approached her upfront and told her about the biography of the Terrordon that he was working on. She had immediately agreed to grant him her assistance.
Jacob could not recall if she was married so he opted for a safe, risk-free ensemble that night for their first meeting after so many years. He decided it was best not to put her off right at the beginning and burst his own chances of getting new information about the Terrordon. They had arranged to catch up over dinner at a quaint cafe not too far from the San Francisco Chronicle so that Amy could come right over after her work was done. The food was not great but it had its old-school charms. However, the best thing about the place was that there would be no crazy, rowdy millennials and their constant self-gratification. Sometimes, he really hated how the new media was destroying the world's interpretation of what was considered news and what was not.
As usual, Jacob reached his venue early and being early had its advantages. From where he sat by the window, he had a vantage view of all the passer-bys. In his mind, he pictured the image of Amy from what little he remembered, filling in bits of her appearances with memories of their brief encounters, her voice reading out loud in his head the articles she had written on the Terrordon in the past as he pored over them again, flipping through them sorted out chronologically in a file in front of him. Absentmindedly, he fiddled with his fountain pen and turned to look outside, running his eyes through the faces for one that struck a sense of familiarity. From the distance, he spotted an elegant blonde that looked like the Amy in his mind's eye. Clearing the table to make some space, he called out to the waiter and ordered a coffee while patiently waiting for Amy to make her way over. She was at the door when the waiter brought him his coffee and he looked up just in time to see her enter, take a quick sweeping glance through the cafe and finally met his eyes. She waved at him and came over with a bag load of documents and papers.
“How have you been?” Amy asked. “It's been a while, hasn’t it?” she said as she tugged her hair behind her ear and reached out to shake Jacob's hand as he stood up. 
“Yes, it's been a while indeed. I've been fine, how about you?” Jacob asked in return and helped her with her bag. It was actually quite heavy, especially for someone of her size and stature. 
"I'm good too. I hope you hadn't been waiting long. Shall we get something to eat? I'm famished. We'll talk as we eat if you're okay with it." Before Jacob could answer, she was already picking up the menu and flipping through it. Although Jacob did not know Amy well enough, she had a respectable reputation for being serious about her work. Jacob prayed hard that it would not be yet another wasted trip banging at the wall. 
"Aren't you hungry?" she glanced up to see him still watching her. "There is only one way going forward," he thought to himself and called the waiter over for a second time.
"So what are your thoughts on the Terrordon?" Amy suddenly asked between mouthfuls of her pasta. "Who do you think he is?" Jacob was caught by surprise and chewed his steak thoughtfully.
"Aren't we here to talk about him?" Amy prompted him again, slightly impatient. "I saw you running through the articles I wrote, I suppose you don't know much then..." Her face almost appeared downcast as she said that.
"Well... I'm after all here to ask you about him but I did hear some rumours..." Jacob began slowly.
"Really?" Amy's face lit up as she said it but Jacob thought he could have imagined it as her bright-eyed look disappeared when he gave it quick check as he cut another piece of his steak and put it into his mouth. "Why you go first then, tell me what you know," Amy continued.
Inwardly, Jacob weighed the pros and cons of sharing what he knew with Amy. Sharing something with her would be crucial to earning her trust at this point. Yet, a part of him was unwilling to disclose his hard-earned secrets so easily. "It must be a fair trade," he thought.
"Well... I heard sources that the Terrordon could be a Senator." Jacob made a great show of drawing out his words.
"No way! Who...?" Amy gasped and covered her mouth. Jacob thought her reaction was exaggerated and wondered if she was putting up an act with him. In any case, if she already knew that, it meant that he hardly lost anything so he actually felt rather relieved.
"Think about it, Amy," Jacob carried on, ignoring the shocked look on her face, "who else had the motivation, the power and the money? It couldn't have been just anybody and how many billionaires do we have anyway that could afford the time researching into the technology? It has to be someone with influence and military links."
"Or it could be just a thief that did it," Amy interjected. "Have you forgotten the case where there was a huge leak of military information? Although it was not revealed that anything was lost, my personal sources told me that some technical blueprints were released due to the hacking. As a result, the military had to ditch their original plans and come up with new ones in order to cover up and avoid public outrage."
"So he was just a hacker?"
"Not just any hacker - a brilliant one at that too."
"And the money-?"
"He could have hacked it too. And did you realise how he was always able to reach the crime scene in such a short time? He must have the police's communication system bugged."
"I'm sure not everything could be obtained by simply hacking alone. We are still missing an important point. So let's say he got the blueprints, how did he get anyone to manufacture the gadgets he got? Did he make them himself? Shouldn't those require some connections at the least? Wait... don't tell me, let me guess. He hacked an online Batman merchandise store? Even then, it would have been possible to trace anyone through the Internet."
Amy rolled her eyes and Jacob regretted what he said almost immediately. "Not if he was really skilful, he could easily cover his tracks. Have you actually tried buying anything from the Internet? Products? Services? Have you at least heard of Craigslist? There is almost nothing you can't buy online. As long as there is a demand, there is a supply. You just need to know which door to knock, no questions asked. That's the power of anonymity on the Internet."
"Well... if you put it that way..." Jacob's voice dropped and he conceded that Amy could be right about it too.
"You know what? Listening to us arguing like this, it was almost as if each of us knew in our hearts who the Terrordon really is." Amy switched to a light-hearted tone, as if she sensed Jacob's dispiritedness. "But what if we're both wrong, that will be really ironic. Like if he was actually a robot or something, that will be funny. Or..."
"OR HE COULD ACTUALLY BE MORE THAN ONE PERSON!" They called out in unison and Amy slapped her palm against the table. The two of them broke out in laughter at the absurdity of what they just said, drawing several turned heads and stares from the other cafe patrons.
"Actually," Amy began again, sounding suddenly serious, "there could perhaps be some truth to that." She dug into her huge bag and started pulling out some folders. "These are some photos people managed to capture, purportedly of the Terrordon. Most of them were of too poor a quality to be used in the newsprint but I did notice something strange about them." She shoved the photo albums in his direction, flipping through them quickly and pointed a few ones out. "Notice anything?" 
Jacob picked up the photos and examined them under the warm fluorescent light of the cafe. The photos were either blur or really grainy due to the poor resolution. At first glance, they did not seem very helpful at all. Then, it suddenly dawned onto him. "He was holding his gun with his left hand and here, in this photo he had the gun in his right. Not only that, you can also see him holding his spiked throwing stars in his left hand here and then his right hand in this other photo..."
"Yes! Yes! Yes! Exactly! There was something else I wasn't able to figure out previously as well but things might be clearer now." Digging into her bag yet again, she pulled out a rolled document and gently unfurled it on the table as Jacob hastily pushed their plates aside. He saw that it was a map with several clusters of coloured stickers. "I had always wondered about these," she muttered softly, almost to herself. Each coloured sticker represented a sighted appearance of the Terrordon. "I will need to go right back and see what else I can find."
For the rest of their meal, Jacob and Amy ate in thoughtful silence in view of their new-found insights. It seemed like a far-fetched idea but it was absolutely plausible, not entirely impossible. 
 	"Thank you for the dinner and for everything else tonight. I must admit, I had an enjoyable time. It was fun to find someone who shares the same amount of passion and dedication." Amy said as they walked out to the street. Before Jacob could venture a reply, Amy turned to face him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek before hurrying out into the night, in the direction of the San Francisco Chronicle.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3E2E658E-2CA2-4337-8BCC-5E20B220BFCD">
            <Text>Sleepwalker, after the introductions were over, had walked Jacob right back into the bar. He relieved one of this men of his pistol.
The bar was a small area but with some conveniently placed pillars. He took up position by the far end of the bar and with a gesture the hostages were arranged so as to flank he and Jacob on both sides.
Everything was in position when the bar door blew off its hinges and fell. The Terrordon stepped out of the curling smoke, one caped arm before him. There was no telling what weapon he might have been holding in his other hand.
"Sleepwalker!"
Sleepwalker's men were ringed around among the hostages but nobody attempted to do anything.
"Dinosaur man!" shouted Sleepwalker as if he had just spotted an old friend.
Terrordon who was already frowning, frowned harder.
"Just two words with you, Dino Boy, that's all I ask. Are you ready?" He paused for effect and bugged out his green eyes. "Side door."
Someone grabbed Jacob from the side and he and Sleepwalker were whisked off behind the hostages and out the side door of the bar.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="B68F5F3D-37C1-401F-8256-D8900BB61AD3">
            <Title>In Memoriam</Title>
            <Text>In Memoriam
I was incredibly saddened to learn recently that our good friend Montrée Whiles passed away earlier this year, after her car was struck by a drunk driver. 
Montrée was one of the most enthusiastic members of the NiaD family, and her passion (and chasing) certainly helped keep the event running this long! The more I’ve learnt over the past few weeks about this remarkable woman, the more and more respect I have for her. I won’t share specific details here since she deliberately chose to use a pen name for her writing, but trust me — she was one of the good ones.
Taken far too young. We’ll miss you.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="4B43BA93-7BB4-439A-9A17-A571B38E54A7">
            <Title>Also by</Title>
            <Text>Also by Novel-in-a-Day:

The Dark
Lunar520
Made Man
Section7
Marshal Law
3 Ghosts

www.novelinaday.com



sponsored by
Literature &amp; Latte, creators of Scrivener
￼
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="D19372EE-E971-461F-8E3D-51BD137B21EC">
            <Text>It took only two hours to find a room in the Tenderloin, the central hub of Terrordon’s activities from 2001 to 2005, until his disappearance.  Jacob found a suitable rate at the Admiral Hotel, a run-down Single Room Occupancy high-rise on O’Farrell Street. It looked safe enough to Jacob in the daylight, but he knew that the night brought out a different set of characters.  
On several occasions over the previous decades he had found himself smack dab in the middle of the Tenderloin, often after buses had stopped running for the night.  Two o’clock in the morning was the witching hour.  Most businesses were closed, and the inhabitants of the street were of the seedier variety.  All one needed to do was walk, quickly north of Geary Street to reenter civilization.  
Jacob Heath chose to remove himself from such civilization and apply his methods among the seedy.
He brought with him a suitcase of basic clothes which he planned to hand wash.  Another suitcase contained what he imagined were the tools of Terrordon’s trade, except one:  a gun.  He could not bring himself to cross that bridge.  Having never owned one, and never even touched one, it was new territory.  He didn’t quite know what to do about it. 
Nevertheless, Jacob’s spirits were high as he established his new “residence” and began observing, watching and waiting for some opportunity.
He brought a chin-up bar to place in the bathroom doorframe.  He did multiple sets of pushups daily.  He ran up the steps of the hotel to his room, religiously.  He believed he was in better shape than any time in his life, including his twenties.
And yet…something wasn’t right.
He slept during the daytime. At night, he opened his window to listen to the noises of the street.  The window was blocked from opening more than about four inches.  Jacob climbed the stairs of the building to its highest floor hoping for access to the roof.  He found the door, but it was locked.  
Days passed.  He was wary about walking the streets in the early morning hours.  He couldn’t bring himself to dive in, to actually begin to live in and among the minions of the Tenderloin.  He wondered if the Terrordon may have also felt this way…
…and if so, then how did the masked vigilante detect the advent of crime?  How and when did he decide to jump into the action?  
Jacob grew frustrated.  His attempts to get through the roof access amounted to nothing.  
“I am certainly not going to climb outside to get to the roof,” he said aloud to himself while surveying the building from street level.  “But he did.”
Terrordon did, he thought again and again as the days past.  And I cannot.  Am I such a coward?  Do I really want to get into  Terrordon’s head, or is this whole project beyond me?
He did it…from whatever building he perched atop, he watched.  He knew where the culprits were, and where they were going…and he knew when to strike.  He knew which tools, which weapons to use…he knew how to use them to debilitate his targets…
And sometimes he killed.  
“I cannot do that,” thought Jacob.
Ten days into his Tenderloin residency, Jacob decided he needed another tool.  He found a parabolic microphone on the internet and had it shipped directly to the hotel.  It cost him an arm and a leg.  With the addition of he hotel bill, he anticipated going behind in the rent of his North Beach apartment.  
One night, he walked up the stairs to the roof access door again.  For whatever reason it had been left open.  Jacob emerged onto the roof, in the quiet, blowing fog.  Neon signs and street lights reflected light off the clouds.  
Jacob walked over the tarpapered roof to the edge of the building, a ledge that came up to his waist.  Looking over, careful to hold on to rusty iron bars along the ledge, he saw people moving about on O’Farrell.  He walked along the edge of the roof to see down to the alleys between buildings and the rear service road.
“This is my observation deck,” he thought.  “Finally.”
He studied the access door, looking for a way to jam the lock so that he could be guaranteed access, but it did not look promising.  The next time the janitor remembered to use his key, that would be the end of easy access to the roof.
Jacob decided to run down the stairs and retrieve his parabolic microphone.  Upon return to the roof, he pointed the clear plastic dome downward at a lone figure under a streetlight on O-Farrell. It was a dark-skinned girl dressed in a black catsuit and faux-fir jacket, the same girl he had seen there each night since he moved in.
He had not seen her up close, but from the roof, he could now hear that she was chewing gum.  He smiled at the prospect of listening in on her conversations.  He didn’t have to wait long.
A Caucasian man in a long black raincoat walked toward her and stopped.  Jacob listened intently though his earphones.
“How much?” said the man, without so much as a salutation.
“How much for what?”  said the girl, with a thick accent that Jacob didn’t recognize.
“Whatever you are selling,” said the man.
“Standard is two hundred,” she responded.  “No discount.”
“I don’t have that much.”
“Move on,” she said with a motion of her hand.
“How about one hundred and we duck into this corner over here?”
“I don’t think you want to duck into that corner, mister,” she said, pointing to the shadowed alley next to the hotel.
Jacob watched as the man turned, paused, and then continued down O’Farrell without another word.  He increased his pace, taking advantage of the downward slope of the sidewalk.  In a minute he was out of sight.
Jacob watched as the girl went back to standing under the streetlight.  He turned off his microphone.  
His was curiosity about the alley.  Someone is there, he thought.
Looking at the open roof access door, he realized suddenly that he could be locked out if someone were to close the door.  He picked up the microphone and earphones and jogged to the door, leaving it slightly open behind him, and then went down the stairs.
From his own room, he looked down at the girl.  He pulled his windbreaker from the closet and decided to walk down to the street.
Outside the front door of the Admiral, he saw her again.  She lazily moved up the sidewalk, illuminated from above by the streetlight.  She stopped, looked at Jacob, then slowly turned around and walked in the other direction, her high-heels sandals tapping lightly on the concrete.
Jacob approached her, keeping the dark alley in his peripheral vision.  He made no attempt to look in that direction.  He turned slightly to point down the sidewalk.  Passing her, he said, “Hello,” and continue on around the corner.  
Moving out of view, he peeked back around at her to see her walking lazily again in the opposite direction.  
Okay, good enough for first contact, thought Jacob.  He continued to the Pinecrest Diner on Geary and popped in for a cup of coffee.
After a half hour, he walked back to the hotel, and saw the girl again.  She faced him, and stopped walking.  This time, he took longer to observe the form of her body, the lines of her face, and the expression of her eyes.  
She looked at him, but her countenance did not change from a languid, blank stare.
He drew closer toward her.  “Hello,” he said again.  This time, he added, “How are you doing?”
She did not speak.  Jacob continued on and made his way to his room.  
From his seventh floor window, he watched her again.  He stayed by the window until the first grey and blue tinges of dawn  appeared in the sky.  The cool night was becoming a cool morning.  The girl, who did not seem to do any business all night long, disappeared while Jacob wasn’t looking.
She was the only person who haunted the street each evening, aside from an occasionally vagrant passing through.  Jacob watched her night after night, going out on his coffee run, noticing when she was approached by men for her services.  
And then he started to see a pattern.  She got one or two patrons within the entire week.  Yet, she always returned.  The occasional police car caused her to move temporarily into the alleyway, but otherwise, she stayed under the light, quietly marking her territory with spiked heels.
Jacob began to wonder if the vigilante Terrordon had permanently cleaned out the Tenderloin.  He even wondered if there had never been real trouble there.  Perhaps it was all just a ruse, and the Terrordon created the trouble that he was credited with dispelling.
The next week, Jacob decided to up the ante.  Upon exiting the hotel for his nightly jaunt to the Pinecrest, he stopped beside the girl.  
She moved closer to him.  This time, it was she who spoke.  “Hello.”
“Hi,” said Jacob.  “I see you here every night.”
“Yes,” she said, darting her eyes past him toward the alley.
“Listen,” said Jacob, “I know you have work to do, but could I interest you in breakfast when your shift is over?”
Her eyes widened with incredulity.  She smacked her lips and looked to the side.
“Just offering,” said Jacob.  “I’d like to treat you to breakfast.”
“Some other time,” she said in her thick accent, and motioned for him to move on.
He did.  Baby steps, thought Jacob.  
He still could not place the accent, although it occurred to him that she could be Jamaican.  He went to get his coffee, thought some more about what to do next, and walked back.  
When he got to her position under the streetlight, he handed her a piece of paper from the hotel.  He had scrawled a message on it:</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="8E7783F4-1228-4839-A490-E67E157D4474">
            <Text>“It’s probably the AEL,” said the voice on the phone.
Jacob rolled his eyes. “Pete, the AEL is not a real thing.” He looked around at the cafe’s other patrons. Just his luck to be eating falafel when his agent got on his discrimination kick.
“You telling me there’s no prejudice against Arabs in this country?” Pete didn’t wait. “Of course there is. And atheists, too.”
“Sure, fine, yes. But there’s no Elimination Leage, Pete. Not for either group. And anyway, why would they target San Francisco? I mean, why not...” Where were there lots of Arabs in the US? Or atheists, for that matter?
“Well it’s probably some animal rights group, then.”
“Again, why?” How had the conversation gotten so far off track?
“You know, spearing people like fish on a hook.” Pete had been an aspiring writer himself, once. He’d never quite mastered the art of metaphor. “Show us humans what it’s like.”
“And then blow them up? That’s not really how animal rights people think. Listen,” he hastened before Pete could get in another alternative, “the point is, where’s the Terrordon in all this? This was terror, right? Why didn’t he fly in and defuse the thing? Or shoot line-clipping stars out of his arms or something? Where was he?”
“Talk about obsession,” Pete muttered. “I mean, good, that’s good. What’s the Terrordon angle on all this? How would he have thought about it? How about a little essay on that? I can get it in some local rag, build a little long-term interest in your book.”
“Yeah, fine,” he barely listened to himself. He could see it clearly – the sleek dark form of the Terrordon, swooping in on his black cape, flinging throwing stars left and right, saving the day.
“I mean, the Terrordon was kind of more locally focused, you know. Bad guys and gangs, not international anti-ethnic conspiracies. But still, can’t hurt. Send me the article when you’ve got it. Today, tomorrow, anytime. Before the weekend anyway. After that, people will have forgotten.”
“Sure, whatever. Talk to you later.” A bad guy, he thought, absent-mindedly hanging up and taking another bite of his pita. That’s what the Terrordon needed. A reason to come out of retirement. A cause. A villain bad enough to make a superhero shake a decade of dust off his cape and get back into the game.
“No villains anymore,” he said to his sandwich. “That’s what we need – one good super-villain.” He swallowed the last of the pita – the lemon wedges were the key to good falafel. “And I know just where to find one.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="8B87652B-3C22-4E57-A843-7FAFDFC266A4">
            <Title>Templates</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="65BC476F-8AC1-4631-92A4-71E98620A274">
            <Text>“Damn it Pete! You know how this works.”
“Just because I know doesn’t mean I like it. This isn’t Milk you’re talking about.”
Pete Schlamme was talking about Jacob Heath’s biography of Harvey Milk. Jacob went to the extreme of dating other men to understand what Milk and others endured as homosexuals living openly in America.
“Knock that shit off. You know I never f…ed any of those men.”
“Exactly!” Pete saw a chance to make his point. “You were safe. You could say ‘no’ and retreat. This bastard ’s a psychopath.”
“Terrordon is the good guy…” Jacob sounded confused. 
“Yeah, but Sleepwalker is the one you will be dating.” Pete really hoped Jacob understood the real likelihood of physical harm. “You know how Jon and I love you, not for the Milk thing, but because you’re like a brother to us.”
“And a paycheck.” Jacob chuckled as he said it.
“There is that.” Pete realized he’d lost the argument.
“Listen, I’m gong to the nut house… Rampworth… again to chat with that Dr and figure out where this guy could be hiding. I’ll check in once I’m done there.”
“If she’s good looking, maybe you should chase her and not the loon…” Pete tried to make a joke.
“I’ve seen you and Jon dressed for a Friday night out, the ladies will have to work hard to beat that.” Jacob hoped the compliment would score him some points with Pete. “I’ve got the best looking gay men working on my team. Right?”
“Shut it and save the compliments for the Dr. Maybe she can talk some sense into you.”
Jacob put his phone in his pants pocket. He grabbed his “working bag” and gave it a shake to make sure his keys were in it. Looking up at his cork-board he reviewed a few notes.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C8CF4D27-BA95-4FB0-A0BC-B975006E08B3">
            <Text>“I’m sorry you came all this way and went through so much stress with no real results.” Lisa said as she walked Jacob back to the front of the building. 
“It is frustrating. That is for sure. But it was also fascinating. I didn’t realize that I’d get to talk to so many personalities,” he agreed.  “I do find it hard to believe that none of the personalities knew who the Terrordon was though.”
“What will you do now?” she asked.
“I’m going to have to think about that,” he replied honestly. “I’d love to come back at some point though.”
“We’ll see if we can make that work out,” Lisa answered. “It would be nice to have someone give a non-biased viewpoint about the mental illnesses we deal with here and take away some of the stigma.”
“I’d like that,” Jacob said.
They shook hands and he stepped through the doors into the August sunshine, happy to be outside and free from Rampworth.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="67A76867-689F-481C-9C8F-5E356E89F117">
            <Title>Spacer</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FD52272C-19A1-47A3-A431-09AC03153E38">
            <Title>In Memoriam</Title>
            <Text>In Memoriam
I was incredibly saddened to learn recently that our good friend Montrée Whiles passed away earlier this year, after her car was struck by a drunk driver. 
Montrée was one of the most enthusiastic members of the NiaD family, and her passion (and chasing) certainly helped keep the event running this long! The more I’ve learnt over the past few weeks about this remarkable woman, the more and more respect I have for her. I won’t share specific details here since she deliberately chose to use a pen name for her writing, but trust me — she was one of the good ones.
Taken far too young. We’ll miss you.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1A82B499-CB59-4633-AEC1-C5209F58C1C7">
            <Title>Chapter five</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch05-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C96709FA-0454-4B7D-8363-BEF5B7EF77F9">
            <Text>BOMB THREAT.  NEXT TUESDAY. 1 pm (this was crossed over) 3PM. LOCATION? MAKE SURE ALL PAPERS GET IT, BE PUBLIC. DIRECT CALL (crossed over). EMAIL? RECORDED MESSAGE BETTER.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1AFA4BE6-04F1-41CD-8A8C-9EAB088B4D7D">
            <Title>Chapter 17</Title>
            <Synopsis>Wealthy playboy who turned politician once terrordon retired fights back. Sleepwalker, delighted, takes him back to family home, office, etc but can find no sign of terrordon “toys” - kills the man &amp; covers home in petrol. terrordon shows. Sleepwalker escapes</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
The SLEEPWALKER has broken out of Rampworth State Hospital and the TERRORDON is back on the streets of San Francisco after being away since 2005. 
Things that have already happened
The Sleepwalker has taken it on himself to find out who the Terrordon's secret identity really is -- basically to tell a writer called JACOB HEATH who it is (Jacob is writing a book on the Terrordon). He's kidnapped JASON RICHARDS, who he suspects might be the Terrordon
Starts with
The Sleepwalker heading to Jason Richard's property with Jason tied up and subdued in the boot.
Chapter details
The Sleepwalker goes back to Jason Richards home and tries to get him to admit to being the Terrordon, and basically turns the place upside down trying to find some evidence to support the idea -- a "Terrordon cave", and mislaid gadget, anything. 
The Sleepwalker and his henchmen find nothing and so set about burning the house down with Richards in it.
The real Terrordon shows up -- much to the Sleepwalker's surprise -- but the Sleepwalker is able to escape while the Terrordon is rescuing Richards.
Ends with
The Terrordon surveying the scene after the Sleepwalker has fled.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9C28159B-F9F1-45E7-AF45-A79151DF26EE">
            <Title>Chapter fifteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch15-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A9A47883-6C0F-4213-A820-75076693AC24">
            <Title>Introduction</Title>
            <Text>Time is no substitute for talent
There is a well-known saying that if you give a monkey a typewriter and an infinite amount of time then it will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. In 2003, the staff at Paignton Zoo gave a computer to six crested macaques and categorically proved that what you actually get is five pages of the letter ‘S’ and a broken keyboard. Time, it seems, is no substitute for talent. But can talent substitute for time…?
The book you are about to read was written over the course of a single day in October 2017. For those unfamiliar with the concept of Novel-in-a-Day, it’s simple: - A skeleton of a plot is worked out in advance of the day - That plot is broken into sections, which are divided amongst the participants randomly - The writers have most of the rest of the day to write and return their chapters, working with no knowledge of the wider story or their place in it. 
I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as we loved putting it together.

Tim
October 28, 2017
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3F175779-0B63-4176-B40C-53D4DFD478A9">
            <Text>When running for the State Senate, his friends had joked that he was lowering his chances of being kidnapped. That, being a playboy was a more attractive ransom opportunity, rather than a low level public servant. It had been a sense of comfort, in a way, that he was turning towards a safer life. And hopefully a more contented one.
But the Sleepwalker's piercing green eyes had changed all that, and now he was laying on his side in a trunk, listening to the car's back tires rumble over the uneven road. He made mental notes to himself, trying to remember where all the potholes and especially rough patches might be, so that he could find someone to yell at to fix them. The City's infrastructure might be his next pet project. If he lived through all this.
He moved his head side to side against the trunk's rough inner lining, trying to scratch his forehead. There was something strange about the Terrordon and Sleepwalker showing up after all this time. Sure, he'd heard the rumors, that only someone of his wealth could afford to be the Terrordon, and while he hadn't necessarily denied the rumors, he didn't think anyone really thought they were true. It had been an easy way to get laid on more than one occasion. But all those lies and endless parties had just caught up with him. The car slowed down, but not before hitting one last deep pothole, forcing his head to crash against the trunk's floor. If he lived through this, he decided he needed a spa day.
The trunk swung open, revealing the crisp cool San Francisco air. He could tell by the angle of the road, the few letters he could make out on the street sign, and the silly German car that his neighbor always parked on the street, that the Sleepwalker had taken him home.
"You awake in there?" the Sleepwalker asked, his brilliant green eyes more visible in the dark than the rest of him. He stood above Jason, his hands buried in the deep pockets of his coat. His henchmen milled around behind him, unsure of what to do with themselves. The Sleepwalker never gave them more information than they could handle.
"You won't find anything here," asked Jason, trying to shift to a more comfortable position.
"That's what someone who had something to hide would say," laughed the Sleepwalker. "But there's only one way to find out, you know? There's only one thing we can do."
"What's that?"
"Try our best with the options at hand!"
The Sleepwalker grabbed Jason, and in one swift movement, pulled him from the car and onto his feet. "I see you've had some practice with this," mumbled Jason, trying to get his left leg to wake up.
"There was a time, before I was put away, that I was quite good at what I did," the Sleepwalker replied, guiding them towards the house. He reached into Jason's pockets and found his keys.
"If you were so good, why'd they put you away?"
"Well, I guess you were better, Terrordon." The Sleepwalker put the key in the door, and let it swing open, hoping to himself that it could be just that easy to find out that Jason was the Terrordon. Perhaps his mask was just sitting on the kitchen table. Perhaps his old uniform was draped over a living room chair. Perhaps his entire house was his Terrordon Cave.
Jason stepped ahead into the foyer of the house. He had designed the foyer to be especially grand: a testament and taste to what the rest of the house would hold. A regal chandelier hung from a molded ceiling, while the walls were simpler and more modern with mostly glass and clean lines. The house had been expensive, but a beautiful reminder that the old world and the new could live in harmony. "So this is my foyer, and as you can see, there's nothing here but things that belong in a foyer," said Jason.
The Sleepwalker paced around the room, not letting himself go into the rest of the house yet. There had to be something here too, something small, that could play well into Heath's book. He imagined a clue lying on a random table, that would lead him to the stash: The Terrordon Cave.
But there was nothing. He opened every drawer, and threw them aside. "How big is this place?" he asked.
"About 15,000 square feet," laughed Jason.
"A grand birdcage," mumbled the Sleepwalker.
"You really think I'm the Terrordon, don't you? It's not apart of some larger plan of yours?"
"Your identity is close to being revealed Terrordon. I've cleared one room, and now we move onto the next one."
Jason sighed, his hands still tied behind his back. "Alright, let me at least show you around. I have to be a good host in my house." He put his shoulder into a side door and it slowly creaked open. Heavy doors, he reminded himself, were apart of his design too. They always felt more substantial.
The Sleepwalker motioned to his men to stay behind him and keep a lookout for anything, anything at all that they could bring back to Heath. They followed Jason through the myriad of living rooms and side rooms, the main kitchen and the smaller offshoot ones, and finally to what Jason had always described as the Grand View: the largest living room in the house, with a full glass wall overlooking Golden Gate Park.
"My my what money can buy," said the Sleepwalker. He stared at the view for a moment, and then turned around. "Alright boys, split up into teams and let's see what we can find."
They rushed off in different directions, deciding quickly which part of the large house they would be searching. The Sleepwalker turned back to Jason. "Why'd you quit?"
"Partying? I wanted to grow up," replied Jason, still staring at the view. The Golden Gate Bridge was always beautiful. "Everyone has to realize that there's something more that can be done with their lives."
"Throwing me off with your little nonsense about being a young playboy would have worked if I didn't already know who you were," replied the Sleepwalker. "I know it's you. Everyone does. They've all known for years."
"Then why can't you find anything?"
"Because you've spent your money well."
"Or maybe I'm not the Terrordon."
The Sleepwalker sighed. "You have been my nemesis for longer than I can be comfortable with, and to see you here now, like this, it would so easy to kill you. It would be so easy to just," he trailed off, his fingers motioning towards Jason's neck.
"Perhaps it would be too easy," whispered Jason.
"What?"
"The Terrordon would have put up more of a fight."
"No," said the Sleepwalker. "No no, your games won't work this time. You said you've matured. So have I. Everyone kept telling me I'm crazy, especially in Rampworth. But in there, I met the actual crazy ones. And I matured too. I know what I know."
"Then why have your henchmen come back with nothing?" said Jason, leaning against the glass wall.
The Sleepwalker turned around and looked over his men. They had brought nothing back with them. "Boys, what did you find?"
They all shook their heads. "It's a very large house, and we couldn't find anything that might lead us to the Terrordon Cave," said one.
The Sleepwalker glanced at Jason. "Ya know what they say, if you want the work done right, you have to do it yourself."
"Or you're wrong," mumbled Jason. He didn't understand why he felt so courageous in this moment, but he was getting annoyed that the Sleepwalker had a personal grudge against him, when he wasn't even the Terrordon! He was all for helping people, but this blame was too great.
The Sleepwalker's green eyes had darkened as his brows furrowed. "I will not play your games anymore Terrordon. I won't do it." He shoved his men aside and he went to search the house.
Each room held more knick knacks and random furniture than the previous. It was a well designed house, with more than a couple pianos strewn about, but there was nothing interesting laying around, no clues that he could find.
And then it occurred to him there might be a switch, or a button, something that might lead to an underground room, or a hidden part of the house. "Boys, start moving things, start figuring out if there might be something else. A hidden room, a button, a mechanism, something. Anything. We won't let this masked vigilante win this round."
But as they moved through the house, knocking books off shelves, pressing piano keys, moving every painting and every object in every curio cabinet, he realized how futile and desperate the situation was becoming. He had been certain that Jason Richards was the Terrordon. The logic and clues had added up, and yet this man was going beat him again, if he couldn't find any proof.
And that was something he could not abide by. There was an anger, brutal and raw, that he knew Doug felt. It was guttural. He threw a bookcase to the ground, checking the wall for any signs of a door, anything to make the hunt easier. Doug prided himself on building things, and he would have loved to know the plans to this house. But when Doug became angry, he could morph into something far more dangerous.
"Burn it down," whispered the Sleepwalker. "Burn it down and then we'll see what's inside. And we'll take the Terrordon's crown jewel from him. He can't win. He won't win." His boys looked at each other and nodded. If there was anything that they loved doing, it was burning things.
The Sleepwalker returned to the main living room. The Sun was slowly rising, and the Golden Gate Bridge had begun to take that little light and use it to transform itself into a man made beauty. "If you won't assist me, I will take it from you."
"Aren't you trying to do that?"
"If you don't assist me, I will burn everything."
"There's nothing to assist! All there is what you see. I am not the Terrordon. Never was."
The Sleepwalker nodded as his boys returned with jerry cans of gasoline. They began spraying it around the room and down the hallways, the air quickly filling with its pungent smell. "You won't help me reveal to the world that you're nothing but a rich boy who wanted to get in the way. Now I'm going to burn it all." He took out a match and struck it against his boot. It burned bright, even as the morning sun came up.
"But why?" asked Jason. "I'm not the Terrordon."
"You are, and you will not win this round." He stared at the match for a moment, before letting it drop to the floor. The gasoline ignited immediately and rushed off in every direction. He motioned to his boys. They grabbed Jason, and forcibly tied him to a chair. "And now we will leave you here, so you can watch your beautiful sunrise, as your house burns around you."
"I don't think you understand," said Jason, staring at the flames that engulfed his house. "I don't think you get that I'm not the Terrordon."
The Sleepwalker shrugged. "All will be known.
The flames crawled towards the ceiling, and as the Sleepwalker was turning to leave, the glass wall splintered as a fast moving form crashed through it and landed on the living room floor. "I think you've taken this charade far enough," said the Terrordon, picking himself up and brushing off the larger pieces of glass. He wore a hard rubberized suit and his iconic mask. The only skin Jason could see was the Terrordon’s lips and muscular chin.
The Sleepwalker looked at the masked man and then back to Jason. "Did you pay someone to dress up as you?"
"I'm not the Terrordon!" yelled Jason. "Use your damn eyes!"
The Terrordon moved towards the Sleepwalker. "It's just like the old days. I come after you, and you burn things down."
The Sleepwalker looked at the masked and suited man, slowly realizing that he was the real Terrordon. There was something about his arrogant swagger, the way his lips moved in a condescending way, that only he could be the true Terrordon. He glanced at Jason, realizing that he had missed all the little clues. Jason didn't have what it took to be the masked vigilante. "The old days were better. Simpler times," he replied.
"I think it's time to get back to Rampworth, don't you?"
The Sleepwalker looked at the flames that had finally reached the ceiling. He heard cabinets and chairs fall over as they crumbled, and something felt right about it all. "No, I'm not going back there," he replied, retreating slowly into the the house. "I'm not going back there, but we will meet again." He grabbed one of his henchmen and threw him towards the Terrordon, as he turned and fled into the house. The henchman looked at the Terrordon, and instead of taking a swing, ran past him into the depths of the flames.
The Terrordon looked towards Jason and then back towards the disappearing form of the Sleepwalker. He knew he would meet his old friend again. He moved quickly and untied the State Senator, the house quickly getting worse. He grabbed his arm, but when he realized that Jason had breathed in too much smoke, he easily threw him over his shoulder and made his way through the burning debris.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="35150574-1E05-44BD-94FB-399703D427D8">
            <Title>Style Guide</Title>
            <Text>STYLE GUIDE:

There are relatively few rules here. Don’t worry about font and such the like as I’ll be taking care of all the formatting and layout in Scrivener when I import and compile. The limited rules we have are:

	■	Use “double quotes” for speech
	■	Use British English if you can.
	■	Don’t use blank lines between paragraphs. Use indentation instead.
	■	Highlight any blank lines and scene breaks you want in the finished piece with three hash signs (###). Any blank lines you leave will be deleted, so if you want a gap, use those hash marks!

That’s about it. Write in your own style. 

Default to the third person perspective, but feel free to dip into the perspective of characters as you feel appropriate (within the normal boundaries of good taste, of course). But basically… Make it your own.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FA097C2A-973B-403C-BC9C-C357C0BB96DD">
            <Title>Also by</Title>
            <Text>Also by Novel-in-a-Day:

The Dark
Lunar520
Made Man
Section7
Marshal Law
3 Ghosts

www.novelinaday.com



sponsored by
Literature &amp; Latte, creators of Scrivener
￼
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="B9441E94-954B-4654-B16A-562C09B6E490">
            <Title>Chapter 7</Title>
            <Synopsis>Agent discussion - what makes a superhero? Supervillains.
Jacob decisdes needs to make the world think there are super villains again</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
JACOB HEATH is a professional biographer. He has decided his next book should be about the TERRORDON - the masked vigilante that was credited with cleaning up the streets of San Francisco at the turn of the millenium before disappearing in 2005.
Things that have already happened
Jacob has tried being an vigilante and… it didn't go well.
Starts with
Jacob meets up with his agent PETE SCHLAMME
Chapter details
Jacob tells Pete how he's at a dead end -- there simply isn't enough information out there to figure out a plausible theory of who the Terrordon was.
Pete tries to get him to look at other books but Jacob can't quit. 
They discuss how the only way to get more clues is if the Terrordon was to come out of retirement. 
Ends with
Jacob comes to the realisation that he needs to make San Francisco think that there are Super Villains again.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1065CB17-27A7-4139-8FF8-E657B4CA8204">
            <Text>“Do you know what this is about?” Amy asked as she sips on a latte. Pete sat on the couch opposite her, in Cats and Fiddles, the café where Jacob had asked to meet them.
Pete shrugged.
“It’s getting hard to tell these days. He’s been… intense. I don’t think his latest novel is going well.”
“That’s the one about the Terrordon?” Amy asked. She didn’t know Pete well, but remembered their last meeting a month ago at the book launch of her friend where she found herself chatting with Jacob, an old acquaintance from the Chronicle and Pete, his agent about some of her old articles on the Terrordon. Then, she frowned as it dawned on her. “God Pete, you don’t think…?”
Jacob came in just then, looking freshly combed and showered. Amy could smell the faint scent of his shampoo as he sat down beside her with two large paper bags.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jacob looked excited, confident, unlike the last time Pete saw him. “I was getting us these!” He pulled out a pile of clothes from one paper bag.
“Uh… Jacob, what are these?” Pete frowned as he looked at what looked like a pile of spandex.
“Our costumes!”
“Our what…?” Pete spluttered. “Jacob, it’s July, it’s nowhere near Halloween!”
“Oh God… Is this what I think it is? This is about the Terrordon and the Sleepwalker isn’t it?” Amy asked as she shook her head. “This is serious Jacob, you can’t pull your Harvey Milk thing here. The Sleepwalker is a dangerous criminal!”
“This is true writing Amy! I couldn’t have had that Milk piece published if I didn’t go out onto the streets. Pete,” Jacob turned to his agent. “Look Pete, I need to really get into the head of the Terrordon if I’m to make any headway on the novel. It’s going to be a really good one, but I need your support.”
“So you’re proposing what exactly?” Pete asked, leaning back slightly on the couch.
“Look at this,” Jacob took out the papers from his other bag. “I was getting nowhere with the Fisherman as the villain, but look here. The Sleepwalker has escaped, the one true nemesis of the Terrordon!”
“What? What Fisherman? What Sleepwalker?” Pete looked confused.
“They were both criminals that the Terrordon was chasing back in 2005. The Fisherman was small-time—famous for stealing purses from ladies using fishing lines from overhead bridges. He taunted the Terrordon but for a bit but he was never caught. I wrote a few articles based on some anonymous reports I got, Jacob here passed me one of them, but that was it. He disappeared round the time the Terrordon did. But the Sleepwalker was different. Wait Pete, you know nothing about this?” Amy looked at Pete in surprise.
“Well, Jacob said he was going to do a book about the Batman of San Francisco. Sounded good enough for me. Wasn’t around back then.” Pete shrugged. “So what about this Sleepwalker?”
“He’s a real super villain.” Jacob cut in at this point. Then he brandished the article again. “Look at this – after he was caught, he was diagnosed with Dissociative Identify Disorder before being put away at the Rampworth State Hospital.”
“What exactly did he do?” Pete asked.
“He killed ten people, drove many more insane.” Amy whispered.
“What? How?”
“He specialised in making people suffer. It wasn’t about straightforward murders with him. In the years he was active, he would identify what he termed ‘good people’—fine upstanding citizens, normal people on the street. He wanted to make the point that everyone had a seed of evil. He made all sorts of elaborate plans so that he could force these victims to choose.”
“Choose  what?”
“He made them choose between saving a loved one and committing a heinous crime.” Jacob explained. “In fact, the San Francisco police didn’t make the connections at first, because all the crimes were different. It was the Terrordon who saw the strange pattern of otherwise normal people with no criminal records suddenly committing these terrible crimes. Then he dug into it and found that in some cases there were reports of their loved ones—children, spouses, families, close friends going missing for a while. The victims, well, the criminals, never said a word about the Sleepwalker but the Terrordon began identifying possible future victims himself and managed to catch the Sleepwalker in the act.”
“That last case, it was the worst.” Amy shook her head, a look of fear and disgust on her face at the memory. “The Sleepwalker kidnapped the five year old son of Rachel James, a sweet and lovely daycare teacher by all accounts, and another child from her class. Then he made her choose—she had to cut off the fingers of the other child one by one, or have it done to her son. When the Terrordon finally got to stopping it, she was half insane and just about to use the pliers on the boy. Even though she never committed the crime, she was never the same after that. The last I heard, she lost her job. She was already a widow before the incident and her son was placed in foster care after that. And that is just the last case. You can’t imagine how many lives the Sleepwalker destroyed.”
“Oh,” Pete swallowed. “Well, it’ll make a good book this one.”
“Exactly! But I need to get into the head of the Terrordon,” Jacob said as he patted the pile of clothes again. “He hasn’t been seen since 2005, I’ve got to be him and chase the Sleepwalker down.”
“I knew it,” Amy smacked her forehead. “You can’t be serious about this. You can’t go around chasing an insane criminal. You remember what happened to the Terrordon don’t you? He barely got away—that last showdown with the Sleepwalker was why he retired himself.”
“A superhero would never give up just because his life was endangered. He retired because he’d completed his task, he’d cleaned up the streets of San Francisco,” Jacob said coolly.
“I can’t say I advise this as your agent,” Pete added. “I agree with Amy, you can’t do this.”
“Not me, us!” Jacob thumped on the table for emphasis. “We can form a league of heroes! Me, the Terrordon, you, the Bulk,” Jacob pointed at Pete. “And Amy, you can be Superfemme!” 
“You’re insane!” Amy exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “I’m not going to be part of this. Pete?”
Pete shook his head slowly.
“Wouldn’t look good in a costume, no.”
“Come on, I think I know where the Sleepwalker is headed. And I’ve got all the gadgets prepared. Look outside,” Jacob pointed at a dark armoured vehicle. “That’s our Hero-mobile. And look, I’ve studied the reports on how and where the Sleepwalker escaped. He should be headed to…”
“Jacob,” Amy had been doubtful of the venture but now there was an added chill in her voice. “How did you put everything together so quickly? The article was only published this morning. And what reports? There were no details on the escape.”
“Amy, let me explain,” Jacob started but Amy stood up.
“Pete, we best call the police.”
“The police? No Amy, they’ll just mess everything up the way they always do. Trust me Amy, I have my sources. This could be a big break for you too. First dibs and exclusive coverage on…”
“Pete,” Amy said again, ignoring Jacob.
“Hey hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Pete said in a calm voice. “I don’t think we need to call the police. This is a hare-brained scheme, but Jacob is not dangerous. I know him.” Pete stood up beside Amy and patted her shoulders.
Amy took a deep breath and shook her head.
“No police then, but I want no part of this,” Amy said before picking up her purse and leaving.
Jacob looked disappointed but turned to Pete.
“Hey, so you believe me right? Two of us, it could still work.”
“Jacob, listen. I got you out of something there, but this is insane. I won’t put on garish costumes and go chasing criminals I have no business chasing. Neither should you. You write books, I sell them. That’s what we do. Do whatever research you need to. But not this,” Pete paused then looked at his watch. “Look I need to go, I’ll call in on you later. But I repeat, don’t do this Jacob.”
Then Pete left. </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="5CB48DA6-9AB4-40E9-8941-3E1120592C37">
            <Title>Also by</Title>
            <Text>Also by Novel-in-a-Day:

The Dark
Lunar520
Made Man
Section7
Marshal Law
3 Ghosts

www.novelinaday.com

sponsored by
Literature &amp; Latte, creators of Scrivener
#
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3713A48C-0AE6-4E17-82CC-88C24470E3A2">
            <Title>Chapter twenty</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch20-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C7057A17-14AE-43CB-8F08-CCA1EC5F6A7A">
            <Text>Jacob had chosen his outfit carefully that morning and took extra effort to style his hair. While his hands worked quickly, his mind was deep in thought, playing out a mental game of the prospective exchange he would have with the Commissioner later. Things would go well if he played his cards right. He arrived at the Police Headquarters about 30 minutes early, sufficient time to allow him to mingle with the staff with a valid reason without arousing suspicions. The receptionist politely told him to have a seat while she informs the Commissioner of his arrival. He was just starting to make small talk with the receptionist, charming her into girly giggles when the Commissioner himself appeared at the hallway to receive him personally, much to his dismay. "Mr. Jacob Heath, I hope you did not have to wait long," the Commissioner said and extended his hand. "He seemed as eager to meet me as I am to meet him," Jacob wondered to himself as he took his hand into a firm handshake.
He followed several steps behind the Commissioner as he led him briskly into a room down the corridor. He hardly had any time to take a good look of his surroundings and lost his bearings after several turns. The room was small and had a clinical feel about it. He wondered if it was one of those rooms where they held their interviews and whether there was anyone watching them from behind the darkened glass windows.
"Please sit down Mr. Heath and make yourself comfortable. Would you like to have some coffee or tea?" The Commissioner gestured to the two pots of steaming beverages on the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. "I'll have some coffee please," Jacob stood up to help himself but the Commissioner was one step ahead of him, his left hand grabbing another mug and pouring him a share too. It did not take too long into their discussion before he realised that the Commissioner was in more ways than one already several steps in front of him. When he left the building moments later, Jacob felt frustrated. It seemed that the Commissioner had simply wanted to fish information from him regarding the Terrordon. The Commissioner was tactful with his words but his intention was clear to him - he had met enough people like him to know, especially the ones in positions like his. It was precisely for this reason that he had built up his network of liaisons from people in the lower rungs of the ladder, people who are perhaps more gullible and unreliable but less scheming and less selfish. It was not difficult to get people like them to talk. He could use money or invest some well-calculated time and emotions. It was people like the Commissioner that he had barely anything to offer up for a trade. The Commissioner had assumed Jacob would have some details that had not reached his ears yet. For the entire length of the exchange, Jacob maintained his composure, putting up an agreeable yet firm front but could not glean any new information from him as well. All that resulted as an impasse, a stalemate of information exchange. The meeting ended up as nothing more than a courtesy call. It was a lousy set of cards played on both their parts. However, the Commissioner did share that the Mayor may have some insights if he could get him to talk, a heavy emphasis on the word "if". 
"It is most certain the Commissioner must have tried and failed, so now he is expecting me to try and do it" Jacob muttered to himself, "and why not."
He stopped and took out the name card the Commissioner passed him earlier from his pocket. He flipped it to the back where the Commissioner's handwriting was strong and clear and dialled the number written behind.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CD233CA4-6F7D-4145-B9BC-EA8240D58A1D">
            <Title>Chapter two</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch02-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C46C9592-2859-424D-9566-C7EDFC0230F1">
            <Title>Full Title Page</Title>
            <Text>








Start Wearing Purple

written as a
Novel-in-a-Day









 ￼
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F2379333-B85D-4512-9425-BFF1CE8688BE">
            <Text>The thunder rumbled ominously, the sky grey and overcast. It seemed to mirror Jacob’s mood, though he knew that was wishful thinking. Stuff like that only happened in storybooks. He was off to see Pete again for their regular quarterly update and he had no progress to show. For all he knew, he had just walked past the Terrordon carrying a kale smoothie. Probably not though, the Terrrordon was definitely taller. Though, maybe his outfit incorporated hidden heels to make him look taller and more intimidating – now, that was a thought. He laughed to himself as he stepped into his agent’s office. 
“Hi Pete. It’s the same as ever. Zip, zilch, nada. I’m even out of synonyms for nothing. This is depressing.”
“Hello to you too, Jacob.”
Jacob slams a massive ring binder on Pete’s table, “Do you know what this is? 16 years of research on the Terrordon. 16 years. And I still don’t know who he is. I clearly wasn’t cut out for journalism. Good thing I quit, aye?”
“You’d said you had a new lead to chase…,” Pete stopped talking, gaping as Jacob extracted a folded document from within the binder and unfolded it to cover his entire desk. It was an evidence board, clearly, but he had not been prepared for the sheer number of pictures, post-its (and were those ribbons? Oh yes, probably from his sister Emmy working in some gift shop, Blue and Brown was it?) covering every square inch of that sheet. Clearly, tracking down the Terrordon’s identity had moved past being a passion project. Pete wondered how he had missed the signs – surely he should have picked up on it ages ago. But this was the first time that Jacob had no other ongoing project but the Terrordon book; he had always been prompt with deadlines, there had been no reason to suspect just how obsessed he had become.  
“Explain to me why you have a magically expanding evidence board?”
“Had to watch Harry Potter with Pacey a while ago. The Maurader’s Map is seriously cool, so thought I’d create my own version. And I had all those origami skills from when I wrote Haruki Murakami’s biography,” Jacob replied absently, poring over the board. 
“Oh yeah, and that lead from a while ago turned out to be a bust,” he continued. “I thought I was going to get a breakthrough from the comic books. You know how he’s clearly been inspired by Batman? Anyway, I thought I could try to cross-reference that with what little other data points I have to figure out his identity. Seems logical right? But do you know how many comic book stores there are in San Francisco? Well I do. Not that you care about the number. But trust me, it’s a lot. And not all of them keep records. Because none of them ever think that one day they would be responsible for the sale of a comic book that might just inspire a kid somewhere to become a vigilante. As if that’s too far a stretch.” 
Pete raised his eyebrow, bemused at the sight of Jacob ranting. 
“And libraries, don’t get me started on libraries. Return a book just 1 day late, and they’ve got the records to charge you that fine. But go in asking for who has borrowed Batman comics in the past 30 years and suddenly they don’t have any records.”
He ran his hand through his coiffed hair. “I’m at a dead end. There just isn’t enough information available for me to figure out who the Terrordon is. Or was, he might be dead now for all we know.”
“Well, then just write what you do know. And maybe you’ll inspire other readers out there to join you in figuring out his identity.”
“You know I don’t write speculative fiction. You’re going soft in your old age. Seriously, write a story without all the facts? No way, that would undermine my credibility,” Jacob scoffed.
“Then it’s time to move on. I mean, Jacob, look at this evidence board.”
“It’s great, isn’t it?” Jacob returned to scrutinising all the information he has on the Terrordon, tuning out Pete’s nattering. Probably just him expounding on his latest theory of who the Terrordon could be. His personal favourite was when Pete decided that the “don” was significant – he had been convinced that the Terrordon was Japanese, and existed on a diet of salmon dons. Or was an English lecturer from Oxford or Cambridge. Or was Spanish because, Don Juan of course. Or was ex-mafia and was paying homage to his roots. Little had he realised that it was just wordplay on Pteranodon, a flying reptile that existed in the time of dinosaurs, which Terrordon had adopted as his symbol. Probably just a derivative of Batman, though the Pteranodon, was not actually an ancient ancestor of the modern bat – the wings are completely different as anyone who had done just the slightest bit of research could have told him. 
Something in Pete’s voice catches Jacob’s attention again. “You’re clearly obsessed with him. It’s a good thing I know you’re straight or this would look like stalking. Listen. You’re one of the best and that’s why I’m your agent. You’re able to inhabit someone else’s shoes like nobody else I’ve met. You bring another person’s story to life. But maybe it’s at the expense of yourself – I mean, when was the last time you were just Jacob Heath?” 
Pete raised his hand, stopping Jacob from, no doubt, protesting that of course he was being himself. 
“And not undercover somewhere pretending to be something or someone you’re not, just for research purposes. Listen to me Jacob, let this one go. It’s been 16 years, you’ve been writing about him from your Chronicle days. You’ve given it your best shot. You’ve tracked down every lead. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. There are plenty of other books you could be working on. Look, the proposals are all right here,” gesturing to the pile of files stacked precariously on one corner of his desk, carelessly pushed aside earlier by Jacob when he was unfolding the evidence board. 
“The man simply does not want to be found. The only way you’re going to get the details you need is if you get him to come out of retirement so that you can meet him yourself.” 
“I know. Why do you think I…,” Jacob trailed off, realising he hadn’t actually told Pete about his ‘adventures’ for the past few months. He winced, this was not going to go well. 
“Why do I think you did…Wait. What exactly did you do?” Pete said, rising to his feet. 
“Nothing much, just the usual investigative stuff. Never reveal the sources and all that,” he said in an increasingly high pitched voice.
“Don’t even try Jacob. I recognise that face. You looked like that the entire time you were ‘dating’ Travis. I know what you get like when you’re gathering material. You go full method on me.” He started gesticulating agitatedly. “For Pete’s sake, you pretended to be in a gay relationship for a whole month just to understand Harvey Milk. Spill, what have you done now?”
“Er, Pete. You know you of all people should never use the expression for Pete’s sake right?” he grinned, hoping to defuse the situation. 
Pete glared. Jacob squirmed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get out of this easily.  
“I might have tried to immerse myself in the same lifestyle as the Terrordon,” he mumbled, “you know, fighting crime undercover. I had to understand why he did it. And how he could stand to just walk away from it all.” Forgetting himself, his eyes light up as carried on excitedly, “Oh Pete, that rush from knowing you just saved a target from being mugged, it’s indescribable. And that’s just the start of it.” 
He stopped abruptly realising Pete had collapsed back into his chair and was looking at him aghast. 
“You. You were the Terrordon wannabe that everyone was talking about? What on earth were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed! Not to mention the police were looking for you.”
Jacob absent-mindedly rubbed his stomach, feeling the faint scar through the shirt. “I know, and I’ve stopped. I promise,” he said, holding Pete’s gaze. “I just needed to know what it might have been like to have been him. Good chance to put into practice the martial arts skills I learnt for Jackie Chan’s biography.” He shuffled his feet. “And I was hoping I would get his attention. You know, show him he had an ally, and that he wouldn’t have to bear the burden alone. God knows the city could do with him coming back.”
“And pray tell, where did you get this marvellous idea from?” 
A few heartbeats passed. “Pacey.”
“Pacey? As in your 5 year old nephew Pacey?”
“Yes, the same Pacey we spoke about earlier. And he’s 4 actually.”
“And what exactly did obsessed with Harry Potter and comic books and lives in a fantasy world Pacey have to say about the Terrordon that convinced you that you should become a vigilante yourself?”  
“Well he said that in comic books, the only people that seem to know anything about the superhero are his journalist or photographer friend, his sidekicks or his arch-nemesis. I covered him extensively for 4 years, in fact those were the only articles I ever enjoyed writing. I was the Iris West to his Barry Allen and he never once reached out. So clearly that avenue was closed.” 
“And instead of doing what any sane person would do and letting sleeping dragons lie, you decide to try and take the law into your own hands on the slim chance that it might get his attention?” Pete asked incredulously. 
“A Pteranodon is a flying reptile actually.” Jacob quailed at Pete’s expression “But fine, dragons are close enough,” he hastily added.
Jacob had never seen him this angry. He didn’t understand why though, surely Pete knew that he was always going to take any chance possible to find out who the Terrordon was. That’s what he did – find out what made a person tick in order to write a compelling story. Admittedly, he’d never had to track down someone’s identity first as well though, usually his clients were more willing. 
“That’s it. I’m pulling the plug on this project. It has gone on for far too long. I don’t even need you to look at the rest of these proposals. In fact, remember how you once told me you had written an outline for a novel? I want you to go back to that for a while.”
“What? Pete, come on, you’re overreacting. I’m so close to figuring out who he is. I can feel it. Don’t do this to me,” Jacob pleaded.
“You just came in here, not 30 mins ago, complaining about how you’d hit a complete dead end! Jacob, you know you’re not any closer to finding him than you were a year ago. I shouldn’t have let this go on for this long; I hadn’t realised how method your ‘method writing’ had become.”
Pete carried on talking over Jacob’s futile protests. 
“Take the next few weeks off. I’ll see you once I’m back from Connecticut after Thanksgiving. If you’re lucky, maybe you did do enough to get his attention and he’ll come out of retirement. In which case, happy Thanksgiving indeed and we can celebrate when I’m back. Otherwise, I expect to see some progress on that novel. God help me, I can’t even remember the last fiction book I represented. Have I made myself clear?”
Realising that Pete would not take no for an answer, Jacob nodded meekly. He would just have to carry on without Pete. It would be like writing Harvey Milk’s biography all over again – researching on his own. 
“Very well. Looks like there is nothing left to say. I’ll get out of your hair then. Happy Thanksgiving in advance,” Jacob offered as he folded up his evidence board and packed it away. As he bid Pete farewell and made his way out of the office, he realised that maybe Pete had gotten one thing right though. Maybe he could afford to take a few days off before getting back to the investigation. It had been a tough few months after all. 
He should probably get started on Pacey’s Halloween costume, August wasn’t too early after all. He frowned, trying to remember what options Pacey had given him. It definitely hadn’t been the Terrordon, no matter how much he had tried to cajole his nephew into dressing up as the coolest local superhero ever. Villains were way more popular apparently. He stopped in his tracks. 
That was it. 
That was how he would be able to get the Terrordon out of retirement. Normal crime didn’t seem to warrant the Terrordon’s attention anymore. But he’d watched all the movies. The superhero always turned up to meet the villain. 
He would have to do it himself of course. He nodded grimly to himself. San Francisco, watch out, there’s a new Super Villain in town. Time to raise hell. Pete would thank him later for the bestseller, he was sure. What should he call himself though? Ah yes, Pacey would know a cool name. He continued walking down the street.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A8852FEC-5A24-4830-B7B1-16C5ABB4BB9A">
            <Title>Chapter 10</Title>
            <Synopsis>Fisherman makes a bomb threat. Most press say actually international terrorism, not a mystical super villain. Orig journo is ridiculed. Jacob realises quit or go deeper. Starts to research explosives.</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
JACOB HEATH is a professional biographer. He has decided his next book should be about the TERRORDON - the masked vigilante that was credited with cleaning up the streets of San Francisco at the turn of the millenium before disappearing in 2005.
Things that have already happened
Jacob has invented a (fictional) super villain called the Fisherman and claimed credit for a recent terror attack in San Francisco -- in an attempt to get the Terrordon to come out of retirement.
Starts with
Jacob sees that there is starting to be press coverage of the Fisherman.
Chapter details
Jacob decides to cash in on the early press coverage -- largely coming from San Francisco Chronicle journalist AMY KENNEDY (at Jacob's earlier urging).

Jacob has the Fisherman make a bomb threat (for next Tuesday at 3pm - location unstated) and then watches the coverage. Almost all the press say that the attack was actually international terrorism and not a mythical super villain. Amy and the Chronicle's coverage is getting ridiculed.
Ends with
Jacob realises he needs to either quit or step it up… and starts to research how to make a bomb.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="8DAC7DC2-37B1-4F6A-A40C-78B5BFCFFB73">
            <Text>It was much later and Jacob was still at the computer. The reaction to his message had been rather quick and, to his mind, mixed. He was currently in Twitter, reading with a mixture of chagrin and fascinated horror:</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="0750E1B4-424B-4BA2-BD16-63337A73703C">
            <Text>The curtain fluttered, letting in a sharp sliver of light that danced across the Jacob’s sleeping face. Jacob stirred, stretching an arm in reflex. The mug crashed to the floor, splashing the remnants of his late night coffee on the worn carpet and the side panel of his oak desk, rousing Jacob fully.
“Damnit!” Jacob sat up. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Another night wasted falling asleep at the desk. He looked over at his computer screen and shuffled his mouse impatiently.  The cursor remained blinking after the sentence “The Terrordon had finally faced his match in the Fisherman”, where it had been for the past three nights. 
Frustrated, Jacob ruffled his hair and stood up. Tightening the belt of his robe, he padded to the front door to pick up the morning paper. He tossed the rolled up paper onto the coffee table, intending to read it after his morning run but then stopped and did a double-take as he saw the headlines.
“Goddamit, this is exactly what I need!”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="803E9D76-C596-4C08-B14B-EE7CD380DBAE">
            <Title>Cover</Title>
            <Text>#</Text>
            <Notes>Add a picture INSIDE the text document for the ordinary PDF version</Notes>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1EEF3F5A-E8D0-4A8C-B2FD-806E292FAEF7">
            <Title>Chapter 2</Title>
            <Synopsis>Jacob finishes book tour - clearly bored by it already - conversation about next book - introduce method writer technique</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
JACOB HEATH is a professional biographer. He has just released a book on Lance Armstrong.
Things that have already happened
Jacob and his agent, PETE SCHLAMME, are about three book stores into their tour to give readings, Q&amp;As and general meet and greets for Jacobs new book. 
Starts with
Jacob and Pete are about to start their next stop.
Chapter details
The book tour is only hitting the 'healthy exercisy towns' and this is a home city stop.
Jacob is now very bored and frustrated by the whole expereience and -- whilst he was crazily obsessed with Lance and cycling for a while -- now can barely contain his disinterest for either.
Pete is very worried about Jacob and how obsessed he gets when writing a new book, but is more worried about how he doesn't look after himself when between projects.
Something should happen on the tour to push Jacob over the edge, and he storms out, and abandons the book tour.
Ends with
Pete under no illusions that the remaining dates on the tour will need to be cancelled!
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2AD236BD-203B-4418-92D9-7B6EDCD0144E">
            <Title>Characters</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="33B6D093-F58E-462C-9956-79A38B404E2F">
            <Text>“I saw your article, son. Fine job. Really fine.”
“Thanks, Mom.” As a piece of journalism, it had been borderline at best.
“I liked the bits about the Terrordon,” his father said, taking another sip of tea. “Your book sounds very promising.”
“Thanks.” Not that there was much point in writing it if he couldn’t bring its subject out of hiding for an interview, at least.
“I’m not so sure about that criminal, though. The… Hunter, I think you called him?”
“Fisherman.”
“Yes, the Fisher King,” his father agreed. “So clever, all those religious allusions.”
He sighed. He’d made no such allusions – just straightforward mention of the evil Fisherman and how Terrordon owed it to the city to come catch him.
“Though I understand that the Alliance for Native Rights has claimed credit for the attack,” his mother said. “Or the Anti-Arts Coalition.”
“Oh, they’re bad ones, alright,” his father agreed. “Aren’t they the ones who broke into SFMOMA and painted faces on all those ‘modern’ canvases?”
“Looked better, if you ask me,” his mother replied.
And that was the way the morning went. No public outcry about the Fisherman, no calls for the Terrordon to re-appear. There was panic, right enough, but about terrorist groups. The press had covered his his stunt with the statue as well, but tied it to some group protesting autocracy in Venezuela. The most coverage the Fisherman had gotten was a dismissive note in the Bay Guardian claiming that someone was trying to scare people as a prank. It had struck uncomfortably close to home.
“But your article was good, I thought. We could use the Terrordon back.” His father, his one unfailing booster. “Just last week, I saw two cars go through the stop sign at the bottom of our hill. And one of them was the shuttle from the Facebook, I’m sure. I’ve got half a mind to call Mort Zuckerberg and give him a piece of my mind. Maybe sic that Fisher King on him.”
“Mark,” Jacob muttered, disgusted. “Mark Zuckerberg.”
“Mark my words, indeed. I don’t care if you are a millionaire. You break the law, you face the consequences, that’s what I say. That’s what the Terrordon would say.”
If only he could be bothered to speak. And at this rate, that didn’t seem likely to happen. The Fisherman’s river was running dry, and he hadn’t caught so much as a spare tire.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="06C3457A-EA6F-491C-9866-D09EC5D63F5A">
            <Text>On the tram home, trembling with adrenaline, something began to nag at him through the hysterical euphoria that had embraced him since his escape.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something familiar about the build and demeanour of the Terrordon. Something very familiar. And yet it remained maddeningly out of his mental reach, like a word stuck on the tip of the tongue.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FD974DA4-FA47-40B6-81C7-DE46FEFAF220">
            <Title>Copyright</Title>
            <Text>START WEARING PURPLE

Originally published: 2017

Copyright © 2017 Various Authors
$$Ch01-Orange$$, $$Ch02-Orange$$, $$Ch03-Orange$$
$$Ch04-Orange$$, $$Ch05-Orange$$, $$Ch06-Orange$$
$$Ch07-Orange$$, $$Ch08-Orange$$, $$Ch09-Orange$$
$$Ch10-Orange$$, $$Ch11-Orange$$, $$Ch12-Orange$$
$$Ch13-Orange$$, $$Ch14-Orange$$, $$Ch15-Orange$$
$$Ch16-Orange$$, $$Ch17-Orange$$, $$Ch18-Orange$$
$$Ch19-Orange$$, $$Ch20-Orange$$
Story by: Tim Rogers

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental, and more than just a little bit scary.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons 
Attribution - NonCommercial - NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. 
You are free to share (to copy, distribute and transmit the work) 
under the following conditions:
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified 
by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that 
they endorse you or your use of the work). 
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes. 
No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work. 
For more details, visit:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/

Original cover photograph by Tim Rogers

www.novelinaday.com</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1209FA2F-D3F2-4BEA-8827-75B075BAFAD0">
            <Text>The Sleepwalker has turned round, his posture indicates that he is strangling the supposedly larger form of Bane. Looking up he reveals the shocked face of Jimmy B.
"What's goin' on? Jibbles, what happened to the Cap'n? " shouts Jimmy B.'s voice. "I don't see no…"
Gurgling sounds again as the Sleepwalker strangles his next victim, Jimmy B.
"Now for you." says the Sleepwalker, his voice is filled with palpable menace. He seems to look into the distance at Jibbles.
"Wh…where are you?" cries out Jibbles voice. "I can't see you, but I can hear…"
The Sleepwalker with Jibbles' features lies on the floor, as if struck from behind. He slowly crawls towards a far corner of the room. As he gets up on his legs, he is the real Sleepwalker again. He raises his arms and strikes downwards.
Again.
And again.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="4E35C78D-9BEE-4C0F-89E2-BB142E830796">
            <Title>In Memoriam</Title>
            <Text>In Memoriam
I was incredibly saddened to learn recently that our good friend Montrée Whiles passed away earlier this year, after her car was struck by a drunk driver. 
Montrée was one of the most enthusiastic members of the NiaD family, and her passion (and chasing) certainly helped keep the event running this long! The more I’ve learnt over the past few weeks about this remarkable woman, the more and more respect I have for her. I won’t share specific details here since she deliberately chose to use a pen name for her writing, but trust me — she was one of the good ones.
Taken far too young. We’ll miss you.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1B2E8C9B-EAFB-4A9E-A066-F165A6436BCC">
            <Text>“Look, it’s quite simple really.” The Sleepwalker stood in front of his henchmen in his favorite purple three piece suit. “All those toys the wretched pterodactyl loves so much must cost a pretty penny. So get me a list of people with money, people with power! We’ll start there. Anyone who can give me a good fight must be Terrordon.”
The henchmen scurried away like rats, all save one small, mousy fellow who was doing his best to bore a hole in the ground with his eyes. “Erm, sir?” he squeaked.
Mousy made the mistake of lifting his eyes and The Sleepwalker greeted them with a piercing stare. He followed Mousy’s eyes around, refusing to release them, chuckling internally at the way his henchman squirmed. When he grew bored of this game he deigned to answer, “Yes?”
“Well, erm.” Mousy shuffled his feet.
“Spit it out, then.”
“It’s just . . . “ he took a deep breath to calm his nerves, then one more to gather air. “How do we know Terrordon doesn’t have some sort of benefactor like a girlfriend or a boyfriend or a close friend or something,” he said all in that one breath.
“We . . . Of course he doesn’t!” The Sleepwalker glared at his henchman to cover his own panic. This would work, right? Of course it would. Right. Terrordon was a loner, and prideful. He’d never accept help from others. Sure again of his plan, The Sleepwalker addressed Mousy, “Well, what are you still standing there for? Don’t you have better things to do than bother me with stupid questions?”
“But what about—”
“Enough!”
Mousy wandered off, mumbling something about soldiers and martial artists under his breath.
The Sleepwalker retreated to his office and poured himself a glass of grape juice. Just a matter of waiting for his henchmen to do the boring work, now. He sat down to read, but instead found himself staring at the same spot of the same page and tapping his fingers rapidly against the cover. 
Finally he gave up and tossed the book on the desk. It landed with a thud, upsetting the grape juice, which splashed out of the mostly full glass and onto his sleeve. The Sleepwalker sighed. He’d deal with it later, though he knew from experience the stain would put up a fight. 
If reading was a no go he could always find some entertainment in his pet rabbit. He smiled at Thumper XIV, who cowered in a corner and stamped her feet. The Sleepwalker feigned offense; he hadn’t even done anything to her yet! The rabbits always seemed to know. However warm he made his smile, however kind his eyes and gentle his voice, they knew that he wasn’t to be trusted. 
The rabbit screamed when he picked her up and a smile crept across his face, this one without pretence of kindness. Thumper XIV was a gorgeous specimen with velvety jet black fur and deep, soulful eyes. All the more pleasure in breaking her spirit, then. He’d have to make this one last.
The Sleepwalker walked over to where he kept his tools and picked out a needle five inches long and a quarter inch in diameter. With one firm push he pierced the belly, pushing deeper to the song of Thumper’s screams. Another needle, then another. “This is just the beginning, my dear,” he murmured, “There’s lots of fun yet to come.”
A knock at the door. He removed the needles and placed Thumper back in her cage where she curled up and whimpered, as if that would somehow solve her problems. 
One of his henchmen stood in the doorway shaking, unhappy to be the messenger. “Your list, sir.”
The Sleepwalker snatched the list and scanned the information, crossing out anyone who was too tall or too short or the wrong weight or the wrong sex, glancing up occasionally to glare at the henchman, who remained hovering by the door. Did nobody else around here who ever use their brain? When he’d narrowed the list down he created a single page list of only the names of the most likely suspects and taped it to his dart board, just over the Terrordon logo that usually resided there. 
Thunk. Roger Reeds, playboy. What a stupid alliterative name. He sure hoped Roger was Terrordon!
The Sleepwalker whacked Roger from behind with a plank. Never saw it coming.
Thunk. Peter Warwick, minor politician. He didn’t seem anything too special, but his high level of athleticism had earned him a place on the short list.
He managed to corner Peter in a dark alleyway. The man put up a minor resistance, resulting in a black eye and various bruises for The Sleepwalker. Still, it seemed mostly luck, and The Sleepwalker gave it back tenfold. Probably not Terrordon, but maybe he should have heard Mousy out about martial artists. No, it was a rare person who could even fight back, let alone stand up to him. This would work. It had to.
Thunk. Steven Lestrange, corporate mogul. His collection of superhero paraphernalia was legendary, and he had the kind of smug face The Sleepwalker would just love to elicit screams from.
Today wouldn’t be the day for it, though. He didn’t struggle a bit, and finding Terrordon was top priority. He made a mental note to torture Steven later.
Thunk. Jason Richards, former playboy turned senator. Jason was highly athletic and loved to flaunt his wealth. At the least he had his love of expensive toys in common with Terrordon.
He followed Jason from a nightclub and into an empty park. When he confronted him, the man immediately took a defensive stance. The Sleepwalker grinned; this looked promising. 
He attacked, but Jason evaded and pinned him against a tree. A kick to the solar plexus freed him, and he immediately followed through with a punch to the head. Jason replied by attempting to sweep his feet out from under him, but he countered and knocked Jason off balance. 
Jason resisted for near ten minutes, but he won out in the end. So this was the great Terrordon. Not too tough without his toys! The Sleepwalker threw the unconscious man over his shoulder and prepared to execute the next step of his plan.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="B54CEC39-5639-47E7-A71B-173FF383B99F">
            <Text>Jacob put down the pen, looked across to where the sun was leaving meaningless, flat squares of light across the carpet and closed his eyes.
In his mind, he again saw Lisa, the doctor at Rampworth leafing through the case file. And once again she said the same the thing.
He is more than one person.
Jacob heard movement out in the hallway and wondered if there were other guests booked onto this very same floor of the hotel. He had managed to find the room fairly easily, and had paid in cash. This place wasn't too far from the Westin Hotel which made things easier. He had more time to formulate his plan.
He turned the thing over in his mind looking for flaws - potential gaps in the planning might lead to disaster. Lisa had told him about the personalities that seemed to make up the psychology of the Sleepwalker. The dominant one was Joe. It was Joe who made all the rational decisions - where to go and what to do.
Jacob returned to the paper in front of him. Had it been a mistake to get involved in this case? He didn't think so. Immersing oneself in the life of someone else was the only true way to tell the story.
But there were dangers here too. It was possible that in shadowing the Sleepwalker, one might become tainted with the same evil that drove the killer forward.
Jacob shivered in the gloom of the hotel, in the places where the sunlight hadn't yet reached. It was all a long way from his time writing about Harvey Milk.
He reached over to his tape recorder and spooled back the tape, pressed play and listened to Lisa once again. The was a nervous quality to her voice that Jacob didn't care for. He listened carefully and she spoke again of how the Sleepwalker had escaped, his method of concealment, the errors in security that had let the Terrordon lose once again. Fear stalked the corridors of the hospital and now blind terror pervaded the streets too.
Jacob stood, went to the window of the hotel and touched the glass there. It was about twenty minutes by bus to Union Square. His informant had told him that the Westin Hotel had someone booked in under the name of Joe.
Jacob wondered dimly if the information was reliable. Sometimes you paid a lot but you never really knew if it was good until it was too late.
He thought about ringing Emmy. She had left three messages on his phone but every time he began to dial, some thought, some feeling would pull him back before he could finish dialling. Maybe it was wrong to involve them in what he was up to. They had their own lives and so did he. That he had chosen to spend it in journalism was his decision.
Back at the small, makeshift desk, he took up his pen again and continued to sketch outlines. His plan was to check out of the hotel in a few hours and book himself into the Westin. There he would wait, biding his time until Joe made an appearance.
And then what? Asked a voice inside. Are you going to try to apprehend him?
Jacob had not thought that far ahead. It made no sense to rush plans.
Well, you'd better start thinking about that outcome, the voice suggested.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="BC8BAC27-B363-42DF-9E6C-E8CD4901973E">
            <Title>Chapter 9</Title>
            <Synopsis>Agent suspects Jacob (denies). “fisherman” sends letter to journalist - Jacob encourages same journo to talk up the fisherman(compare to sleepwalker) — police enquiries as a result</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
JACOB HEATH is a professional biographer. He has decided his next book should be about the TERRORDON - the masked vigilante that was credited with cleaning up the streets of San Francisco at the turn of the millenium before disappearing in 2005.
Things that have already happened
Jacob has invented a (fictional) super villain called the Fisherman and claimed credit for a recent terror attack in San Francisco -- in an attempt to get the Terrordon to come out of retirement.
Starts with
Jacob is still upset that the police haven't given the Fisherman any credit or mention.
Chapter details
Jacob tries a couple of things to attempt to get press interest… he sends a communcation to AMY KENNEDY (a journalist at the Chronicle who covered many of the stories of the Terrordon back in the day) purporting to be from the Fisherman and claiming credit for the attack.
Jacob also arranges to meet Amy (he'd previously met up to talk to her about her coverage of the Terrordon). He tries to get her to talk about the Fisherman without mentioning it himself -- when she eventually does he encourages her to talk up the Fisherman in print.
Ends with
Amy agrees it's a good angle.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="6B112F52-1361-41CD-8CBA-B669E3EE3130">
            <Text>The Terrordon clumsily stepped off the Transamerica Pyramid and as the ground rushed up to meet him, spread his cape wide. “Goddammit,” he cursed under his breath as he fought to shape the fabric to effectively create enough lift before he became a Terrorsplat. “I’m getting too old for this shit!” His arms ached from the effort. It had been too long of a hiatus and he knew it, but it couldn’t be helped. The Sleepwalker had escaped from Rampworth, and who but him to bring that turd to justice? He felt sorry for himself as his muscle memory slowly kicked in and his control came back. Dusk was falling, and for a moment the Terrordon was distracted by the beauty of the city lights twinkling below. A digital, almost antique sounding ring broke his reverie, reminding him that the Sleepwalker was on the lam somewhere in the city below. Terrordon fumbled with his belt and put a vintage Nokia mobile phone to his ear, nearly losing it to the streets below in the process. “Hello?” His voice cracked like a flustered teenager that he was not. 
“I think we have a lead,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “SFPD just told us that security at the Union Trust Branch of Wells Fargo Bank apprehended a guy dressed in purple who was – get this – sitting on the floor in the middle of the bank drawing a detailed picture of the place. He was even labelling where all the guards were and stuff. Dressed all in purple though. Gotta think that’s our guy, right?”
Charlotte. It had to be, thought the Terrordon. “Are they holding on to him?”
“That the problem. Security guard was talking to him, waiting for the cops to come and…”
“And what?” the Terrordon barked back with irritation.
“Well, he had to go take a shit, and...”
“He couldn’t wait?” Goddammit, he thought.
“He took off while he was gone. Figures, hey?” There was an awkward pause on the line. “Anyway, I’ve got the address for you. The security guard’s going to stick around ‘til you get there. Hey, do you have Google Maps on the Terrordon-a-phone?”
“Don’t call it that. And no, I don’t,” snapped the Terrordon. He wasn’t sure if he was more irritated about ‘Terrordon-a-phone’ or the fact he still had a Nokia phone from 2005. Without Google Maps. “Just text the address to me, okay?” He punched the end call button without waiting for a response and sulked until the text came through. Holstering the Nokia back in his tactical belt, Terrordon wheeled down towards the bank. Where they weren’t holding the Sleepwalker.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F0AF312F-7EC5-4518-A109-8D131F328F6C">
            <Text>August 2017</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E009735A-7771-467C-9F7E-AA89798F517A">
            <Text>When Jacob and Sleepwalker exited the bar, he was stunned. The old lobby was busy with hotel patrons going to and fro, consulting their schedules, talking in small groups. Didn't these people know there was a hostage situation right there in the bar?
The minute they stepped into the lobby area, a booming voice came from above.
"Sleepwalker! I've been waiting for you." A darkly caped figure stepped forward on the balcony above the lobby. It was Terrordon, of course.
"And I've been waiting for you", replied Sleepwalker. "Now really, isn't this congenial? But we should sync calendars or something. Soo much less waiting!"
"Let the hostages go. There's no way out for you, Sleepwalker."
Jacob noticed that none of the patrons in the lobby had beat a retreat when this weirdness started. Everyone was just where they were and all eyes were on Terrordon. That couldn't be good, he realized.
Terrordon seemed to realize it too. Two black sticks came up into his hands from somewhere and he held them up with his arms crossed before him. They sparked to life.
All the "patrons" in the lobby moved as one, dropping papers and schedules, pulling open their coats, revealing every one of them a gun. One man reached into the bouquet at the center of the room and slide out a snub rifle with a bump stock.
Terrordon threw the two black sticks spinning down into the room. They erupted like roman candles spraying hot sparks in every direction on the way down. A few in the lobby got off some rounds, but nobody could take aim as they were forced by the spray of burning sparks from the room. A few fell to to the ground, downed by razored stars thrown from the balcony. One unlucky henchman who tried to come out from under the balcony got jackbooted in the face as Terrordon spread his cape and swooped down from the balcony.
The black sticks were spinning harmlessly at floor level now, no threat to the boots of the Terrordon. The fallen henchman was not so fortunate — he got one of the spinner's fire full in the face once he hit the ground. His screams were enough to keep anyone from trying to reenter the room immediately.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="D2B629FE-A8F5-4A21-ACCD-3D7A43EB7DE5">
            <Title>Chapter twelve</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch12-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="14172D37-01F4-4276-AF63-C5CCC0EB13CB">
            <Title>Spacer</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CE038629-462D-4F06-A3CE-BABFA53A44E3">
            <Title>Chapter five</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch05-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2AFC4C53-419D-4FEB-AF99-51F79CD70005">
            <Text>BOMB THREAT.  NEXT TUESDAY. 1 pm (this was crossed over) 3PM. LOCATION? MAKE SURE ALL PAPERS GET IT, BE PUBLIC. DIRECT CALL (crossed over). EMAIL? RECORDED MESSAGE BETTER.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="83E05122-5879-4DCB-AF5E-018D2EE6D118">
            <Text>It had been days since the Mayor's Office said they would call Jacob back but it would appear that his luck in that direction had run dry too. "It is only to be expected," he grumbled. While he surmised that would happen, he still held within his heart a slight hope that things would change but once again was sorely disappointed. Fortunately though, during the time of futile waiting, Jacob had managed to contact Amy Kennedy. He had already failed once, no, twice. At this point, besides Amy, he could not think of anyone else he could approach. If he were to fail again, no - he could not, or rather would not try to imagine it. Since the last conversation he had with Pete, Jacob had already started blocking his calls for a while until he could keep his thoughts straight without Pete's constant pestering about the progress of his research.
Jacob and Amy were not close when he was still working with the paper so she only came to mind when he was collecting articles about the Terrordon where he noticed her name coming up several times. It seemed that the Terrordon had almost become a pet project of hers since she joined so there could be something she could tell him. Sensing her passion for the Terrordon, he approached her upfront and told her about the biography of the Terrordon that he was working on. She had immediately agreed to grant him her assistance.
Jacob could not recall if she was married so he opted for a safe, risk-free ensemble that night for their first meeting after so many years. He decided it was best not to put her off right at the beginning and burst his own chances of getting new information about the Terrordon. They had arranged to catch up over dinner at a quaint cafe not too far from the San Francisco Chronicle so that Amy could come right over after her work was done. The food was not great but it had its old-school charms. However, the best thing about the place was that there would be no crazy, rowdy millennials and their constant self-gratification. Sometimes, he really hated how the new media was destroying the world's interpretation of what was considered news and what was not.
As usual, Jacob reached his venue early and being early had its advantages. From where he sat by the window, he had a vantage view of all the passer-bys. In his mind, he pictured the image of Amy from what little he remembered, filling in bits of her appearances with memories of their brief encounters, her voice reading out loud in his head the articles she had written on the Terrordon in the past as he pored over them again, flipping through them sorted out chronologically in a file in front of him. Absentmindedly, he fiddled with his fountain pen and turned to look outside, running his eyes through the faces for one that struck a sense of familiarity. From the distance, he spotted an elegant blonde that looked like the Amy in his mind's eye. Clearing the table to make some space, he called out to the waiter and ordered a coffee while patiently waiting for Amy to make her way over. She was at the door when the waiter brought him his coffee and he looked up just in time to see her enter, take a quick sweeping glance through the cafe and finally met his eyes. She waved at him and came over with a bag load of documents and papers.
“How have you been?” Amy asked. “It's been a while, hasn’t it?” she said as she tugged her hair behind her ear and reached out to shake Jacob's hand as he stood up. 
“Yes, it's been a while indeed. I've been fine, how about you?” Jacob asked in return and helped her with her bag. It was actually quite heavy, especially for someone of her size and stature. 
"I'm good too. I hope you hadn't been waiting long. Shall we get something to eat? I'm famished. We'll talk as we eat if you're okay with it." Before Jacob could answer, she was already picking up the menu and flipping through it. Although Jacob did not know Amy well enough, she had a respectable reputation for being serious about her work. Jacob prayed hard that it would not be yet another wasted trip banging at the wall. 
"Aren't you hungry?" she glanced up to see him still watching her. "There is only one way going forward," he thought to himself and called the waiter over for a second time.
"So what are your thoughts on the Terrordon?" Amy suddenly asked between mouthfuls of her pasta. "Who do you think he is?" Jacob was caught by surprise and chewed his steak thoughtfully.
"Aren't we here to talk about him?" Amy prompted him again, slightly impatient. "I saw you running through the articles I wrote, I suppose you don't know much then..." Her face almost appeared downcast as she said that.
"Well... I'm after all here to ask you about him but I did hear some rumours..." Jacob began slowly.
"Really?" Amy's face lit up as she said it but Jacob thought he could have imagined it as her bright-eyed look disappeared when he gave it quick check as he cut another piece of his steak and put it into his mouth. "Why you go first then, tell me what you know," Amy continued.
Inwardly, Jacob weighed the pros and cons of sharing what he knew with Amy. Sharing something with her would be crucial to earning her trust at this point. Yet, a part of him was unwilling to disclose his hard-earned secrets so easily. "It must be a fair trade," he thought.
"Well... I heard sources that the Terrordon could be a Senator." Jacob made a great show of drawing out his words.
"No way! Who...?" Amy gasped and covered her mouth. Jacob thought her reaction was exaggerated and wondered if she was putting up an act with him. In any case, if she already knew that, it meant that he hardly lost anything so he actually felt rather relieved.
"Think about it, Amy," Jacob carried on, ignoring the shocked look on her face, "who else had the motivation, the power and the money? It couldn't have been just anybody and how many billionaires do we have anyway that could afford the time researching into the technology? It has to be someone with influence and military links."
"Or it could be just a thief that did it," Amy interjected. "Have you forgotten the case where there was a huge leak of military information? Although it was not revealed that anything was lost, my personal sources told me that some technical blueprints were released due to the hacking. As a result, the military had to ditch their original plans and come up with new ones in order to cover up and avoid public outrage."
"So he was just a hacker?"
"Not just any hacker - a brilliant one at that too."
"And the money-?"
"He could have hacked it too. And did you realise how he was always able to reach the crime scene in such a short time? He must have the police's communication system bugged."
"I'm sure not everything could be obtained by simply hacking alone. We are still missing an important point. So let's say he got the blueprints, how did he get anyone to manufacture the gadgets he got? Did he make them himself? Shouldn't those require some connections at the least? Wait... don't tell me, let me guess. He hacked an online Batman merchandise store? Even then, it would have been possible to trace anyone through the Internet."
Amy rolled her eyes and Jacob regretted what he said almost immediately. "Not if he was really skilful, he could easily cover his tracks. Have you actually tried buying anything from the Internet? Products? Services? Have you at least heard of Craigslist? There is almost nothing you can't buy online. As long as there is a demand, there is a supply. You just need to know which door to knock, no questions asked. That's the power of anonymity on the Internet."
"Well... if you put it that way..." Jacob's voice dropped and he conceded that Amy could be right about it too.
"You know what? Listening to us arguing like this, it was almost as if each of us knew in our hearts who the Terrordon really is." Amy switched to a light-hearted tone, as if she sensed Jacob's dispiritedness. "But what if we're both wrong, that will be really ironic. Like if he was actually a robot or something, that will be funny. Or..."
"OR HE COULD ACTUALLY BE MORE THAN ONE PERSON!" They called out in unison and Amy slapped her palm against the table. The two of them broke out in laughter at the absurdity of what they just said, drawing several turned heads and stares from the other cafe patrons.
"Actually," Amy began again, sounding suddenly serious, "there could perhaps be some truth to that." She dug into her huge bag and started pulling out some folders. "These are some photos people managed to capture, purportedly of the Terrordon. Most of them were of too poor a quality to be used in the newsprint but I did notice something strange about them." She shoved the photo albums in his direction, flipping through them quickly and pointed a few ones out. "Notice anything?" 
Jacob picked up the photos and examined them under the warm fluorescent light of the cafe. The photos were either blur or really grainy due to the poor resolution. At first glance, they did not seem very helpful at all. Then, it suddenly dawned onto him. "He was holding his gun with his left hand and here, in this photo he had the gun in his right. Not only that, you can also see him holding his spiked throwing stars in his left hand here and then his right hand in this other photo..."
"Yes! Yes! Yes! Exactly! There was something else I wasn't able to figure out previously as well but things might be clearer now." Digging into her bag yet again, she pulled out a rolled document and gently unfurled it on the table as Jacob hastily pushed their plates aside. He saw that it was a map with several clusters of coloured stickers. "I had always wondered about these," she muttered softly, almost to herself. Each coloured sticker represented a sighted appearance of the Terrordon. "I will need to go right back and see what else I can find."
For the rest of their meal, Jacob and Amy ate in thoughtful silence in view of their new-found insights. It seemed like a far-fetched idea but it was absolutely plausible, not entirely impossible. 
 	"Thank you for the dinner and for everything else tonight. I must admit, I had an enjoyable time. It was fun to find someone who shares the same amount of passion and dedication." Amy said as they walked out to the street. Before Jacob could venture a reply, Amy turned to face him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek before hurrying out into the night, in the direction of the San Francisco Chronicle.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="14C7B318-B8F5-46D0-85DE-961B256199A8">
            <Text>"I feel I've done something quite terrible." says Joe as the nurse enters and brings a cup of tea for Dr Warne and him. "Do you know the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning with a terrible headache from the night before?"
Dr Warne nods affirmatively.
"And then all the old chaps tell you what a brilliant night it was, and how you made a complete and utter fool of yourself?"
Another nod from Dr Warne.
"And then the shame hits you. Like a ton of gold bricks wrapped in lemon."
Joe looks down at the cup of tea in front him. His eyes are blank and on the verge of tears.
"Do you recall any recent events?" asks Dr Warne. "From inside this room?"
"No, madam." replies Joe after a moments thought. "Nothing in particular."
He picks up the cup of tea by the handle, and carefully blows at it to cool down the first sip.
"I just feel that there is something I should deeply apologise for." he adds, then takes his first sip of tea.
Joe makes a sour expression.
"Speaking of lemons." he says and sets the cup of tea back down. "This isn't quite what I had in mind. You know, the best tea I've had, had always been at the Westin."
Dr Warne nods automatically and reflexively asks: "Where is that?" 
"Union Square, the Westin at Union Square." replies Joe. "The best I've ever had, just the bloody best."
After the tea is finished Joe is escorted out of the room by two male nurses.
Dr Warne leaves afterwards.
Video ends.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A36ADBFA-8DDE-4E6B-A78C-ABE66A83688A">
            <Title>Spacer</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="BE1EE75A-CF01-4D9B-A1F5-49755CB7DDD6">
            <Text>He refined the details, got the numbers for all major newspapers in the city and spent a busy half hour drafting a script. He had to sound unhinged but intelligent, credible and also just enough over-the-top to be a believable supervillain. A lone wolf with a bit of flair, not so mundane to make Terrordon think that this would be a matter best left to the police, but not so crazy to be dismissed as a prank.
It took him some tries to record the message correctly because he kept cracking up, mostly because he was so nervous. When he was done he left it alone and went for a workout; he needed to unwind a bit. 
It did him good; as soon as he got back he re-played the message and edited it to distort his voice. Once distorted and edited, the message worked even better than he had thought: he sounded menacing,  believable, and with just the right amount of style to be the Fisherman.
Then he took the burner phone he had bought earlier and started making calls.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="EC10019A-8DD6-45EF-9C1C-483C6EB9465D">
            <Title>Chapter eight</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch08-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="043CEE84-612A-484F-88D3-B35F528ABA22">
            <Text>Passing through the doors to the mission building, the Terrordon looked about the adobe mission chapel, deserted save a young altarboy doing some cleaning. “Hey kid. I’m looking for Father Joe. Is he around?” The boy gestured to the confession booth at the end of the chapel hall.
“Father is doing confession. You’re welcome to go talk to him in there.”
“Thanks kid.” The Terrordon made his way over and sank into the seat inside the confession booth, not totally disappointed for the chance to give his aching legs a break. “Father, you in there?”
“Right I am, old boy. How can I be of service?”
“Afraid I’m not the confessing sort. I’m here to talk about the unfortunate business that went down earlier today next to the mission.”
“Right, right. Unfortunate business that, I’m afraid. Shame for things to go that way I fancy.”
“What happened, Father?”
“Well I’ll tell you. It seems there was this Jersey fellow meeting with two other chaps and things didn’t go well. And I don’t mean one of those blokes from English Jersey mind you, but one with the funny accent from your New Jersey here in America.”
Doug. It had to be. Dangerous Dougy with the temper. “What did it look like they were doing, Father?”
“It was a sale, to be sure. Looked like the two chaps gave a good bit of cash to the fellow from Jersey in return for something else. But then it looks like they had a change of heart after the deal was done, and it was lights out for those chaps. The Jersey fellow clearly wasn’t inclined to part with the proceeds of the sale. Shame really what happened, old boy! Can’t say much more, I’m afraid.”
“Okay, thanks Father.” The Terrordon sat quietly for a moment deep in thought.
“Time to run along for a good strong cuppa, so take care old boy!” Father Joe let himself out of the confession booth, whistling the Colonel Bogey as he walked off. Englishmen, the Terrordon thought to himself.
Rising slowly to his feet, he made his way back up to the front of the chapel, where the altarboy was still sweeping the floor. Almost absent-mindedly he mused to the boy as he passed, “how’d you end up with an Englishman for a Father here anyway, kid?” 
“What?” The boy stopped sweeping and stared curiously at the Terrordon.
The Terrordon looked at the boy quizzically. “Father Joseph, he’s an Englishman. You don’t see that too often in a Catholic Church in the New World now, do you?”
The boy stared right back with a look of confusion. “Not sure what you mean, sir. Joe is short for Jose. Father Joe is from Argentina, not England.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1BF33CEE-965D-4D17-BBEE-35AC37262B3E">
            <Title>Spacer</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="6CD1030C-F979-4CA2-9AF7-3846A3FB2139">
            <Text>She took it and read it while he walked away.  Once Jacob was at the door of the hotel he looked around at her and nodded.  
She took his card and ripped it in half, dropping the pieces on the ground.  Jacob saw that she glanced up at the alleyway.  Then he went up to his room.
Staring down at the street, he realized he was not going to see whoever was in the alley.  It was no mystery that it was her pimp.  
The real mystery was that this seemed to be the only action in the Tenderloin, and it was slow, painfully so to Jacob.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CE6EAF56-9638-4DA5-B64C-2D7EBE686799">
            <Title>Chapter four</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch04-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7A9F5DBF-E01B-4E7C-AA99-4331A0C5A525">
            <Title>Chapter three</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch03-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="EBEC6E22-557C-4D8A-A6DA-585085690D64">
            <Text>By the following day, the Terrordon was becoming despondent. The trail was growing cold. It had been a full twenty-four hours since the last reported sighting of the Sleepwalker, but he was still nowhere to be found. Another greasy breakfast and too much coffee blurred into a banal, uninspiring lunch and still no news. The Terrordon had heartburn. It was as if the Sleepwalker had gotten into his stomach, an evil, purple tapeworm, gnawing away at the lining.
With a chug of Pepto-Bismol right from the bottle, the Terrordon was minutes away from a much-needed nap in an unmade bed in equal need of laundering when the Nokia rang.
“Guess what the Sleepwalker did with that CryptoCon pass?” The voice on the other end had a hint of know-it-all.
“What?” He snapped. The Terrordon wasn’t in the mood for games. 
“Uh...” The caller’s voice instantly deflated. “Well, turns out the Sleepwalker was busy last night and this morning,” he continued. “SFPD got a report of – get this – a bitcoin theft from a farming operation this morning in the Bay area.” He paused as if waiting for some reaction from the Terrordon. Not forthcoming, he went on. “From what they can put together, a guy named James, dressed in what was described as a spectacular purple outfit, befriended some bitcoin mogul last night at a super-exclusive CryptoCon soirée at the Fairmont San Francisco. Apparently the guy was really flamboyant, and the life of the party. Made friends with everyone there. No one knew anything was up. I guess none of them were around when he, uh, picked up his conference registration.”
“And what about the bitcoin heist?” The Terrordon asked impatiently.
“Yeah, well here’s where things get bizarre. James made friends with the bitcoin mogul and told him a sob story about his friend Billy from Alabama. How Billy used to be a farmer but photography was his life’s passion, so he had become a feature photographer for the magazine Farm Life. And how it turns out he’s really not that great at photography, and needed a really good feature subject for Farm Life so he didn’t get canned by the publisher. So James talked this bitcoin mogul into giving his friend Billy access to one of his bitcoin farms in the city this morning to do a photo feature on it. I guess these operations are usually super secret and secure, but that James and his velvet tongue…” He trailed off, then finished, “and now all the blockchains they had stored on site in the local bitcoin wallet are gone.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the Terrordon remarked. “How much money in bitcoin are we talking about here?”
“Well, they collect it and remove it from site every week, but it’s a pretty big farming operation. There was about forty thousand bucks in bitcoin at the current market rate.”
“Goddammit!” The Terrordon cursed loudly. “Text me the address and I’ll head straight there.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C2FD39E3-E3DE-4252-A9BD-6269B0C8B018">
            <Text>August 2005</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E88547FE-D1D8-4102-90FD-EFA07B5EBB1A">
            <Text>“Look, Mister Kelly, I drew a picture for you. It’s that pretty place with all the white walls and all the nice people where we used to stay. I want to go back there. I don’t like it here. When can we go back?”
“Thank you, Charlotte, that’s a beautiful picture. We’ll talk about when we can go back. But later. Right now, I need to talk to The Sleepwalker.”
“Oh, him. You always make me go away so you can talk to him. I hate that. I hate him!”
“I’m sorry, Charlotte, but it’s really important. Please?”
Charlotte heaved a big sigh. Then she started to cry. Through her tears she choked out, “Do I have to?”
“Yes, honey. Please?”
Charlotte closed here eyes, put her elbows on the desk, and started to massage her temples.
The Sleepwalker brushed away his tears, lifted his head and looked at Kelly. “What’s happening?”
“Well, sir, it’s mixed. Jerry and Ivan got Chuck and that Nancy-boy. They’re in the cells in the basement. But The Mooch wasn’t so lucky. I’m afraid McCain’s security guards got him.”
“So The Mooch is no longer with us? I told you this was a bad idea. But you wanted to do this yourself. See what you got us into?”
“Well, sir, I’m really sorry. But The Mooch was a troublemaker, so it’s no big loss. It’s not like he’d been with us for a long time. Just ten days, isn’t it?”
“Sure. But I liked his style. Reminds me of myself. Doesn’t take any shit.”
“No, sir. He didn’t. But that’s water under the bridge. The question now is, where do we go from here?”
“Who’s next on the list?”
“Jason Richards.”
“That asshole? Okay. But no more fucking around. I’m going to do this myself. Get the boys together. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir. Where are we going to go?”
“Well, to his house. That’s where he is, isn’t he?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so. There was an article in the paper about the opening of the new photography exhibit at the Fraenkel Gallery. He’s supposed to be attending.”
“Photography? I like photography. I take great pictures. The best, in fact.”
“Yes, sir, the best. But we only have about half an hour until it closes, so we’d better get a move on.
“Okay. Fire up my helicopter. I’ve got just enough time to change into my fighting clothes.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1E59BCFD-DC50-4673-816C-3854DDBA024C">
            <Text>Babs H. Newton:
If this is the best that the Chronicle can produce in a matter as serious as terrorism I'm canceling my subscription. This frivolous take on the issue only helps terrorists and keep us from adopting the real and bold measures that we need to take as a country and as a society.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="875C257C-B947-408D-A9A2-F42280FF5455">
            <Text>From a vantage point across the bay, the Terrordon looked at the burning wreck of a house, and through his binoculars he could even make out Jason Richards being treated by a paramedic before being loaded into the ambulance for treatment at the hospital.
Retiring in 2005 had been a personal choice, but now the Sleepwalker was back on the streets of San Francisco and had implicated a prominent State Senator. They would all come for him, because they would all want their own kind of revenge.
Was this the right time to show his face?
No, he thought, shaking his head and turning to return to the Terrordon Cave. This time he would need to take down the Sleepwalker. Before he killed someone.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F7BCA7B4-8723-4F2E-A56E-4893B4F228B5">
            <Text>“Amy! I put your mail on your office, I’ve got to go!”
“Thank you Travis, good day!” answered Amy with a big smile.
A coffee in the hand, the stack of files in the other one, Amy skipped between the offices of the open-space with agility up to its desktop where she put down her load in bulk and hurried to open envelopes put on her office. Since the Terrordon did not give any sign of life anymore, its everyday life was much less exciting and she sometimes had the sensation to have been pushed aside. She liked her work as much as the San Francisco Chronicles, but it is complicated to sort out archives when she knew the adrenalin of a big subject to be covered. The first letters - some boring requests of diverse corrections that she would study later - were not very interesting, but the last one drew his attention. It had not been passed on by the mail service, but put down in the mailbox of the Chronicle, and she was the addressed. The most surprising was the way the address was written: with letters cut one by one from diverse newspapers. She was not able to refrain from smiling because this method was not anymore used for years, since the democratization of the computing. The set was so surprising and original so that she takes time to sit down to her office to open the envelope the most cleanly possible. She started read, and frowned.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A3D03898-C081-4DFE-BABF-731344DF276B">
            <Text>The funny thing about San Francisco weather in August is that you never knew what to expect. It could be frigid and windy one day and two days later, you’d be basking in the park in lovely 75 degree sunny weather at noon. And late that afternoon, you’d be back to sweaters because of frigid bone chilling wind and fog spilling in through the channel that separated the Marin headlands from the City shores. And that fog could drill right into your very being. Mark Twain was right when he quipped, “The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco.” You just never knew what you were going to get. So, when you woke up and saw the sun streaming solid and bright into your window on a summer morning, you jumped out of bed, got dressed, and did your best to take advantage of a good day of sunshine. 
That Tuesday broke sunny with blue skies and a forecast of 78 degrees. This was a perfect opportunity for a brisk walk to clear his mind and figure out his next steps, so Jacob set out for one of his favorite restaurants. Golden Era, was an easy fifteen minute Uber ride from his North Beach flat, but the forty-five minute power walk. The amped up adrenaline and endorphin rush, combined with a clear sky and almost balmy weather was almost too much to bear. 
The Golden Era was crowded, as usual, with a waiting line spilling over to the sidewalk. But luckily, the bar counter usually had a free space and Jacob was able to find a spot at the far corner inside. 
	While Jacob waited for his order of Curry Okra to arrive, he glanced around the packed restaurant and then out through the large picture window to the people milling around outside of the restaurant. 
	A woman in a deep plum jacket and impossibly high stiletto heels was deep in conversation on her cell phone. Her purse dangled off of her opposite shoulder via a narrow strap. Before Jacob could even formulate the observation to his brain – Gee, you are just asking for someone to swipe that purse off of your shoulder – two hooded figures swept by on a small motorbike. The one riding in the back reached out with two arms towards the woman, snatching the purse with one arm and shoving the woman’s shoulder with the other, sending her sideways careening into a large metal trash receptacle. 
	The motorbike picked up speed but just before it turned left at the opposite corner, a young, athletic looking guy cocked his hand back and snapped what looked like a football in a perfectly executed spiral that drilled right into the motorbike’s front wheel. The driver lost control and both men toppled over.
	“Whoa. Sweet pass. Stanford could have used him last week against Arizona State.” Two younger, techy looking fellows at the table behind where Jacob sat continued their meal and matter of factly discussed what was happening outside their window. “Look at those two scramble away and, heh heh, they even forgot to take the gal’s purse. What a fail day they are having.”
	“Wow. Look at those two Japanese chicks taking selfies of themselves in front of the gal that just got creamed.” “Yup. They’re going to be able to tell their friends back home about the big heist they witnessed on their vacation.” 
	“Look! The boy of the hour just picked up his ball and the purse and is going over to the gal. He pulled a great Terrordon today. Let’s get back to work.”
Terrordon. Jacob remembered a few stories that had surfaced well over fifteen years ago. The Terrordon – some guy who wore a caped crusader outfit that appeared off and on for a hand full of years back around 2000. What had happened to him? Did anybody ever find out who he was?
	Jacob did a quick Google search on his phone and saw a few hits for Terrordon, but they were mostly hits for some hip hop dude or a Pokemon type of character. But then, several links down he saw an item dated in 2005 that described a mysterious costumed man who had helped rescue a litter of puppies from a basement fire. And then another link a year before that about someone who had beat up a guy who was pushing drugs near a high school in the Richmond. 
	Was it just those two incidents? There had to be more, but Jacob’s memory was a little foggy. Jacob pulled up the San Francisco Chronicle’s website and tried a few searches there but came up blank. Who would remember? Who would know?
	All of the folks he’d worked with at the San Francisco Chronicle had retired, moved away or died, so that was a dead end. But he was having dinner Saturday night with his good friends, the Hunters. They were both in the news business and had been around for a while. Maybe he could get some good intel from them.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="8E686CE9-0785-4795-A835-8D0069948E57">
            <Title>Unplaced scenes</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9BC3959D-B483-46CB-A184-0DD53A8BE295">
            <Title>Introduction</Title>
            <Text>Time is no substitute for talent
There is a well-known saying that if you give a monkey a typewriter and an infinite amount of time then it will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. In 2003, the staff at Paignton Zoo gave a computer to six crested macaques and categorically proved that what you actually get is five pages of the letter ‘S’ and a broken keyboard. Time, it seems, is no substitute for talent. But can talent substitute for time…?
The book you are about to read was written over the course of a single day in October 2017. For those unfamiliar with the concept of Novel-in-a-Day, it’s simple: - A skeleton of a plot is worked out in advance of the day - That plot is broken into sections, which are divided amongst the participants randomly - The writers have most of the rest of the day to write and return their chapters, working with no knowledge of the wider story or their place in it. 
I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as we loved putting it together.

Tim
October 28, 2017</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F4D59D5F-DBA3-43C3-BA18-5695DFEC589C">
            <Text>There was really only one direction to go from there and that was up. So, Jacob was hustled in Sleepwaker's wake up the stairs that came down right there. Behind them was the sound of gunfire and now also sirens somewhere.
They ran at a jog and entered on what looked like an endless hall of mirrors. Sleepwalker made them all stop here, he said, "to admire the view." And then they ran on — deeper and also farther up into the extensive grounds of the old St. Francis hotel.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="98D05BDA-9CAF-4E8F-8CCF-819165E2BCD2">
            <Text>@JacelynMrsBumbi
Open you'r eyes this is a FALSE FLAG opperation to keep the people scared and not think about how Congreess is DESTROIYNG AMERICA!!!!!!!!</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DAA8B8B7-D79C-4315-B8E0-02C5781D2C79">
            <Title>Chapter 6</Title>
            <Synopsis>Jacob decides needs to occupy mind of hero — goes onto streets to look for trouble; what would a vigilante do? nearly gets beaten up. nearly gets arrested</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
JACOB HEATH is a professional biographer. He has decided his next book should be about the TERRORDON - the masked vigilante that was credited with cleaning up the streets of San Francisco at the turn of the millenium before disappearing in 2005.
Things that have already happened
Jacob has spoken with (or been turned away by) as many 'normal' sources as possible - journalist, mayor, police etc
Starts with
Jacob decides he needs to do more to understand the mindset of a hero -- and what makes a vigilante tick.
Chapter details
Jacob goes onto streets of San Francisco to look for trouble to try and get a sense of what would trigger a person to want to become a vigiliante. 
You should have him find some trouble and then do the brave thing and try and break it up.
It should go pretty badly for him!
Ends with
Jacob gets away more scared than injured.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7186953F-8DEC-497F-8528-4C83C83AB62B">
            <Text>Medication followed breakfast. Joe stood in line, patiently waiting for his concoction of pills. He’d never understood why he had to wash the assortment down with water rather than tea, but he obliged on every occasion. Each patient was medically assessed for a period during the day, but as there were only so many doctors to patients. The ratio meant there was plenty of leisure time available. Charlotte would always play or draw. Tim’s exuberance would scare other patients back to their rooms. Rog was another personality, there were seven in total that had been uniquely identified, not counting the Sleepwalker, and Rog was a very quiet Californian. He basically wasn’t there, a void, simply wanting to be left alone to read. It was Rog that shuffled away from the dispensary towards the library. It wasn’t an extensive library in the hospital, but Rog settled onto an obscurely positioned beanbag with a well worn copy of the Bhagavad Gita. 
His harmonious repose was disturbed by a commotion emanating from the common room. The television has been turned up much loader than usual, with people watching, both patients and staff, bellowing indistinctly. Although his instinct was to slink further into the recesses of the library, his state was further dislodged when he thought he heard the name Terrordon mentioned on the TV. Joe was back, purposely up to his feet and striding towards the corner of the common room that had rows of chairs in front of a television. Patients were agitated, as breaking news headlines scrolled with the names Fisherman and Terrordon emblazoned. There was a new super-villain terrorising San Francisco, and his name was the Fisherman!
At the same time as the Sleepwalker had been captured back in 2005, the Terrordon had disappeared. With the superhero’s work complete, his nemesis defeated and humiliated, he’d gone off the radar and hadn’t been heard from or seen over the last 12 years. It would appear with the coming of the Fisherman, Terrordon had reemerged from slumber to take care of the good people of San Francisco. Looped video footage showed the Fisherman blowing apart suspension sections of the Golden Gate Bridge, with the athletically built Terrordon gliding into scene on his cape, lashing the shattered strands back together and thus preventing the bridge from losing stability.  
Joe was feeling uneasy. There was definitely something much worse afoot that using milk with Darjeeling tea. He cramped to his knees, holding onto the back of one of the TV chairs. What would the world be like having Terrordon back to cheer, without the Sleepwalker adding balance? Would the Sleepwalker and Fisherman be able to unite together against a common enemy? Joe was gone, and the most dissociative identity was about to cause disorder. The Sleepwalker was back, and he was in a ruthless mood! The chair arched and smashed into the TV screen, catapulted with a force that belied the frame that had tossed it so effortlessly. The nurse with syringe was comically dispatched. Due to the severity of the situation, she’d had her hand wrapped around the syringe with thumb ready on the plunger, arm leverage thrusting everything down towards the neck of the Sleepwalker. Like taking candy from Charlotte, he’d dodged the lunge and used the momentum of the nurse’s arm to follow through into her abdomen, pushing on her own thumb to dispense the contents of the vial into her. 
With terrifying speed and agility he was onto one of the guards before they’d even managed to make it to the scene of the commotion. The guard’s sidearm was cocked to his own head, as the Sleepwalker backed him down a corridor towards a secure door. It took little negotiation to convince the guard that he ought to be fumbling for his keys. An alarm sounded as the door opened, but the Sleepwalker was free again. As a sign of intent, he shot the guard twice before disappearing into the bushes and away from Rampworth State Hospital for the first time in 12 years! News channels thought they’d already had their scoop of the day, but they were sorely mistaken. </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A5B31C26-8402-499D-B596-08B4AEC98403">
            <Text>Alcatraz Island. The formidable military installation turned penitentiary that had imprisoned the most notorious villains of our time. Terrordon gazed on it without wonder. There was no surprise why the Sleepwalker had chosen to take it hostage. It was the perfect hideaway sprawled in the middle of the San Francisco Bay with practically no means of ambush, no means of escape. Practically.
Everyone knew the island´s infamous escape artists Frank Morris and the Anglin Brothers. But few knew of the other failed attempts that ended with the bodies of convicts frozen by the icy waters being washed up on the shores of the bay. Some were carried away to sea by the current, only to be accidentally recovered by fishermen a hundred miles away. Even the strongest swimmers would succumb before reaching the shore less than a mile and a half away. A few escapees—while never found—were believed to have been dragged to the depths of the ocean and devoured by sharks—though there were no man-eating sharks in the bay. Yes, people knew of the escape artists and would be escapees; the island thrived on such tales which garnered the city millions of dollars in annual tourist revenue.
No one really knew of attempts to infiltrate Alcatraz, though. There was that once rumored time in 1996, back when he was just a boy, but no one remembers. Some megalomaniac had taken Alcatraz hostage then, too, but the subsequent siege had been led by a crack military outfit and ex-Alcatraz inmate. Terrordon was on his own. He would have to be careful, yet quick. The bombs were ticking.
Terrordon put on his slim magnifying goggles and surveyed the circumference of the 3-story prison, which looked, ironically, more like a summer house. Henchmen were stationed along the perimeter and in the lighthouse, the guard tower, even on the defunct water tower. Over two dozen, paired in twos and sometimes threes, not a lone gunman among them. Sleepwalker, for all his diabolism, was smart. Hell, were megalomaniacs ever not smart? The easiest criminals to apprehend were always the ones who were passionate about their crimes, led by uncontrolled anger, greed, or insanity; the kind that cackled at others distress and made longwinded speeches because their purpose was not to be free, but to be remembered. Their emotions were a detriment and caused needless mistakes, like sending all their henchmen at once to take out Terrordon—or gathering them all in once convenient location—only to have those minions obliterated with one swell swoop.
This is why I must stop you, Terrordon mused. You are a threat because you have no emotions.
Of course, this detachment, while perhaps a strength for Sleepwalker, was also his Achilles heel. The lunatics, while easier to apprehend, were infinitely more unpredictable. They would just as soon toss their hostage off a building in a tantrum without realizing they’d just tossed away any bargaining power. Or they’d detonate every bomb at once just for the hell of it, even if it killed them, too. And they were notoriously difficult to find, never hiding in the one place you assumed they would.
Sleepwalker, on the other hand, was no average maniac. His lunacy had logic. He didn’t just want to cause havoc, he wanted to cause suffering. He wanted not only to be remembered, but free as well. Which meant he would predictably hide himself in an area of Alcatraz that was both easy to escape and easy to defend from all angles, no corners, no blind spots.
The warden’s house. Or, at least, what was left it. The ruins were perfect a perfect command station to see everything and everyone coming from above, from ahead, from beyond, so long as you had enough eyes to cover you.
Terrordon trained his gaze north again to the lighthouse, where three armed guards formed a triangle in the booth. He shifted his view down to the adjacent mansion, gutted by fire and time, but its large windows still solid and overlooking the bay and, nearby, the  . . . heliport.
You gave yourself a front row seat to the carnage! Not today, my friend. Not ever.
A flash of purple skirted across his vision as other guards on the ground walked into view, clustered around something or someone as they entered the ruins of the warden’s house. Terrordon slipped off the goggles and started the Jet Ski he’d stolen from the harbor. There was no other way to confront Sleepwalker but head-on: no stealth maneuvers, no element of surprise except the surprise of an open ambush. There was no time for strategic planning; the clocks were ticking. He’d have to expose himself as he came up the flank and entered at the Dock Tower.
Terrordon gunned the ski and shot off across the bay, his cape waving behind him as both a beacon of hope and a shield against the water sprayed by the powerful machine slicing the rough currents. As he neared the island he raised a miniature gun and shot it towards the lighthouse in quick succession. Two guards were hit and fell moments later. The third turned and started shooting rounds from a machine gun as Terrordon raced up the path the short distance towards the ruins.
Henchmen lined the road like centurions, and as he passed through, they, too, opened fire. He could do little more than duck as the bullets flailed, hitting other henchmen and whizzing past his ears. He stopped short and dropped to his knees as guards assailed him from ahead. Throwing the cape around his body, he activated the electromagnetic bulletproof shield on his utility belt. The force of the bullets pushed him back and he dug his heels into the ground with spiked cleats. In moments, if he didn’t move, the barrage of bullets would deactivate the field and he’d be a dead man. He could think of only one thing to do.
Daringly, Terrordon snatched a grenade from his belt as he plugged his ears with one swift motion and with the next threw off the cape and tossed the grenade in front of him. It detonated immediately, and, though it didn’t kill his adversaries, the sonic blast deafened and immobilized them. He raced up the path, slowing slightly as the steep climb beat his lungs, and finally burst into the open square of the warden’s ruins.
A sudden blast hit him from behind and fell to the ground, his vision blurred, and his arms weak. Terrordon pulled the safety plugs from his ears and heard before he saw, the slow, sarcastic clapping of his nemesis, Sleepwalker.
“Bravo, bravo,” said Sleepwalker. “Took you longer than expected, but indeed, I was expecting you.”
Terrordon groaned as he raised himself to his knees. His vision began to stabilize as Sleepwalker came into focus, his garish purple suit mere feet away, his arm extended with a pistol pointed at Terrordon. There was no smile on Sleepwalker’s face.
“Why? Why are you doing this? Those people inside, the people of San Francisco—what have they done to you?”
Sleepwalker sighed. “Do you really think you will buy time with this charade of empathy? You don’t care about these people. You only care about yourself, your image, your legacy. You are no different from me. Just a vigilante fighting because you have nothing else in this world. No one to love and no one to love you.”
 Terrordon glanced around and saw no one else. He gazed at his nemesis with true confusion. “Where are your henchmen?”
“Oh, the ones you didn’t kill or maim? They are in the fortress, awaiting my command. You see, I wanted you here alone, just you and I. We have unfinished business.” Sleepwalker waved his gun. “Go on, stand up. I want to see you fall when I shoot you.”
“With pleas—” Terrordon reached for his utility belt only to discover his waist naked.
Sleepwalker chuckled. “Gone.”
“How? When?”
“You disappoint me,” said Sleepwalker. “Why do they call me the Sleepwalker? That blast that knocked you out—you lost time. Enough for me to remove all your little gadgets. All your guns. Well, for you to remove them.”
“What? I didn’t—”
“You did. You did many things, actually. How much time do you think you lost?”
Terrordon blinked. He realized suddenly that the shadows he saw were not because his vision was yet unclear; the sun had begun to descend. “Why haven’t the bombs gone off?”
“Oh, they will. Patience. First, I want to tell you a little story.”
“No!” Terrordon brushed dirt from his sleeves. He moved slowly, not from the pain that prickled his side, but out of caution. He didn’t want to spook Sleepwalker. And he didn’t want to suffer another bomb attack—whatever those bombs did. “This ends now. Shoot me.”
“Very well.”  The force of the blast rocked Terrordon, knocking him back to the ground. He immediately grabbed his abdomen to staunch the blood, but felt no warm trickles through his fingers. Nothing.
 “Amazing, isn’t it? I could shoot you again, if you like. There will be no blood but your organs will be damaged just the same. If I want, I could kill you with a higher frequency and no one would know how. Just another little toy I’ve been working on. Now, where was I?”
Terrordon stood again. “You were going to tell me why you planted bombs all over the city. Why you want to destroy us all.”
“No, no, I wasn’t. Suffice to say I have some issues with our great city, some abandonment issues.”
“Abandonment issues?” echoed Terrordon. “I agree, you have issues. But destroying a city won’t fix them. You need help. Someone to talk to, to help you unearth whatever emotions you buried deep inside. If you won’t get professional help, let me help you.”
Sleepwalker fairly barked out his disdain. He laughed humorlessly, waving his gun at empty targets. “I need help? I need help? Have you looked in the mirror lately? Parading around in Halloween costume, trying to save a world that doesn’t want your help! Searching for some identity. Which of us is more pathetic, more needy? At least I know who I am.”
Terrordon lowered his head and whispered, “You don’t know who you are. You don’t know why I am trying to help you.”
Something about Terrordon´s voice caused Sleepwalker to hesitate, He lowered the gun and stepped closer to his nemesis, so close if Terrordon has wanted he could have snatched the gun and put an end to it all. But he didn’t. He stood his ground and held Sleepwalker´s gaze.
“Why did you take Alcatraz hostage?”
Sleepwalker stepped back. “What?”
“Why Alacatraz?” repeated Terrordon.
Sleepwalker raised the gun. “It doesn’t matter!”
Terrordon moved forward, hands splayed as if to show he had nothing up his sleeves, as if to surrender. “It does. You don’t do anything without a purpose. You don’t leave anything to chance. So it stands to reason it was not chance that brought you to Alcatraz. What brought yiuy here—John?”
“What did you call me?”
Terrordon lowered his hands. “I know who you are. I know about your connection to Alacatraz. I know why you feel abandoned, why you blame Alcatraz. It wasn´t just you. It was me, too. You and I are alike, Sleepwalker.”
Sleepwalker raised the gun. “You are nothing like me!”
Terrordon stepped closer and put his hands on the gun. He pulled the muzzle iunto his stomach.
“I was abandoned, too. After the escape, they tried to go clean, didn’t they? But they couldn’t because they were being hunted like villians, and you—we-slowed them down. They couldn’t run with us. They had to keave us behind. They had no idea what wuld happen to us—anymore then we know what happened to them.”
Sleepwalker shook his head angrily. “No! You don’t know hat you are taking about. You don{t know me!”
“I do,” said Terrordon. “I´m your—”
The blast knocked him backward and stung his ears. Everything was dark, buzzing, and hot. Terrordon crawled to a purple blob a few feet away, and placed his hear to what he assumed was Sleepwalker´s chest. The thumping in his was audible, but weak. Then than purple blog coughed.
“You are nothing like me,” he whispered.
Terrordon removed the belt from his pants and tied it firmly around Sleepwalkers wrists.
“Of course not,” he said. “I´m free.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="ACA50375-78E8-4F4E-AE1C-C8BAD2ABD232">
            <Text>Stalker99666:
You dumb b*tch you cant write to save you're life and your ugly as f*ck why dont you die and stop writing dumb sh*t theres no Fisherman its the illuminati
[EDITOR'S NOTE: please be advised that this user has been flagged by our readers and the comment is being reviewed for content and abusive language]</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="71A6772B-AE2E-4DA7-9598-088F78EE654C">
            <Text>Jacob, with his right arm folded behind his back, slowly extended his left arm holding onto the pull-up bar, relaxing his muscles slightly. Taking a deep breath, he clenched his right fist and pulled himself up again, beads of perspiration rolling down the side of his face onto the ground. It was quiet in the 24-hours gym at 2 A.M., and there was no one else besides him and another middle-aged man over by the weights - perfect for when he needed to sort out his thoughts, even more so for carrying out deeds in the dark cover of the night.
He pulled himself up again and looked at his reflection in the mirror in front, his tensed muscles vibrating slightly under the strain. He had already swiftly improved from what he could do in the past, all that he needed was some discipline. Watching himself lift his entire weight up with his left arm, he considered that physically, he did not look that much different from the Terrordon. They are not that much different in terms of physique. Strength and agility-wise, he was confident about his frequent work-outs and if he were to rate himself, the score would not be too bad. To know how well he would really do against the Terrordon, he would have to come face-to-face with him but just where had he gone?
Lowering himself onto the ground, Jacob walked over to where the glass ceiling to floor windows would have typically given him a birds' eye view of the streets below during the day. However, it was too dark outside and he could only see himself staring back at him. Even if a crime were to occur right beneath his nose in those darkened alley streets, he would not be able to know it. He took a quick glance at the clock. It was just a few hours more before his appointment with the Police Commissioner. The Police was the most obvious candidate he could think of to get further information on the Terrordon. The front-line officers were ultimately the ones who were right where the action occurred. Even for people in the back-line support, they would have encountered people with direct exchanges with the Terrordon. So, a few weeks earlier, he had gotten in touch with his old contact at the Police Department from his journalist days and was surprised to hear that the Commissioner would like to meet him. Initially, he was furious that his contact actually sold him out to the Commissioner. Such betrayal would not be tolerated back in those days but he remembered that he was no longer a journalist and had probably long since lost his privilege with the Police. Then, calming down and giving it more thought, he realised it might not be too bad a situation to be in after all. Through the Commissioner, if he was lucky, he might be able to get access to more police files on the Terrordon than he could ever imagine and such official records would give his book the credibility it is currently lacking with only theories and no evidence to support who the man behind the Terrordon was. The next person he must find would be Amy Kennedy from San Francisco Chronicle where he used to work. She had been responsible for most of the paper’s coverage of the Terrordon since the time she joined.
"I must find an opportunity to talk to her but now, I must start getting ready," he thought. "First impressions count especially for such an important deal I have to negotiate, hopefully not to wrangle, my way though."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F9C5DA72-AA2E-49EC-9828-F6400A63C3BF">
            <Text>He knew there was a lot of blood, but he didn't feel anything. Crimson red. His ears were ringing. His head was pounding fit to burst.
A man's face looked down at Jacob. The man had a friendly accent. He was saying something to someone. But his words came through all muffled by the ringing in Jacob's ears.
"Oh, that's awful," the man was saying. "That looks bad. You shouldn't have done that, mate. You didn't have to shoot him, for God's sake. Ugh, he's really bleeding out."
Jacob closed his eyes.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F3A0B7C0-C8B7-43E7-A6EE-2DE64DEAC349">
            <Title>Title Page</Title>
            <Text>Start Wearing Purple

</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="D4C0A759-99A5-402C-95A0-5B747654CE7A">
            <Text>They were holed up in a snug suite of meeting rooms up on the twelfth floor. Sleepwalker, who was calling himself "Doug" at that particular moment, was rigging something with a gas canister in the so-called Study Room.
"Superheroes? Those aren't heroes. Vigilantes. Criminals is what they are. Everyone of them." He twisted hard on something attached to the canister. "Because there is such a thing as law and order, you know. It's downright unAmerican that's what it is."
He had finished attaching whatever it was to the valve mechanism on the top of the canister. "You know, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself."
"I'll tell you what I think." He smacked the top of the canister with the flat of his hand. "These creeps are destroying our way of life. Just look at 'em. Dressing up in all colors and prancing around with sticks and whips and guns and such. Sweet Jesus! People that want to draw attention to themselves like that, they already got something screwy in the head. You let a few of  them run around like that, call them heroes, get a thank you from the mayor — and pretty soon everybody's out there and its like some kind of goddamn Halloween. And there ain't no normal anymore."
Jacob didn't know this persona of Sleepwalker, but he felt uncomfortably like he knew this sort of man — the kind that could be saying those things while setting a death trap.
One of his henchmen came over to report. Sleepwalker snapped to attention and Jacob was made to join him in the hallway. Jacob had to stand in one particular spot and face just such a way, while Sleepwalker did likewise. Sleepwalker had his gun was out. The few henchment that had accompanied them up here were nowhere in sight.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3A3958A8-8D8C-4A6C-93DC-ED4070A7DBA1">
            <Title>Chapter thirteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch13-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F1B4A194-0A5E-433E-9DEC-F07C68239177">
            <Text>"At first I thought it was Charlotte's impression of a pirate, but…" she paused, similar to her image on the screen, at that moment the encounter had refreshed itself in her memory. "…as you could hear, it did not sound like a child impersonating an adult."
"You mean it's one of the Sleepwalker's other personalities?" enquired Jacob. He was quite curious now. The new voice did not sound like any of the other personalities he had talked to.
"There is more." said Dr Warne calmly.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="18F8C9DF-3EF0-445C-8584-F3A708A099B7">
            <Text>Jacob glanced at his watch. Three minutes to twelve.
From his vantage point behind the bushes, he could see the warehouse staff heading inside for their lunch break. They would be shielded from any flying debris once the first device went off, but it would still be loud enough for them to hear. Then, once they had alerted the managers, the store would be evacuated via the main entrance at the front – far enough away from the second device to avoid hurting anyone, but still near enough for everyone to see it go off. Guilt pricked at him as he realised the shivers rippling through his body were as much from excitement as fear. Get a grip, Jacob, you’re not supposed to be getting a kick out of this. Slowly and carefully, he pulled the remote-control device from his pocket and set it down on the grass beside him, before unbuttoning the trench coat and letting it drop to the floor, then taking off his hat to remove the turquoise ski mask scrunched up inside it. 
The foil wrappers glued around the eyeholes caught on his lashes as he pulled it on, but after a few tweaks and lot of swearing he was suitably incognito, if slightly visually-impaired. No matter. At this stage in the game, it was more important the Terrordon believed he was dealing with his new arch-nemesis The Fisherman, and not the desperate biographer Jacob Heath.
He looked at his watch. Noon, on the dot. And the loading bay was deserted. Time to make his move.
Three… two… one…
It was more like a dull thud than the loud bang he’d been expecting, and the spray of splintered wood and molten plastic that followed seemed to arc outwards in slow motion. Windows shattered, debris clattered against concrete and metal, and thick, black smoke with the acrid tang of burning plastic billowed up from the devastation. Jacob darted away through the bushes as a fire alarm began to wail. 
He sprinted to his next vantage point at the front of the store and waited. Now he had to make sure everyone was being evacuated via the main entrance before setting off the second device. Sure enough, within minutes people began pouring out through the automatic doors and swarming into the parking lot like confused sheep. 
Most were just staring in goggle-eyed silence, some were shouting and crying, and a few others were holding up cellphones to take pictures of the chaos unfolding around them. No-one seemed to know where to go or what to do. And they certainly weren’t paying any attention to the dumpsters in an isolated corner on the opposite side of the parking lot, crammed with cardboard packing material – until Jacob hit his remote-control button for the second time… 
The dumpster exploded, scattering flaming cardboard and plastic in every direction. Car alarms shrieked in response, and the crowds outside the store scattered like ants from a broken nest. As Jacob watched them, it struck him that he felt none of their fear. Everything around him looked fake, like it was all part of a movie set; colours were brighter, sounds were sharper. Adrenaline rushed through him. 
This must be how it felt to be a real superhero, where your actions had real effects that rippled out from their point of origin and made an impact on the world. Where you changed something forever, and people noticed you were the one who had changed it. He had to admit, it felt good. 
But wait – he was supposed to be playing the villain, wasn’t he? Oh crap, the Plan… 
He strode out from his hiding place, chin thrust back and fists resting on his hips in the classic super-villain pose. After a moment or two a few of the crowd noticed and nudged those next to them or pointed shaking fingers in his direction. As the attention on him increased, Jacob grew bolder. Strutting closer, he swept a foil-shaded gaze across the bewildered masses. 
“Yes, this was my doing,” he said. “The Fisherman has struck again! And I will continue to spread my reign of terror across this city, because it seems there are no heroes around who dare to oppose me!”
A small part of him twitched – it hadn’t sounded that cliched when he’d been practising it at home. But the message had been delivered – and, from the look of it, understood. As Jacob threw down a smoke bomb he’d bought from a joke shop to hide his retreat, the faint hiss of a single phrase rushed through the crowd in small, frightened whispers – “The Fisherman! It’s the Fisherman…”
The smoke bomb caused enough confusion to enable him to duck behind a wall and make his escape, and when he reached the trees he was relieved to find his hat and trench coat were still where he’d left them. If he could get them back on and his mask off without being discovered, he could sneak back out to his car and drive home before anyone realised. He grabbed the top of the mask, but before he could pull it off a sound like lashing rope cut through the air behind him. He whirled round in time to see a dark shape swing down from the roof of Home Depot and land on the grass about twenty feet away. 
Jacob’s heart somersaulted in his chest as the lycra-suited figure peered through the trees. It was him. It really was the Terrordon! And he looked as lean and mean as ever; whatever he’d been doing for his twelve years of self-imposed exile, it certainly wasn’t avoiding the gym. But none of that mattered now, because he was back! The public had their superhero again, and Jacob had his Protagonist. And all it took was setting off a couple of home-made bombs in a public place and pretending to be a terrorist…
Oh. 
Crap.
The Terrordon finally located him through the trees – and as their eyes met, Jacob felt the blood chill in his veins. This was where The Plan had fallen apart. He snatched up his coat and hat and ran toward the bushes, crashing through the foliage in a desperate attempt to vanish. 
There was a shallow bank on the other side, and he slipped and skidded all the way down, not daring to look behind him as he bumped his way across tree roots and through branches. It was only when he reached the bottom that he realised he could no longer hear footsteps pounding after him, and when he turned back there was no sign of the Terrordon or anyone else. His hands shook as he finally tore the mask off his face. 
That was a close call. 
He sank to his knees, suddenly lightheaded from the car-crash of emotions inside him. Luring the Terrordon back out into the open again had been the biggest buzz of his life – but getting caught himself would have been a disaster. He put his coat back on and stuffed the mask into his pocket, staring back up the bank where the roof of Home Depot peeked over the top of the tree line. He should probably stay here for a while before heading back up to collect his car. </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DFAE3680-78F3-4DCF-9EAE-AE6D6B9FBF04">
            <Text>“What’s going on?” a man looked outside the window. “There must have been an accident, I just received several notifications on my twitter feed”, the girl replied without looking away from her smartphone.
The sirens’ sounds were loud and coming from all directions, Jacob grabbed his phone and immediately opened his twitter account for the SF hashtag: ‘terror attack in San Francisco, police is cordoning off the area.’ “Emmy text me later, tell mum and dad we’re ok and all, I must dash!”, Emmy couldn’t even reply to Jacob as he was already out of the shop, running as fast as he could in the rain, just like he used to do during his swimming team workout. The streets were jammed, police cars and firefighters were all over the place, people were trying to make sense, talking to each others for more insight, checking their phones. 
Why the sense of community only arises when a tragedy brings us forcefully together? Jacob was thinking about this and about the murder of Harvey Milk and George Moscone in the late seventies, how it brought a sense of unity that the city struggled to keep up with in recent years. While all these thoughts were jamming his mind, one was prevalent: The Terrordon. Could this awful attack be a magnet for his comeback?
Good thing I keep up with the workouts, he thought, or I would have ran out of breath and stuck in the traffic by now. Jacob was approaching his flat when the phone rang.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E324FC7C-184D-4337-936F-E0EBF4D5A283">
            <Text>“Hi - Amy, Pete… great to see you both. I got us the table deal. There are some baby beets, avocado, a few dips…”
 Jacob tailed off. Suddenly it sounded like the cheap option that it was. His biography of Milk might have brought Jacob fame, but it wasn’t exactly going to be optioned, and money was tight - his only fall back for extra income would be pimping out the details of method writing on talk shows across the nation to audiences who listened politely but were only ever really interested in whether he’d slept with another man in the name of his craft. Unless he could make something of his Terrordon book, that is.
Well, never mind the food - they were here, and he needed them. Or needed Amy, at any rate. His thoughts were serious, but he forced a smile.
“So - okay. If you’re wondering why you’re here, it’s this. Pete - you know some details. I’m currently writing a new book - it’s a biography of the Terrordon. Amy - you know him; you’ve written plenty on him over the years. Superhero. Prehistoric logo, gadget collection, now retired…”
He paused. They looked interested so far, he thought. Now it was time to bring out the good stuff.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2B8A11FA-9FC9-47AD-8C95-E12C865A11AD">
            <Text>It was the rain that gave him his chance.
Another squall blew in from the bay and the skies dimmed. The buildings around him suddenly seemed small and unreal, as though he had zoomed in on some scale model built for special effects in a film. Explosions. All he could hear was the drumming of the rain on his hat and coat and the slushing of wet car tyres below.
The rapid thud of his own heart.
This was it.
The lenses of the binoculars were distorted with droplets of rain, but he could see that the area in front of the entrances was clear now. Everyone was taking shelter from the downpour and there was a good ten-metre radius around the toy dinosaur, which was all this first explosive needed. It was barely an explosive, really—more a smoke bomb. Explosive Number One was just for show and would hurt nobody. Explosive Number Two would do the damage when the area was clear.
With sweaty fingers, the Fisherman reached into his tackle box—and panicked. He’d somehow left the lid open and the tins were wet. He’d sealed them well so they should—should—still work, but that wasn’t what terrified him.
What terrified him was that the felt-tip numerals had bled in the rain and were now unreadable. Why had he written the “1” with a serif and a horizontal bar at the bottom? Each tin seemed to have a smudged number “2” written on it now.
He took another deep breath.
He had put the tackle box down such that Detonator Number One was on his left and Detonator Number Two was on his right. He was sure of it.
But was he really sure?
Jacob’s voice said: Go home. Don’t risk it. Give up. Write about a baseball player instead.
The Fisherman took out the left detonator and cast a glance across the street. The area was still clear.
The Fisherman didn’t hesitate.
He pressed the button.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7B8F380C-DB87-4242-B0BB-D0B02DECE8B3">
            <Title>Pete Schlamme</Title>
            <Text>Name:
Pete Schlamme

Job:
Literary agent, specialising in non-fiction. Represents Jacob Heath.

Gender:
Male

Age: 50

Appearance:
5’10”, slightly overweight, but not to the extent that you’d notice while he was dressed. Hair is both thinning and greying, but not yet balding.

Family:
Live with his boyfriend of 4 years, Jon. Mother, Amy Schlamme is living in Connecticut. Father, Joshua, died a year ago. One brother, Paul (age 48), is a doctor. 
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="334862E7-4F05-41BE-BB17-5FE69D84E995">
            <Text>	•	Dissociative Identity Disorder: in extreme cases it presents as multiple separate ‘people’ ‘sharing’ the same body, with those personalities exhibiting substantially different behavior, emotional reactions, and a lack of shared memories 
	•	Dr Lisa Appleton Warne: Clinical psychiatrist; Rampworth State Hospital; maximum-security; mentally ill convicts committed to psychiatric facilities by California’s courts
	•	Sleepwalker: sadist; diagnosed with DID; under care of DrLAW; nemesis of Terrordon; ESCAPED</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="173407F4-AAE3-4B0C-8044-B98B3B05EBAD">
            <Text>The double doors to the suite burst open and Terrordon appeared in action-ready stance, one caped arm in front of him.
"Oh no! It's Terrordon!" cried Sleepwalker in unconvincing surprise. "Quickly, this way!"
He ran with Jacob in tow back into the Study room, Terrordon in close pursuit. But when Terrordon entered, the door closed behind him with a clank.
Sleepwalker stood in the only other doorway which let onto the Library Room. Jacob had been shoved on into that room and into the hands of a waiting henchman.
Sleepwalker held up one hand like a showman and clicked the remote switch he held. The gas canister valve blew clean off and gas started venting wildly into the room.
Terrordon was choked by the gas immediately. He staggered.
"Not sleeping gas this time, Terrordon. This time we play for keeps. No third act for you!" Sleepwalker coughed on his last words and took a step back from the room.
Terrordon stood his ground in spite of the gas. He held up one gloved hand like a showman and spread two fingers to reveal a mesh webbing.
"Hand mask," he said with what must have been his last clear breath. Then clapped his hand over his mouth, drew a filtered breath and came at them.
Several razor disks flew threw the opening before Sleepwalker's waiting henchmen could yank him back and secure the door — with Terrordon still on the other side.
"He doesn't get out of that room alive!" cried Sleepwalker, hustling Jacob to the hallway. Two henchmen fell in to follow them, but Sleepwalker said no. "You are here until he is dead. You kill him. Now."
As he was saying this, a curve of blade punched out through the Study door. I was very obviously the saw-toothed black and white cranial crest from Terrordon's outfit.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="13E93502-3640-4A65-A562-D3F4D70D721C">
            <Title>Chapter eleven</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch11-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="88222762-6926-402C-83B7-33B7A256FD45">
            <Text>He had spent a day criss-crossing the streets below, scanning for the perfect lookout. The rooftop he had chosen not only gave him a clear view of the entrance to the Moscone Center, but also had a fire escape that provided a quick exit to an alley at the back. The concrete walls of taller buildings either side blocked him from the view of surrounding office towers with their glass windows and bored occupants. All he had to do now was hunker down in his chair, keeping hidden behind the low wall overlooking the street and wait for his moment.
On the wet concrete slabs next his chair, Jacob—the Fisherman—had laid out his tools next to the holdall containing his own clothes: a tackle box and a fishing rod. Now he pulled the tackle box into his lap and flipped the latch. Inside were two metal tins. Each was about the size of a cigar box, with a red plastic button cut into the side and a strip of masking tape on top.
Home-made remote detonators.
They were identical aside from the numbers written on the masking tape in felt tip: “1” and “2”.
Satisfied that the detonators hadn’t magically disappeared on his tram ride here, the Fisherman laid the tackle box down, unscrewed two tubes from the end of the fishing rod, and snapped them together to form a pair of binoculars. Somewhere at the back of his mind, Jacob’s voice wondered at the pointlessness of this gadget, but the Fisherman ignored it. He rested the binoculars on top of the wall and surveyed his target below.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F9388421-198D-451E-AD98-5037CF5DC745">
            <Title>In Memoriam</Title>
            <Text>In Memoriam
I was incredibly saddened to learn recently that our good friend Montrée Whiles passed away earlier this year, after her car was struck by a drunk driver. 
Montrée was one of the most enthusiastic members of the NiaD family, and her passion (and chasing) certainly helped keep the event running this long! The more I’ve learnt over the past few weeks about this remarkable woman, the more and more respect I have for her. I won’t share specific details here since she deliberately chose to use a pen name for her writing, but trust me — she was one of the good ones.
Taken far too young. We’ll miss you.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="58EFBD2A-D9AD-4C5F-929A-3F965A4DB22C">
            <Text>“Please stay out of trouble.” Pete gave him a measured look.
“What, Schlamme wants to stay out of the Schlammer?”Jacob joked.
“I’m not talking about me, though between you and me, getting called to the stand for one of my clients wouldn’t be good for business. I’m talking about you and your impulsive research habits. Things have changed a lot over the years, but I don’t think judges are any more tolerant of, uh, even socially-beneficial, ‘extra-legal’ activity, regardless of whether said practitioner is retired or,” his slightly greying eyebrows raised meaningfully, “just setting up practice.”
Pete Schlamme was a good agent; he could read people. He knew what folks wanted and what they were capable of. That, or he had noticed the mask poking out of Jacob’s jacket pocket. Jacob shoved it back down as he glanced around at the other occupants of the quiet coffee shop where he and his agent often met. Pete was a friend, but he was also in the business of getting books finished.
They came to this cafe because it was sunny and quiet, but it suddenly felt quieter than normal.
Pete leaned in and lowered his voice, “I don’t know exactly what you’ve been up to, but vigilantism is against the law.” Jacob tried to protest, but Pete waved it aside as he continued. “Look, it wouldn’t be entirely out of keeping with your last projects. You’re a good writer, you don’t have to go in so deep. What you’re not, is a super-hero. You’re capable, just not cape-able, if you get my meaning.” Even in earnest, Pete was not one to let slip the opportunity for a pun. “Besides,” his tone became more relaxed, “prison memoirs are simply not ‘in’ at the moment.”
Jacob smiled. “Truth is, you’re right, ‘research,’” here he mocked Pete’s knowing expression, “hasn’t been going over so well.” He winced from a sudden soreness. “Not that it invalidates the process.” He shook his head and sat back in his chair, folding his arms. “Even if it was going well, there just isn’t that much out there to find that isn’t common knowledge already. The news stories, the gadgets, the outfit - everyone knows about that. I can’t seem to find a single person who knew the guy, or even had a single clue as to who he might have been and if he is still around. He had to have been rich, athletic, and tall, but you can’t write a whole book based on that. There is simply not enough information out there to form a plausible theory, and I’m not going to stake my reputation on making stuff up.” 
“You can usually count on even a fluff-bio to sell somewhat,” Pete mused, while Jacob snorted derisively across the table, “but the public is off vigilantes, especially ones that have been gone more than a decade. They get more than enough of that in the movies now.” Pete saw his opening, and went for it. “Why is this one so important? I’ve got plenty of other books that you’d be a good fit for. Alex Honnold is due for a biography.” 
“What, the rock-climber?” 
“Yeah, you could go swinging off rock-ledges to your heart’s content. With the proper harnesses, of course,” he added, hoping he hadn’t traded a snake for a scorpion. A win for Jacob was a win for Pete, but a dead biographer was a win for no-one.
“Nah, he’s accomplished, but he’s too young.”
“Damien Chazelle, Beyonce?” Hollywood might be safer than rocks, come to think of it.
“Same problem. There is way too much of their story that they haven’t written yet. How can you distill a life that hasn’t been lived? Besides, there are enough bios of musicians, writers, and actors. I want to write about people who have really lived out their ideals, lived for something great! A full story with a beginning, middle, and end that readers can be inspired by and learn from. The Terrordon was truly living his own story. He WAS a story!” Jacob smacked the table, making a little hot coffee leap out of his cup and on to the table. He mopped it up with a napkin. “I just can’t find most of it.”
They each took a quiet sip, Jacob from his black coffee, Pete from his heavy-cream latte. Pete thought about how he’d be switching to black coffee himself if he didn’t get a deal through soon.
“Look, Jacob, I sympathize, the Terrordon would be a great story, but you’re right, you’d need a new angle. I just don’t see how you get any more info on the guy, or unusually tall, muscular girl, short of our crime-fighting dinosaur literally coming out of retirement, or more likely, back from the dead.”  
Jacob’s eyes sparked with a sudden intuition. “Pete, everyone assumes that something happened to the Terrordon, right? But, hear me out on this, what if he left just because he felt he was no longer needed?” 
“Well, that sounds like wishful thinking to me. It’s not as if San Fran has been completely free of crime in his absence…”
“No, maybe not, but you have to agree that it’s nothing like it was before he disappeared. Can you think of a single threat big enough to call for someone like the Terrordon?” Jacob was starting to get excited now, which made Pete even more agitated.
“I suppose that’s true. So you think he’d come back if he was needed, assuming that he is actually alive?”
“Hey, if they don’t show the body in the movie there is always a chance they’ll come back.”
“You’ve got that right, even showing the body is no guarantee. Movie characters just can’t stay dead anymore!” Pete bit his tongue. Now he was encouraging him? He deserved everything that happened to him from this point forward.
“I’d bet you a stack of boring celebrity bio contracts that the Terrordon isn’t dead either. He just needs a reason to come back. I think if HE thinks there is a new threat to the city, then he will pick up the mantle right where he dropped it!”
“So what are you gonna do?”
Jacob took a deep breath and smiled. “I think it’s high time to introduce a new Super Villain to San Francisco.” Jacob veritably flew out of the cafe, leaving his still-warm coffee behind him on the table.
Pete picked up the dark mask off the floor, where it had fallen in Jacob’s theatrical rush to the nearest phone booth, or whatever was the villain equivalent. This was not how he expected the morning to go, but he knew from prior experience that there was simply no stopping Jacob now that he had an idea. Pete sighed into his coffee. At this rate he would be brewing his own black coffee at home.
“I wonder what the coffee down at the courthouse tastes like? Bet it’s still better than whatever they have at the morgue.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="17C2B3BD-91EC-4EAC-916A-D3B09835BA4B">
            <Text>@IllPatriot692
Another Islam threat on American soil!!1!! When will be wake up and destroy the a**holes!!! #MAGA #terrorthreat #PatriotsforJesus</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="37577B05-01FF-4FC4-B218-4A84DAD616AD">
            <Text>@AryyaStarrk
That someone would believe this is actually the work of a lone wolf is SO ridiculous is laughable! #BombThreat #AmericaUnderSiege</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="937E38DF-9AE5-4B93-9B50-2159AD7433FA">
            <Text>Apart from the lack of a stone lined corridor, the room where Doctor Warne took Jacob to meet Sleepwalker reminded him of ‘Silence of The Lambs.’ They arrived on one side of a thick glass wall, and on the other, in a comfortable armchair, sat Sleepwalker, reading. To Jacob the man seemed quite normal.  He was in his early forties, some six feet tall, with an average build, short dark hair, and, when he finally looked up at them, piercing green eyes.
“Go away Doctor Warne. I’m reading.”
“I can see that, Rog. I thought you’d like to meet a new friend. This is….”
“Go away Doctor, I… ooh. Oh yes!”
Jacob couldn’t believe his eyes. The man in the chair exploded out of it and sashayed towards the glass partition, his entire demeanour changing to one of unbridled lust, his eyes unwaveringly fixed on Jacob, his hands roaming across his groin, squeezing and rubbing as they went.
“Who is this delightful man you’ve brought to see me, Doctor Warne? I want him. I need him, now!”
“This is Mr. Heath, James.”
“Hello James,” Jacob managed, as the man who was Sleepwalker, but also James and six others, flung his arms wide and began to rub himself up and down on the glass partition.
“Get rid of the bitch and come in here and fuck me, Mr. Heath. Or I’ll fuck you. I don’t mind either way.
“If you answer me a question I’ll see what I can do,” Jacob said, throwing himself back into ‘method.’
“You will?” James said, running his tongue over his lips and slipping his hand under his waistband. “Mmm, it sounds wonderful. Alright then, ask away.”
Ï’m writing a biography of The Terradon, and I was wondering if you could tell me anything about him.”
“A biography of who? I’ve never heard of the man. I’ve….”
Jacob watched as the oversexed man seemed to fold in upon himself and shrank to the floor on his knees.
“Where’s my paper and crayons, Doctor Warne?” A young girls voice said, looking at them both. “And who is that new man standing there?”
They stayed for the next hour, talking to Charlotte about her drawings; waiting to see if they’d be another change of psyche. Jacob noticed one thing, though he didn’t think to mention it. Charlotte liked to draw with purple crayons. She liked that a lot.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F724375A-08C9-40A0-A2E0-2A209B56F783">
            <Text>He went to the store. Usually his shopping was hit and run: go to the corner convenience store, get what he wanted and a couple of impulse items, get out. But this time he took his time, trying to catch conversations among the patrons, or any hint that the Fisherman was starting to catch people's attention.
While he was there he browsed the newspapers. It was getting rarer for stores to carry them, but this one did. Jacob bought the San Francisco Chronicle, making sure there was an A. Kennedy byline there.
"Bad stuff, this attack, eh?," he tried on the store manager as he was paying. He received a blank stare as an answer.
"This guy, the Fisherman," he tried again, pointing at Amy's article in the paper he'd just bought. "Seems like a really crazy guy." He made a bit of a show of muttering some choice sentences written in the article, and shook his head sadly.
"It's all crazy guys out there lately, man," the manager shrugged. "Do you want anything else?"
"No, thank you."
Undaunted by this glimpse into the man-on-the-street mind, he went home with his purchases, got online, and googled 'Fisherman'. 79 million results. Yeah, maybe not the most distinctive name for his supervillain. Then he googled 'Fisherman attack'. Eleven million hits, mostly about fishermen attacked by sharks. Then he googled 'Fisherman terror attack'. Jackpot. There was the Kennedy article and also a smattering of articles, either op-eds and starkly informative, in a number of online media. There was also some chatter on social networks, not a lot, but satisfying enough.
He spent about an hour browsing through social media sites and comments sections. It was predictably depressing, and also failed to produce any hint that he had sparked Terrordon's interest. Maybe it was too son, maybe it was too unclear. What would draw him out?
He tried to think like the Fisherman: his fake villain would not really want to attract Terrordon's attention, of course, so he couldn't be too blatant. But he also would want to carry out his 'mission', and do so garnering better media attention than he was getting right now. Strike now, when the iron is hot, is what his gut told him. The Fisherman would need to feed his ego, his need for attention. 
A bomb threat would really hit the mark, he thought. These days there weren't enough of them to be fashionable as a kid's prank, it would be taken seriously, and it would get a lot of attention.
He jotted down the essentials:</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9EE0DA6E-DC02-430D-AF96-D34D181501A7">
            <Text>There are many who will try to explain what I have accomplished today. They will all be mistaken.
This is not about war. This is not about politics. This is not about fear. Their mistake will be in assuming that it is about them. They will say this is about you. It is not.
You are irrelevant. Those that have died today are only notable for the power they have given me. Today I cast a knot around the heart of San Francisco and pulled tight the net.
There will be more. The trawl has only begun.
This is the only warning you will get.
—The Fisherman—</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1AC38DB3-9F74-4EF8-A20D-BA51C9194CBE">
            <Title>Chapter one</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch01-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="25B3407E-D246-469A-A1B6-F718F4639C36">
            <Text>August 2005</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2EB36430-9741-4181-8338-62171C830111">
            <Text>The video shows a small room with simple furnishing, the camera looks down at a table at which is seated Dr Warne, her brunette hair braided instead of open. At the other end of the table sits a figure with shoulder length dark hair, bent over a large piece of paper. Several crayons and pencils are scattered in front of it.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7760B46C-F01D-4368-9796-33BB541F179C">
            <Text>It was obvious to Sleepwalker that The Fisherman was a fraud. He could tell without even considering any of the oh-so-obvious leads. The name itself gave it away. The Fisherman. It was offensive. Insulting. Demeaning. No serious villain would name themselves after a tradesman. 
“Better be careful, The Baker might get you! Ooh, look out, The Plumber’s on site,” he muttered. Trades were for honest people, which is probably why Jesus was a carpenter. Smart people worked hard too, but only for the fun of getting what they wanted from the honest people. 
The Fisherman. The phrase was intrinsically honest: no mystery, no menace, no style. It was amateur. 
It was like someone acting at being a villain, playing the part to get something. But it was the act of someone honest trying to be dishonest. It was predictable. 
And what did they get for it? 
Riches? Maybe, but that wasn’t enough to give oneself a Title. A good cardshark could probably earn more than what the Fisherman was going to end up with. 
Fame? Maybe. He was high profile to bring Terrordon out of retirement, but he wasn’t revelling in it. He’d barely scratched the surface of what was possible with social media. No, fame was not his motivation.
Delight in the suffering of others? No. At most there was possibly some schadenfreude in the inconvenience caused. Maybe. But it wasn’t fun. To be fun, suffering should be inevitable and it should be witnessed. Like pulling the legs off a caterpillar and watching it writhe uselessly until it dies. Or telling people that only one of the levers will trigger the death trap—they want to believe you—and watching them frantically argue about which to choose until they pull one in desperation. It was as inevitable as the cartoons on Saturday morning TV, but so much more fun! 
But not for The Fisherman. He didn’t seem to want to hurt others. 
So The Fisherman had all the traits of an honest man pretending to be dishonest, and he clearly wanted something other than fortune, fame or fun. 
“Why call yourself The Fisherman?” he asked aloud. 
Because he’s fishing. Fortune and fame weren’t pleasurable, they were bait. The Fisherman was so honest, he used the name to announce what he was doing. He truly was an amateur!
But what what was he catching? Nothing had changed except… the Terrordon had returned. But who would be stupid enough to bait a vigilante? Who would even want to bait a vigilante?
Sleepwalker smiled at a sudden memory, “My dear Terrordon, Someone came to see me during my holiday at Rampworth. Despite all that I’ve done and how interesting I am, he came just to ask about you. A visitor, wanting to ask me, about you. An honest, stupid, and very amateur, visitor. 
“Oh, this is going to be so much fun.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F3CE413C-82C4-465E-BE9F-52BDD5B6DFB0">
            <Text>When running for the State Senate, his friends had joked that he was lowering his chances of being kidnapped. That, being a playboy was a more attractive ransom opportunity, rather than a low level public servant. It had been a sense of comfort, in a way, that he was turning towards a safer life. And hopefully a more contented one.
But the Sleepwalker's piercing green eyes had changed all that, and now he was laying on his side in a trunk, listening to the car's back tires rumble over the uneven road. He made mental notes to himself, trying to remember where all the potholes and especially rough patches might be, so that he could find someone to yell at to fix them. The City's infrastructure might be his next pet project. If he lived through all this.
He moved his head side to side against the trunk's rough inner lining, trying to scratch his forehead. There was something strange about the Terrordon and Sleepwalker showing up after all this time. Sure, he'd heard the rumors, that only someone of his wealth could afford to be the Terrordon, and while he hadn't necessarily denied the rumors, he didn't think anyone really thought they were true. It had been an easy way to get laid on more than one occasion. But all those lies and endless parties had just caught up with him. The car slowed down, but not before hitting one last deep pothole, forcing his head to crash against the trunk's floor. If he lived through this, he decided he needed a spa day.
The trunk swung open, revealing the crisp cool San Francisco air. He could tell by the angle of the road, the few letters he could make out on the street sign, and the silly German car that his neighbor always parked on the street, that the Sleepwalker had taken him home.
"You awake in there?" the Sleepwalker asked, his brilliant green eyes more visible in the dark than the rest of him. He stood above Jason, his hands buried in the deep pockets of his coat. His henchmen milled around behind him, unsure of what to do with themselves. The Sleepwalker never gave them more information than they could handle.
"You won't find anything here," asked Jason, trying to shift to a more comfortable position.
"That's what someone who had something to hide would say," laughed the Sleepwalker. "But there's only one way to find out, you know? There's only one thing we can do."
"What's that?"
"Try our best with the options at hand!"
The Sleepwalker grabbed Jason, and in one swift movement, pulled him from the car and onto his feet. "I see you've had some practice with this," mumbled Jason, trying to get his left leg to wake up.
"There was a time, before I was put away, that I was quite good at what I did," the Sleepwalker replied, guiding them towards the house. He reached into Jason's pockets and found his keys.
"If you were so good, why'd they put you away?"
"Well, I guess you were better, Terrordon." The Sleepwalker put the key in the door, and let it swing open, hoping to himself that it could be just that easy to find out that Jason was the Terrordon. Perhaps his mask was just sitting on the kitchen table. Perhaps his old uniform was draped over a living room chair. Perhaps his entire house was his Terrordon Cave.
Jason stepped ahead into the foyer of the house. He had designed the foyer to be especially grand: a testament and taste to what the rest of the house would hold. A regal chandelier hung from a molded ceiling, while the walls were simpler and more modern with mostly glass and clean lines. The house had been expensive, but a beautiful reminder that the old world and the new could live in harmony. "So this is my foyer, and as you can see, there's nothing here but things that belong in a foyer," said Jason.
The Sleepwalker paced around the room, not letting himself go into the rest of the house yet. There had to be something here too, something small, that could play well into Heath's book. He imagined a clue lying on a random table, that would lead him to the stash: The Terrordon Cave.
But there was nothing. He opened every drawer, and threw them aside. "How big is this place?" he asked.
"About 15,000 square feet," laughed Jason.
"A grand birdcage," mumbled the Sleepwalker.
"You really think I'm the Terrordon, don't you? It's not apart of some larger plan of yours?"
"Your identity is close to being revealed Terrordon. I've cleared one room, and now we move onto the next one."
Jason sighed, his hands still tied behind his back. "Alright, let me at least show you around. I have to be a good host in my house." He put his shoulder into a side door and it slowly creaked open. Heavy doors, he reminded himself, were apart of his design too. They always felt more substantial.
The Sleepwalker motioned to his men to stay behind him and keep a lookout for anything, anything at all that they could bring back to Heath. They followed Jason through the myriad of living rooms and side rooms, the main kitchen and the smaller offshoot ones, and finally to what Jason had always described as the Grand View: the largest living room in the house, with a full glass wall overlooking Golden Gate Park.
"My my what money can buy," said the Sleepwalker. He stared at the view for a moment, and then turned around. "Alright boys, split up into teams and let's see what we can find."
They rushed off in different directions, deciding quickly which part of the large house they would be searching. The Sleepwalker turned back to Jason. "Why'd you quit?"
"Partying? I wanted to grow up," replied Jason, still staring at the view. The Golden Gate Bridge was always beautiful. "Everyone has to realize that there's something more that can be done with their lives."
"Throwing me off with your little nonsense about being a young playboy would have worked if I didn't already know who you were," replied the Sleepwalker. "I know it's you. Everyone does. They've all known for years."
"Then why can't you find anything?"
"Because you've spent your money well."
"Or maybe I'm not the Terrordon."
The Sleepwalker sighed. "You have been my nemesis for longer than I can be comfortable with, and to see you here now, like this, it would so easy to kill you. It would be so easy to just," he trailed off, his fingers motioning towards Jason's neck.
"Perhaps it would be too easy," whispered Jason.
"What?"
"The Terrordon would have put up more of a fight."
"No," said the Sleepwalker. "No no, your games won't work this time. You said you've matured. So have I. Everyone kept telling me I'm crazy, especially in Rampworth. But in there, I met the actual crazy ones. And I matured too. I know what I know."
"Then why have your henchmen come back with nothing?" said Jason, leaning against the glass wall.
The Sleepwalker turned around and looked over his men. They had brought nothing back with them. "Boys, what did you find?"
They all shook their heads. "It's a very large house, and we couldn't find anything that might lead us to the Terrordon Cave," said one.
The Sleepwalker glanced at Jason. "Ya know what they say, if you want the work done right, you have to do it yourself."
"Or you're wrong," mumbled Jason. He didn't understand why he felt so courageous in this moment, but he was getting annoyed that the Sleepwalker had a personal grudge against him, when he wasn't even the Terrordon! He was all for helping people, but this blame was too great.
The Sleepwalker's green eyes had darkened as his brows furrowed. "I will not play your games anymore Terrordon. I won't do it." He shoved his men aside and he went to search the house.
Each room held more knick knacks and random furniture than the previous. It was a well designed house, with more than a couple pianos strewn about, but there was nothing interesting laying around, no clues that he could find.
And then it occurred to him there might be a switch, or a button, something that might lead to an underground room, or a hidden part of the house. "Boys, start moving things, start figuring out if there might be something else. A hidden room, a button, a mechanism, something. Anything. We won't let this masked vigilante win this round."
But as they moved through the house, knocking books off shelves, pressing piano keys, moving every painting and every object in every curio cabinet, he realized how futile and desperate the situation was becoming. He had been certain that Jason Richards was the Terrordon. The logic and clues had added up, and yet this man was going beat him again, if he couldn't find any proof.
And that was something he could not abide by. There was an anger, brutal and raw, that he knew Doug felt. It was guttural. He threw a bookcase to the ground, checking the wall for any signs of a door, anything to make the hunt easier. Doug prided himself on building things, and he would have loved to know the plans to this house. But when Doug became angry, he could morph into something far more dangerous.
"Burn it down," whispered the Sleepwalker. "Burn it down and then we'll see what's inside. And we'll take the Terrordon's crown jewel from him. He can't win. He won't win." His boys looked at each other and nodded. If there was anything that they loved doing, it was burning things.
The Sleepwalker returned to the main living room. The Sun was slowly rising, and the Golden Gate Bridge had begun to take that little light and use it to transform itself into a man made beauty. "If you won't assist me, I will take it from you."
"Aren't you trying to do that?"
"If you don't assist me, I will burn everything."
"There's nothing to assist! All there is what you see. I am not the Terrordon. Never was."
The Sleepwalker nodded as his boys returned with jerry cans of gasoline. They began spraying it around the room and down the hallways, the air quickly filling with its pungent smell. "You won't help me reveal to the world that you're nothing but a rich boy who wanted to get in the way. Now I'm going to burn it all." He took out a match and struck it against his boot. It burned bright, even as the morning sun came up.
"But why?" asked Jason. "I'm not the Terrordon."
"You are, and you will not win this round." He stared at the match for a moment, before letting it drop to the floor. The gasoline ignited immediately and rushed off in every direction. He motioned to his boys. They grabbed Jason, and forcibly tied him to a chair. "And now we will leave you here, so you can watch your beautiful sunrise, as your house burns around you."
"I don't think you understand," said Jason, staring at the flames that engulfed his house. "I don't think you get that I'm not the Terrordon."
The Sleepwalker shrugged. "All will be known.
The flames crawled towards the ceiling, and as the Sleepwalker was turning to leave, the glass wall splintered as a fast moving form crashed through it and landed on the living room floor. "I think you've taken this charade far enough," said the Terrordon, picking himself up and brushing off the larger pieces of glass. He wore a hard rubberized suit and his iconic mask. The only skin Jason could see was the Terrordon’s lips and muscular chin.
The Sleepwalker looked at the masked man and then back to Jason. "Did you pay someone to dress up as you?"
"I'm not the Terrordon!" yelled Jason. "Use your damn eyes!"
The Terrordon moved towards the Sleepwalker. "It's just like the old days. I come after you, and you burn things down."
The Sleepwalker looked at the masked and suited man, slowly realizing that he was the real Terrordon. There was something about his arrogant swagger, the way his lips moved in a condescending way, that only he could be the true Terrordon. He glanced at Jason, realizing that he had missed all the little clues. Jason didn't have what it took to be the masked vigilante. "The old days were better. Simpler times," he replied.
"I think it's time to get back to Rampworth, don't you?"
The Sleepwalker looked at the flames that had finally reached the ceiling. He heard cabinets and chairs fall over as they crumbled, and something felt right about it all. "No, I'm not going back there," he replied, retreating slowly into the the house. "I'm not going back there, but we will meet again." He grabbed one of his henchmen and threw him towards the Terrordon, as he turned and fled into the house. The henchman looked at the Terrordon, and instead of taking a swing, ran past him into the depths of the flames.
The Terrordon looked towards Jason and then back towards the disappearing form of the Sleepwalker. He knew he would meet his old friend again. He moved quickly and untied the State Senator, the house quickly getting worse. He grabbed his arm, but when he realized that Jason had breathed in too much smoke, he easily threw him over his shoulder and made his way through the burning debris.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DED0EF27-590E-45FB-9ED3-461765671A7E">
            <Text>"Heaven's sake, Pete, get off my back. You're harassing me. You're supposed to be my agent. You're supposed to be on my side."
"I am your agent," said Schlamme. "That means I am not on your side. I am on my side, which is what you need in an agent. I am also something much rarer. I am an honest agent. And I am telling you you are getting nowhere.  The Iguanadon or Pterodactyl--"
"The Terrordon," said Jacob, "and I say that tetchily."
"Okay. But you're stalled, I know it. You know it. Nobody will speak to you. The guys he put away won't talk. Law-enforcement won't talk. Nobody will talk. You need to call in favours here."
"Such as?"
"Such as that cute shrink you nailed after 9/11. Okay, it's not like you boned Clarice Starling, but for mercy's sake, sweetcakes, Laura may be a fish but she's our fish and--"
"Lisa. Not Laura. Lisa. How did you know about her? I never--"
"You always. After the fourth black rum mojito. 'HeyIevertellyaboutthacutesweet' yadda yadda Puppy Love on the 45RPM and kiss me quick I'm Carmen."
"Pete. Dial back the Market Street Cykes on Bikes talk."
"Okay. Plainly: there's one of the bad guys in her care. She works as a psychiatrist at Rampworth. Dr Lisa Warne, yes?"
"Yes."
"The, excuse me, Sleepwalker is in her tender care. He's the bad guy who couldn't stand trial because there were too many of him."
"Multiple Personality Disease or something. I remember. How do--"
"I'm your agent. I am, actually, on your side. A little bird told me. Call her."
"After all these years--"
"--as they say in the cheap romances. Jake. Poppet. Please. For your lovely Uncle Schlamme. Call her. Don't be shy. She's got one of the bad guys. Yours. Maybe lead you to the Peckersaurus, no?"</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2F36FFC7-5FBF-43CB-935C-CF911FF974DA">
            <Text>@JacelynMrsBumbi
Open you'r eyes this is a FALSE FLAG opperation to keep the people scared and not think about how Congreess is DESTROIYNG AMERICA!!!!!!!!</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="24C17872-B47E-455A-8F70-069ADA328047">
            <Title>Spacer</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="91561D3C-3BC0-41AE-BED3-F1CD65F7F879">
            <Title>Chapter 15</Title>
            <Synopsis>Sleepwalker figures out Jacob is being the reintroduction - confronts him and says he’ll help. Jacob is terrified</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
JACOB HEATH is a professional biographer. He has decided his next book should be about the TERRORDON - the masked vigilante that was credited with cleaning up the streets of San Francisco at the turn of the millenium before disappearing in 2005.
Things that have already happened
Jacob invented a villain -- the FISHERMAN -- and the Terrordon is out of retirement and the SLEEPWALKER has broken out of Rampworth State Hospital.
Starts with
The Sleepwalker remembers that Jacob had visited him in Rampworth shortly before the emergence of the Fisherman and the return of the Terrordon
Chapter details
Sleepwalker figures out Jacob is behing the reintroduction, and has his (Sleepwalker's) henchmen kidnap him (Jacob). The Sleepwalker confronts Jacob and says he thinks he did it to find out the Terrordon's real identity.
Jacob is terrified and confirms it.
The Sleepwalker thinks the whole thing is wonderful -- and says he’ll help figure it out.
Ends with
Jacob is dumped back in a public place.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2D4FCF85-AA99-49E0-9DF1-E581DD1FC635">
            <Text>Taking San Francisco’s BART train over to Oakland, Jacob landed at the Rockridge station and walked the three short blocks to the Hunter’s home. For all the bad stories about Oakland being a continual crime scene, the Rockridge area felt like a comfortable and calm slice of suburbia. Neat lawns fronted somewhat charming homes with deep lots and an array of late model cars, either SUV’s or small Prius sedans, parked on the curbs or in driveways suggested families and people who worked. 
	“Hey! It’s the Jimmy-man! Still drinking the same blue bullet Coors? Think I will have one too. How’s the world of television news? And where’s Joyce? It’s been a while since I’ve seen either of you.”
	“Well, you know the news business. It keeps happening. I’m on call right now, so I hope nothing big happens or I am going to have to make this a short party night.” Just then Joyce, tall and lanky, came out from the kitchen with a drink in one hand and a plate of bruschetta in the other. “Jacob! It’s been ages! It’s going to be so much fun catching up! Here, have one of these. It’s my new recipe.”
	As they settled in to talk, Jacob wasted no time in bringing up his subject. “Do either of you remember any news stories from about 2000 to 2005 about a guy who called himself the Terrordon? He went around doing good deeds and stopping bad guys. Or at least, that’s what he said he did.”
	“Oh my God! That’s so funny that you brought him up! I was just about to put together a special about vigilantes. You know, there’s a guy who rides BART all over the city and he seems to be waiting for something to happen so he can be a hero. But this guy doesn’t wear a costume. Jimmy, what was that guy’s name? Do you remember.”
	“Yeah. I remember vaguely something about that. I think he was into Parkour. You know, that crazy French sport that Raymond Belle and his son, David did. The Yamakasi was David’s group. They’d plot out courses in the City and then race through and go up and over whatever was in your path. You just conquered everything in your way. Intense sport. That was real big in the late ‘90s as an extreme sport.”
	“Didn’t this guy have a costume that made him look like a Pokemon character? And nun chucks, didn’t he carry those?”
	“Nah,” Jimmy interjected, “he used those ninja stars and throwing knives, Joyce. Except I don’t think he ever used them – he just showed a few people that he had them. What he used a lot was his grappling gun. Guess he got a little tire of the Parkour rules.”
	Something nudged Jacob’s memory. “And he had an armored car of sorts. And a utility belt.”
	“What a Batman rip off! I don’t even know if he actually did any real saving. Think he just beat up a few bad guys and claimed he was cleaning up the City,” Jimmy offered.
	“But what happened to him? I mean he would pop up every so often but then went completely dark after about 2005. Did anybody ever find out who he was?”
	Joyce placed a large platter of roasted chicken and root vegetables, a spinach and feta salad, and a bowl of curried rice on the nearby dinner table and she and Jacob settled into their seats as Jim opened a bottle of Tribunal red. “The problem is that 2000 was an election year. And remember how crazy that was, especially at the end. We were all concentrating on learning about hanging chads and butterfly ballots from Florida. Nobody was really paying attention to local stuff. And then, just when things were settling down, we get September 11th and then all the news went national news again, nothing local unless it was related to terrorism.
	“We are bringing in some shrinks for our special on vigilantism to discuss the psychological profile of vigilantes. And what drives them,” Joyce said. “Did you know that the largest vigilance committee was here in San Francisco during the Gold Rush times? The city was overrun by bad guys and it really was the wild west here. Almost eight thousand members worked together to get rid of people they thought were terrorizing the townspeople. They hung four people, but they drove out scores of gamblers and people who they suspected were thieves. Gosh, I wonder where those people are now. We could sure use them in Oakland!”
 “Joyce, only you would pull this type of information out of your ass,” Jim added.
Joyce continued, “But, since I am doing this special, I think we should include this Terrordon guy. I mean, yes, vigilantism is supposed to be a mob action, but isn’t that what these hero types do? They take the law into their own hands because they think the police aren’t doing the job right.”
“But, Jacob wondered out loud, “what happened to this Terrordon? He never got caught. We never knew his name. I want to know more. Did he take on the wrong dude and end up as a dead John Doe in the morgue? Is he still around somewhere in the City – heck, he’d be about 60 now, practically a geezer getting ready to retire. I want to find him.”
“Well, you know, Jacob, Facebook and Twitter didn’t go really main stream until ten years ago. Before that it was MySpace and just the kids were into it. But now, practically everyone understands social media and you have so much more access to information. I think, Jacob, that you ought to dig around and find out who this guy was and where he is now. Wouldn’t that be a fantastic hook for my special, Jimmy?”
“Joyce, what, are you signaling to me that this is now a closed subject for me because you’ve scooped me again? It’s a good thing that you do news specials and I do actual news. But I think I liked it better when we both worked at the same station.”
	By the time he was on BART and headed back into the City to his flat, Jacob was furiously taking down notes and making a rough outline. He was feeling that familiar and distinct BUZZ that he got when he was about to dive into an interesting project. Another book. About the Terrordon. He could do it. He WOULD do it. He NEEDED to do it. And this wouldn’t just be a biography like his last two books. This would be a mystery case too. That he would solve.
And maybe the Jimmy man was right on target - that this Terrordon was into Parkour. He’d track those local players down and they might be able to provide a lead. That was it! That’s where he’d find him.
	While Jacob was coming up the escalator from his BART stop, he pulled out his cell phone and hit his agent’s speed dial number, but it went straight to voicemail. “Pete. I know you had to clean up a lot of mess for me. But you already know all of my reasons. Now listen to this. I have a new biography that I am going to begin. You’re going to love this… Do you remember anything about The Terrordon?”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A096CAA8-D96E-409A-A39E-8C9A2D6D8311">
            <Text>Jacob flinched, looking half away. It was as if he could hear whimpering with each blow he saw the Sleepwalker act out.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DC18DC18-E41A-4069-ADA2-A6250E03CD20">
            <Title>Chapter thirteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch13-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2956D947-61AF-490A-A768-18C111603262">
            <Title>Chapter seventeen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch17-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="AE116E86-E561-4F33-BEFA-28B14C0F3512">
            <Text>He had also seen a number of quick-fire articles on his bomb threat; the reaction and tone was generally right, but the analysis was—disappointing. They'd all gone with the international terrorism angle, some even going so far as to dedicate some time pointing out how the terrorists seemed to be 'changing their tactics'. He googled 'Fisherman' again and the relevant articles had dropped to page 4. Also, the Kennedy piece in the Chronicle had suffered a rash of comments, all of which were basically laughing at her angle:</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="81303670-D43F-4B8E-ADB5-7C9708F9F1BF">
            <Text>When Jacob arrived at Rampworth he knew what to expect and he got it. The ID checks and state-your-business and show-your-authorization and please-open-the-bag-is-there-anything-there-which-can-harm-me-Sir... all the things once the stuff of midnight border exchanges on Berlin bridges, now commonplace for all citizens who travelled or visited others in their offices and anywhere else where security theatre was rapidly becoming the longest-running show in town.
"Please take a seat," said the slit-mouthed goon, clearly disapproving, though of what, it was hard to tell; "Dr Warne will be with you as soon as she can."
He took out his tiny digital voice recorder, his pen, his legal pad: the badges of his profession. Ruffled his choppy, relaxed-but-distinguished hair, wondering whether he had used too much Imperial Matte Pomade, the cool stuff in the cool tub but maybe he was too old to be cool. Looked at his Montblanc pen: it was supposed to say good things about him, but wasn't what it said was that he was the sort of dork who paid $350 for a plastic ballpoint pen because it said "Montblanc" on it? He fretted about his shoes. He fretted about fretting about his shoes on an HD security camera setup: Rampworth SuperMax Forensic Psychiatric Containment Unit, Produly Sponsored by GoPro.
He was, he realised, nervous about seeing Lisa.
Then the door opened and he saw Lisa.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="947D4FF2-297F-4F94-9165-E5588A6D3A27">
            <Title>Chapter eighteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch18-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1805A5FC-0963-468B-B6E1-2A8B8A8E545E">
            <Text>Lisa closed the door of the interview room. "It's always like that. Swings from one to the other quick as a flash. There are God knows how many others, locked inside, waiting. No wonder the judges don't like the defence of insanity when it's this kind of insanity. I don't like it, and I'm a professional."
"If you should hear--"
"I'm bound by professional confidentiality, Jacob."
He looked at his feet. "Pillow talk...?"
"That's unworthy, Jake."
"No. That's honest."
"Think about it. Maybe give me a call. I have to go now. Madness calls."
She kissed him lightly and impersonally on the cheek and walked away into the maelstrom.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="61871798-7657-4520-9F82-F49C1AF44F91">
            <Title>Spacer</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7D47932D-0672-4A47-B114-50CB9A633669">
            <Title>Chapter nine</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch09-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2A5C18BD-CCC6-4C63-89D1-B7F41778EFF3">
            <Title>Chapter 11</Title>
            <Synopsis>Fisherman waits until allotted time. Sets off first explosion while watching to make sure no-one in blast radius. Panic. Terrordon shows up. Jacob is delighted but when Terrordon sees him - panic. Just escapes.</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
JACOB HEATH is a professional biographer. He has decided his next book should be about the TERRORDON - the masked vigilante that was credited with cleaning up the streets of San Francisco at the turn of the millenium before disappearing in 2005.
Things that have already happened
Jacob has invented a (fictional) super villain called the Fisherman and claimed credit for a recent terror attack in San Francisco -- in an attempt to get the Terrordon to come out of retirement. He has decided to step up the game and research how to make explosives.
Starts with
Jacob is disguised in a prepared 'super villain' costume as "the Fisherman".
Chapter details
Jacob (as the Fisherman) waits until allotted time (Tuesday at noon). He has set up two explosive devices  in the same area -- I'll let you pick the location. 

Jacob sets off first explosion while watching carefully to make sure no-one will be caught in the blast radius. Panic breaks out, and people pour out away from the area and then Jacob detonates a secon bomb in the newly vacated area.
Finally, the Terrordon shows up witha  grand entrance. Jacob is delighted but then when the Terrordon sees him he panics --  and just about escapes.
Ends with
Jacob escapes with a mixture of fear, and elation.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="39234737-FD51-401A-AC9F-623C601FAF70">
            <Text>Jacob kept his head down as he turned off Colma Boulevard and into the Home Depot parking lot. He knew it couldn’t be true, but, for some reason, it felt like everyone was watching him.
No-one could have guessed from looking at him that, underneath his crusher hat and trench coat, he was clad head-to-toe in turquoise spandex. His initial preference had been for some sort of suit – more like The Penguin or the Joker – but since he’d already chosen The Fisherman as his moniker that left him with few sartorial options; waders and a sou’wester didn’t really fit the villainous vibe he wanted to project. So, in the end he’d had to go abstract, attaching some fishing nets along the arms of his tight bodysuit like droopy bat wings and gluing foil wrapper fish scales in strategic places. It wasn’t the most intimidating outfit he could have knocked up, but at least he had the physique to carry it off.
Instinctively he glanced across at the passenger seat, where the scruffy black gym bag containing his home-made explosive devices lay like a weight on his conscience. The whole point of choosing this venue in the first place was that it was public enough to guarantee a dramatic reaction when the bombs went off, but large enough that he could place them in areas where there were no actual people. The last thing he wanted was to play the role of villain for real. 
As he pulled into a parking space outside the front entrance he couldn’t help noticing how many other cars were already there. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet and the place was busy, even for a Tuesday. 
His hands felt clammy on the steering wheel. This could all go horribly wrong. What if someone else caught him planting the bombs before the Terrordon even showed up? Jacob had been careful to delete his browser history before printing off the instructions, but only now did he wonder if that was enough to cover his tracks. Swallowing down a wave of nausea, he grabbed the gym bag and crawled out of his car like a tortoise emerging from its shell. If he could just get around to the back of the building without being seen, the rest would be easy. Well, not easy, exactly. There were still timing issues to consider…
He turned away from the main entrance and headed down the side of the building toward the loading bays. The warehouse crew were too busy transferring goods from the back of two huge trucks to notice him slipping past, and the rows of crates and containers stacked outside the main warehouse provided good cover. He soon found a perfect spot to plant the first device.
It looked almost comical as he slid it out of the gym bag – like something from a Wile E. Coyote cartoon. But if the YouTube tutorial video was anything to go by, it would make a hell of a mess in an area like this. For a moment he froze, staring down at the tangle of cobbled-together components. Even if he made sure no-one was nearby when he set this thing off, this was still, by definition, a terrorist act. He might only be playing a role, but the destruction would be real. Maybe it was a step too far…
“Bang bang into the rooooooom--”
Jesus Christ… Jacob fumbled in his coat pocket for his cellphone, fingers scrabbling to shut off the far-too-loud ringtone. A real villain would have remembered to set it to vibrate, he thought to himself. Glancing at his screen, he recognised the number instantly. 
Peter.
How did he always manage to pick the worst times to call? Jacob’s thumb hovered over the ‘cancel’ button. If he didn’t answer it, Peter would surely leave a message, wouldn’t he? But it might be important. Some interest in the book maybe, from a potential publisher…  
Jacob looked at his watch. Ten fifty-five. That still left an hour and five minutes to plant the second device and retreat to a safe distance if he stuck to the plan. Crouching over his home-made bomb as if to shield it from potential prying eyes, he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Hey, Peter, what’s up?”
“Jacob?” Peter’s melodic vowels rose in a surprised pitch. “Why are you whispering? Is this a bad time?”
“No… well, yeah, so can you make it quick? I’m – kind of in the middle of something here –"
“Okay, fine, I won’t keep you. You know a few weeks ago I pitched your idea about the Terrordon bio to Random House, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, I just got a call back from them. They’re super-interested, and they want to see more – synopsis, sample chapters, whatever you got!”
Jacob’s legs gave way beneath him, and his ass bumped down onto the concrete. “Seriously? How soon do they want it?”
“As soon as you can get it to them. Strike while they’re hot, you might not get another chance like this! What have you got so far, did you track the guy down yet?” 
“Ah –” Jacob’s mind whirled. I just need to stall them for a while. “I’m – right in the middle of negotiating that now, as it happens.”
“Oh! Sorry. Well, don’t mind me then, I’ll let you get back to it. But I just thought you’d want to know. Random House, Jacob!”
Jacob hung up and wiped a hand slowly down his face. Now there really was no going back. All his reasonable, law-abiding attempts at tracking down the Terrordon had ended in failure – a sad little catalogue of dead-ends and red herrings. If he wanted to secure this publishing deal with Random House, he was going to have to get his hands dirty. Smoke the guy out. 
Literally.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="5AE77D65-FB6F-4E07-8BD7-87A7B73B5387">
            <Title>Chapter eight</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch08-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F033AA6C-7FF2-47FD-99BE-ECB26BDAB11F">
            <Title>Brief Title Page</Title>
            <Text>YOUR CHAPTER BRIEF!
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="41DC682F-351E-4CDB-A4BA-699EC1E2806E">
            <Text>High over Union Square, Jacob looked out over the city. No fog tonight. It seemed that Sleepwalker was just running now without a plan. He had brought him here at gun point and they had come all the way up to the Imperial floor, but when they got to this room — opulent chamber projecting out over the square from the thirty-second floor, they just stopped here. Sleepwalker seemed at first captivated by the view — through floor to ceiling windows on three sides and seemed to forget everything else — just as he had for one moment in the hallway of mirrors. But here, at a certain point, he had just sat down on the floor. He looked up at Jacob with bright green eyes and a smile and offered to draw him a picture. That's what he was doing now, lying on his stomach, drawing intently on a hotel notepad. At the same time, Sleepwalker had also lost all interest in his gun or its whereabouts — and that gun was safely tucked in Jacob's pocket.
But now Jacob wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do. He had fallen into a reverie of his own looking out over the city. Why was Sleepwalker so obsessed with Terrordon? Probably everything he had done was meant to lure Terrordon here, to confront him — not even just to kill him — to confront him and then kill him. But why? Maybe their paths need never have crossed, if Sleepwalker had not always been gunning for him. Let the vigilante be vigilant and stay out of his way. We all do wrong in some way or other, but everyone wants someone to stand up for what's right — well, as long as it doesn't interfere with our own wrongdoing. That was as true for Terrordon as it was for Harvey. Jacob realized he understood even less about why people get in the way of such people as he understood what made those people who they are. This whole city. He didn't understand any of it.
An elevator dinged somewhere on the floor.
Jacob turned from the window and was drawn up short.
Sleepwalker was standing right there. He smiled, squinting up his green eyes. "I drew you a picture."
Jacob took the paper. "We have to go right away now. But have to stick together." He didn't know where he was going with this, but it seemed like the right thing to do — to get somewhere out of the way.
But something on the notepad he was holding drew Jacob's eye. He had been expecting some stick figures such as a 6 year old might draw. But on the note pad was a dark mass, prone and twisted. And it was scratched over with many red lines. "What. What is this?"
Sleepwalker smiled again and then unsmiled. His stone green eyes met Jacob's. "Your death."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="EF94A848-4B87-4364-B276-26D968F6DB70">
            <Text>“I’m Dr. Warne. It’s nice to meet you.” Lisa Warne extended her hand out and shook Jacob’s noting that it was moist to the touch.”
“I’m Jacob Heath. Thank you for agreeing to this on such short notice,” he replied.
She took in his appearance and realized that even though she’d never seen him before, he was definitely pale and sweating. “Are you… alright?” she asked.
“Just nerves,” he replied, his mouth too dry to smile convincingly.
“Let me get you a can of Sprite,” she offered. “It helps.”
She ushered him back toward her office and reached into a mini fridge for a little can of soda. “We can sit for a minute while you have a drink and try to relax.”
“I apologize,” he started, “I can’t believe I’m so shaky.”
“No apologies needed. This isn’t a happy place, and most people are uncomfortable here, to say the least. We don’t receive many visitors.” 
He tried to smile politely before sipping from the soda can.
“Were you able to read the information I suggested about Dissociative Identity Disorder?”
“Yes. There wasn’t a whole lot that made sense to me, but I read as much as I could,” he responded.
“It is so controversial, there isn’t a lot of material out there that does make sense to laypeople. Even psychiatrists have a hard time with it because there is no real diagnostic criteria. It is a rare disorder to begin with, and there isn’t much consensus surrounding any of it. All that you need to know is that the Sleepwalker has about seven “core” personalities aside from the main ‘Sleepwalker’ persona, and there may be even more. You never know who you’ll be talking to at any given time. So with the Sleepwalker, the personalities you may encounter can include: Doug, who is a tough New Jersey builder with a quick temper. Rog is a quiet Californian who wants to be left alone to read. Then there’s Tim who is, oddly enough, Australian, with an outgoing personality. James is another Californian, gay, 18 years old. Billy is a farmer from Alabama who likes photography. Joe, is a British ‘gent’ who often appears after conflict, and is the most remorseful personality. And finally, Charlotte, the only known female personality, who is six years old.”
Some of the color had returned to Jacob’s face as he listened to Dr. Warne’s description of the Sleepwalker’s personalities. If he could ever get over his fear of the mentally ill, it would be a mesmerizing subject to write about. 
“Did you have any questions before we make our way to the visitation room?”
“Not at the moment,” Jacob replied, struggling to refocus.
“Ready?” Dr. Warne asked.
“I guess.” 
They left the office and walked down several corridors, finally reaching the large security doors with a guarded entrance. Dr. Warne handed Jacob a clip-on visitor badge and instructed him to attach it to his pant pocket. He took a deep breath as the guard cleared them for entry and the first door swung open. They took a step inside and the door closed behind them with a loud clang. The door in front of them was steel bars, but Jacob felt claustrophobic waiting for it to swing open. When it closed behind them, he felt his breath catch in his throat, knowing that he was now locked inside of a mental ward with severely demented criminals. Dr. Warne squeezed his forearm, leading him forward to a small visitation room. As they approached, Jacob could see a man of average build sitting in the room. He was in his late 30s or early 40s and had short dark. The man’s hands were chained to the table in front of him. When the man looked up, he recognized Dr. Warne and gave a big smile. 
“G’dday, Doc,” the Sleepwalker stated boisterously. His loud voice echoed off of the concrete walls. 
“Hello, Tim,” Dr. Warne replied.
“And who is this fine-looking bloke with you today, Doc? He looks a bit bleak, doesn’t he? 
“Now, now, Tim. Don’t pick on visitors. This is my friend, Jacob. He wanted to meet you and see if you could answer some questions for him,” Lisa said. She chose the chair closest to the Sleepwalker, leaving the seat across from him for Jacob. 
Jacob stepped inside the room and pulled the chair back from the table. He hesitantly sat down, not scooting forward. He took out his pen and notepad and balanced it on his knee rather than using the table to write on. 
“I’ve got a lot of answers for you,” Tim/the Sleepwalker started. “Do you want to know about my days filming in Sydney, or when I was doing small-town theater in Caloundra, Queensland? I also did a little bit of zookeeping there and had a stretch tending the birds in the flamingo yard. Quite a lot of good times.”
Jacob stared at the Sleepwalker. His fear had turned to morbid fascination. It took him a few seconds to remember what he really wanted to know because now he had an entirely different batch of questions he wanted to ask.
Dr. Warne piped in. “Tim, while I’m sure he’d love to hear about all of that, Jacob would really like to know about your experiences in San Francisco.”
Jacob jumped in and continued Dr. Warne’s thought.  “I’m writing a biography of the Terrodon, so I’d really love to have your point of view.” 
Tim/the Sleepwalker cocked his head to the side and looked at Jacob like a dog who hears something he doesn’t understand.
“The what?” Tim asked.
“He wants to find out specifically about your experiences with the Terrordon,” Dr. Warne offered as if hearing it from her would make a difference.
Tim/the Sleepwalker blanched noticeably. 
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he stated. “I’ve never been to San Francisco. I’m an Aussie through and through.” 
Jacob watched the conversation.
“Tim, you are *in* San Francisco now,” Dr. Warne urged. “You were apprehended by the vigilante known as Terrordon. That is how you ended up here.”
“Doc, as sweet as you are, I think you are confused. I’m an actor. What you are saying makes no sense. I think you are trying to make a fool of me.” 
“Tim, we’ve been over this before. You are not in Australia. You are in San Francisco and I’m here to help you to get better,” Lisa said calmly.
“I’m not a sookie. I want to go back to my room. This isn’t the conversation I wanted to have this arvo. 
Jacob didn’t know what to think of the exchange.
Tim/the Sleepwalker’s fists clenched in the cuffs and he dug his nails into his palms. 
Jacob looked at Dr. Warne. She stared ahead at the Sleepwalker, her eyes locked with his. A fraction of a second later, Tim/the Sleepwalker slammed his head down onto his fists and he started to pull at his short hair. Jacob scooted back in surprise, but Lisa maintained her calm demeanor. 
“Tim?” Lisa questioned.
“Tim? Are you ready to talk again? Let’s just have a quiet little talk and she’ll be right.” 
The Sleepwalker seemed to relax and stopped pulling at his hair. After a couple of minutes of silence, he lifted his head and fixed his green eyes on Jacob.
“Hello!”
Jacob was startled by the voice of a young girl coming from the Sleepwalker.
“Hi,” Jacob replied.
“Who are you?” the Sleepwalker asked in the curious manner of a child.
Jacob looked to Lisa for guidance, and she nodded at him, letting him take the lead.
“I’m Jacob. I came for a little visit.” He shifted to the small talk he normally reserved for his nephew Pacey.
“I’m Charlotte. I like visitors. Did you bring any candy?” 
Once again Jacob looked at Dr. Warne.
“No, Charlotte. He didn’t bring candy. You haven’t had lunch yet, so no candy,” Lisa said.
Charlotte/the Sleepwalker returned her attention to Jacob.  “Maybe you can come back and bring me some candy later. I like peanut butter cups the best. Not the little ones… the big huge ones.”
Jacob smiled at that. 
“I like those too,” he admitted, feeling comfortable with this Sleepwalker personality.
“Charlotte, my friend Jacob has some questions about the Terrordon. Do you think you can help?” Lisa asked.
“Terrordon… Oooh. I know all about him.”
“You do?” Jacob questioned with a tinge of doubt in his voice. 
“Yes, sillyhead. The Terrordon is tall AND strong.”
Jacob’s breath caught in his throat.
“So, you’ve seen Terrordon?” he asked. He started to feel hopeful. Maybe the innocence of Charlotte was the key to getting answers after all. 
“Of course.”
He watched as Charlotte/the Sleepwalker’s green eyes grew animated. Jacob scooted forward and got his pen ready.
Charlotte continued. “I watched Dinosaur Train all of the time when I was little.” “The Terrordon is a flying dinosaur with really big wings that are super strong. I can draw one for you. Tiny, Shiny or Don. Maybe even the conductor, but he’s not a Terrordon. Or I can draw Buddy. He’s the T-Rex that was adopted by the Terrordon family. Can I use your pen?”
“No.” Lisa interjected. “No pens. No sharp pencils.”
Charlotte’s face crumpled into a pout. 
“I can bring crayons and paper by later,” Lisa offered as a consolation. 
Charlotte gave a little smile.
Jacob let his breath out in a whoosh. He didn’t even realize that he’d been holding it in anticipation. He felt completely frustrated. 
Charlotte looked at Jacob, and her smiled faltered. “Did I do good?” Charlotte asked. 
“Sure, kid,” Jacob responded. “That was great.” 
“No. I can tell you are mad at me,” Charlotte whined.
“No. You were fine,” Lisa answered.
“No. Not fine. I know. Everyone is mad at me,” Charlotte continued. 
Jacob sat back in his chair, once again noticing that the Sleepwalker’s hands were clenched into tight pinching fists of rage. Inching his chair back, Jacob readied himself for what he assumed was the inevitable pounding of the head and hair-pulling.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CE4E19FC-DA11-4EB6-A6B6-BF7BF6FE29E7">
            <Text>The phone on the other end of the line rang out once more as the car pulled up to the kerb. It was the third time that morning that Pete had tried to call Jacob, with no success. While this wasn't unusual during downtime or even when he was writing, it wasn't like Jacob to be so unavailable during book tours.
Turning off the ignition, Pete grabbed his phone and got out of the car. 
They had arrived back at San Francisco early yesterday evening and both men had gone their separate ways. Pete to his partner, Jon and Jacob to his home before visiting his sister and her family. That had been the last he had heard from Jacob.
Pete entered the building and headed towards the lift that would take him up to Jacobs apartment. 
He had called the man an hour ago to confirm that he would be at the bookstore for their fourth reading of the tour, at 11:45 as planned. When Jacob hadn't answered, he had left it half an hour and tried again. When that call went unanswered and his voicemail message to call him back immediately went ignored, Pete decided to go to Jacobs apartment to see if everything was alright. 
The ride up seemed to take forever, Pete's foot impatiently tapping on the floor as he travelled up. A small grunt of relief sounded in the back of his throat when the lift came to a halt and the doors finally slid open. He walked the short distance down the hallway and stopped at Jacobs door, rapping on the wood, loud enough to be heard if Jacob was at the back of the flat. 
To Pete's surprise, the door opened almost instantly, as if Jacob had been expecting him. 
"Come in," the man said flatly, stepping aside to allow Pete entrance. 
Pete walked into the flat, eyeing Jacob as he did so, and waited for Jacob to shut the door before he spoke.
"I've been trying to call you" he stated, simply.
Jacob just shrugged in response, and Pete really had a good look at him.
Jacob looked like hell. 
Pete knew he got like this, restless, in between books. When writing a book, he threw himself into the project, giving it everything he had. He immersed himself in the work, delving into the life of the person he was writing about. 
This time had been no different. Jacob had looked into the personal life and professional life of Lance Armstrong. 
He had spent time in Plano, Texas drinking numerous cups of coffee at Juan Pelota Cafe. He had taken up swimming, running and cycling, entering into two different marathons.
He had trained hard and taken time out to complete the Bourg-en-Bresse to Saint-Étienne stage of the Tour de France. He had visited many different support groups for testicular cancer and discovered everything he could about performance-enhancing drugs, specifically Erythropoietin. 
This project had been gruelling but he had come out on top and the book truly was a masterpiece. All of that hard work had paid off.
Personally, Pete worried about Jacob during these times. He seemed to get obsessed, sometimes to the point where he pushed his body too far. Twice, in the past few years, Jacob had found himself hospitalised because he had immersed himself so far into the character he hadn't realised that he was overexerting himself.
But if Pete thought Jacob was bad when writing, then between projects was worse. Directly after a book was finished was the worst time, as far as Pete was concerned. At this period, Jacob seemed to become restless, almost lost in life and his usual healthy lifestyle (the previous trips to the hospital notwithstanding) seemed to get pushed aside. Jacob exercised less, drank more and wasn't overly concerned about what he put in his mouth to sate his hunger. His normally cheery nature tuned snappish for a week or two and he seemed unmotivated to do much. But then the negotiations for the book tours would start and he would snap back to his usual self and all would be fine. 
Today though was something different. Today, Jacob looked like he hadn't slept in a week. 
"Are you unwell?" he asked instantly, mentally running through appointments he would have to reschedule while Jacob recuperated. 
"I'm fine" Jacob replied, his voice mumbled and still flat. He pushed past Pete and walked over to the armchair, dropping into it gracelessly.
Pete took another look at him. He had changed clothes from yesterday, but his hair, usually styled neatly, was an oily mess and he clearly hadn't shaved since yesterday morning. 
"You need to go shower and shave. We have to leave in forty-five minutes."
Again, Pete was met with a shrug and Jacob let his head fall back so he was looking up at the ceiling.
"Is this all that there is to do?" he asked, the first full sentence he had uttered since Pete arrived. "Haven't we talked about the book enough as it is?"
Instantly, Pete was worried. Jacob liked talking about the books. He worked hard on them and was proud of the final result. He was always eager to push them. Especially this early in the piece. They had only done three stops; not even a quarter of the way through the tour.
"No, no we haven't. We have hardly even started talking about the book. Are you sure you're alright?"
Pete was answered with a frustrated sigh. "This will be the fourth day now, saying the same things, answering the same questions, signing the same damn signatures. It's over, it's done. There is nothing else to say. Quite frankly, I'm completely over it."
Pete tried, he really did, to try and see where Jacob was coming from, but he was coming up blank. This had never been a reaction to a book tour before. And where was it coming from, even? Jacob had been heavily involved in the negotiations of the tour. He had had a strong say in how many readings and Q&amp;A sessions he did, and where. He had dictated how many days he would work straight and how many days he would take off in between. He knew exactly what he was getting involved in and he had clearly been enthusiastic all the way and happily signed the contract to do said shows.
"We have an obligation to fill..."
"Fuck the obligation" Jacob yelled, suddenly standing up from his chair. His posture was no longer disinterested. It was straight and tense. His facial expression clearly showed that he was angry.
"Do you want to tell me what is going on?" Pete asked, trying to sound calm and unthreatening. Evidently, something was wrong, despite Jacobs earlier claims, and Pete needed to find out what it was. He wasn't going to accomplish that by reacting aggressively. 
"What is going on, Pete is that I don't want to do this anymore. I am bored, am over it. It has run its course. The first stop was recorded. Upload it to YouTube, or you go and answer the questions, you should know all the answers by now. You have heard them all plenty enough times."
It was at that point that Pete began to feel his composure start to crack. Whatever problem was affecting Jacob needed to be resolved, and quickly, but that wasn't going to happen if Jacob wasn't going to be straight-out honest with him. 
"We are not uploading the readings, nor is anyone else answering your questions for you. Unless there is an actual, legitimate reason that you can not do the session, you need to go shower, make yourself presentable and be at the bookstore at 11:45 as planned, by you." During his speech, Pete had straightened his own posture and taken a step towards Jacob. There was a time to be Jacobs friend and there was a time to be his agent. Now was the time for the latter.
Jacob glared down at Pete. "You cannot order me aro..."
"I don't have to order you" Pete practically yelled, his composure completely cracking and frustration and anger seeping out. "You signed a contract, one that you helped compose, which you have to fulfil."
A tense silence filled the flat, both men glaring at each other, for several long seconds. Finally, Jacob stepped back and looked away from Pete.
"You know what? I've had enough of this. I'm going out." And with that, Jacob stalked towards the door, grabbing his wallet and Jacket and left the apartment leaving Pete still standing in the middle of the room, alone.
At first, he was speechless. He still couldn't believe what had just happened. What had just happened? There had been no signs that this was heading in the direction that it had. Pete had noticed that Jacob had been feeling a bit out of sorts, but he had put it down to the pressure of the book and coming down from the all the training he had put himself through in order to write the book. Surely this was some sort of joke, a test? 
He stood there for another minute or so before his vocal cords finally started to work again.
"Fffuck" he groaned when he realised that Jacob was for real. He really was going to throw the whole thing in. 
With a mixture of frustration and exhaustion, Pete ran his hands over his face and then to the back of his thinning hair. He had a feeling it was going to be more than a bit grey before this was all over. He took a deep breath and then decided that this was not the time to ruminate about his hair. He had phone calls to make. </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E54F3AE0-E499-4002-AA9A-77D021F4F556">
            <Title>Chapter ten</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch10-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="910BE5A8-840E-47F6-906E-36922626617A">
            <Title>Copyright</Title>
            <Text>START WEARING PURPLE

Originally published: 2017

Copyright © 2017 Various Authors
$$Ch01-Red$$, $$Ch02-Red$$, $$Ch03-Red$$
$$Ch04-Red$$, $$Ch05-Red$$, $$Ch06-Red$$
$$Ch07-Red$$, $$Ch08-Red$$, $$Ch09-Red$$
$$Ch10-Red$$, $$Ch11-Red$$, $$Ch12-Red$$
$$Ch13-Red$$, $$Ch14-Red$$, $$Ch15-Red$$
$$Ch16-Red$$, $$Ch17-Red$$, $$Ch18-Red$$
$$Ch19-Red$$, $$Ch20-Red$$
Story by: Tim Rogers

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental, and more than just a little bit scary.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons 
Attribution - NonCommercial - NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. 
You are free to share (to copy, distribute and transmit the work) 
under the following conditions:
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified 
by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that 
they endorse you or your use of the work). 
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes. 
No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work. 
For more details, visit:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/

Original cover photograph by Tim Rogers

www.novelinaday.com</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9B806045-4887-4873-B616-D272A687E68D">
            <Title>Chapter one</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch01-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DC7BC00E-5D0C-4C2E-BC5A-F99C0837DD0A">
            <Text>@Blndgrrlxxoo
Whys nobody saying THE TRUTH! Real threat are the white domestic terrorists stop blowing smoak into our eyes</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="8E89DD25-42DD-4F97-88BD-36F33A80A61E">
            <Title>Full Title Page</Title>
            <Text>








Start Wearing Purple

written as a
Novel-in-a-Day









 ￼
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="D97DA0AF-B9D8-4EA5-9150-4F8DFAA389B9">
            <Title>Chapter three</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch03-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E11A6327-6174-4A14-AD32-5E16FFF3BC67">
            <Text>“Amy come on, does not muse you, the fisherman is not some serious stuff."
The letter, it’s contents, the cut newspapers, maybe it was even possible a colleague it as a joke. Amy tried however to reassure herself. The “Terrordon years" had left some aftermath, and she felt that she was about to fall again into this spiral where collection of scoop and report had urged her to put herself in danger, and all this for that? To sort out the archives of the Chronicle a few years later. She has to protect herself, she has to be reasonable. "Come on Amy, calm down. Hoop, forget that! At least the time to eat, to avoid being nauseous all afternoon long! Danko. Inspiration, smile, we calm down."
Her gaze settled on Jacob. She hesitated.
His face ringed a bell but she couldn’t quite place it. She smiled discretely, then moved back, surprised, when he jumped up with his chair to rush at her, all smiles.
“Amy! Amy Kennedy! You remember me. Don’t you?”
Jacob felt his heart pounding. She did not recognize him. It did not surprise him, she had never showed him interest. He decided to get another shot.
“It is me! Jacob! Harvey Milk's bio! The Chronicle! The Terrordon years ! It is funny to meet you here. Are you meeting somebody?”
Amy made a big effort to assimilate the information because her interlocutor spoke very quickly. She remembered the cheap reporter. He had led a beautiful investigation in the environment LGBT of San Fran, and his bio of Milk had been informed really well there. Badly written, but informed well. He was kind. She hadn’t planned to join anybody…
“Jacob!” She exclaimed with a big smile. “It is indeed funny to find you here! I was going to eat alone, you come with me?”
The two journalists entered the Danko together. Jacob was so obliging as he became chivalrous there. They offered themselves a glass of wine and settled down in an a little more quiet corner to be able to speak quietly. Jacob, more enthusiastic than he really was, bombarded Amy of questions concerning what had become his work since the Terrordon years by taking care of avoiding the subject of the fisherman. He showed itself extremely comprehensive and compassionate, and his interlocutor relaxed little by little, lowering the defenses which she had instinctively placed when they had met. It is necessary to say that she had not much consideration for him when they had been colleagues and she felt bad about it today, while his career is not really on the roll anymore.
“I’ve spoken enough about me and about my career which seems to be turning in slow motion! Tell me what happened to you since you left the Chronicle!”
Jacob relaxed. The most sensitive step was behind him, Amy seemed comfortable, almost seduced.
“Well, I began to have doubts on the journalistic work which I exercised since a few years when I discovered the pleasure that I had to prepare Harvey Milk's biography,” he explained while mechanically grinding his fingers.
“Yes I remember it! I read this book with a lot of pleasure and I was impressed! What an investigation, congratulations! You are a good writer.”
“Thank you! Your compliment affects me,” answered Jacob, while realizing that the uncomfortable sensation he felt at the end of his fingers came from residues of glue. He noticed that he was establishing a small heap of residues of glue on the table.
Amy also noticed the condition of Jacob's fingers and teased him.
“Ah, the gentleman does odd jobs!”
Jacob suddenly felt uncomfortable. Amy should not make the link with… No, she could not make the link. Inspiration. Expiration. Smile.
“Yes! I shall go to wash my hands later, he answered with a small forced laughter. Thus, I told you… I decided to leave the Chronicle when the bio was published, and since then I’ve fully dedicated myself to biography writing! It’s fascinating.”
Amy didn’t appear to have noticed his discomfort.
“It is great! You are lucky to have found something that drives you! What’s your current work about?”
“I’d rather keep it secret for now…”
Come on. Coup de grace.
“… but I am pretty excited at the idea of spending few days at a friend’s place who owns a big loft in Fisherman Wharf's district. I’m staying there for a big series of interviews!”
Amy froze.
She made the link instantly. The fisherman will be alongside the wharf… Fisherman Wharf's district will be the next one attacked by this madman!
“Amy? Is everything ok?”
“J… I… I think I will have to go back to the Chronicle earlier than planned. I can’t tell you anything at the moment, I just want you to move your interviews for a few days? Maybe one week?”
“It is certainly possible, but you have to explain why!”
“Erm … There is this guy who sent me a letter in which he says he will attack some people in San Fran in days. I thought is was a joke but I think he’s planning something in Fisherman’s Wharf. I think I better write a paper in the Chronicle, but I don’t know if the boss will agree.”
“Oh my! If you’re right you have to inform people, it’s your duty as a reporter. I think I will follow your advice and call my friend.”
“Ok. It was great to see you. Here’s my phone number, call me if you still want to share a lunch! I’ve got to go.”
“Yes, I'm sure you'll write an awesome story. I enjoyed catching up too. Cheers!”
Amy got up and left the coffee hurriedly, worried. In the Danko, a man was alone and at a table in a quiet place.
He was smiling.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="0193651D-CD5D-49AF-9207-4976CA864297">
            <Title>Research materials</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E3D6D1E8-4A4C-4DC7-8E88-1A591C932FB1">
            <Text>The bank guard was exactly what he imagined he would be like – middle-aged, overweight and balding. And pale, like someone who didn’t get outside enough and sat in front of a computer too much, drinking Red Bulls and playing Dota. 
“I’m sorry, mister Terrordon. I really am. I had two roast beef sandwiches and a large curly fries from Arby’s on my lunch break and I just couldn’t…”
“Don’t worry about it, I mean I just don’t give a shit,” snapped the Terrordon, realizing too late his poor choice of words. He sighed with exasperation. The guard looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or be embarrassed. “Just tell me everything you know.”
“Well there’s really not too much to say I guess,” the guard said. “Like I told SFPD, it was the strangest thing. This guy came in, all dressed in purple, and just sat down in the middle of the bank and started drawing. Just sat, right on the floor, cross-legged like a kid. Now this is San Fran, and we get weirdos in here all the time, so we just watched him for a bit. After about ten minutes or so, I walked quietly behind him and that’s when I saw what he was drawing and started to get worried. It was a map of the whole bank, and the level of detail was incredible. He was even drawing what me and the other guards look like.”
The Terrordon looked thoughtful. “Then what happened?”
“Well, I told him that we needed to talk about what he was up to. Then he shrieked in a really high-pitched voice that his name was Charlotte, he didn’t have to listen to me, it’s a free country, and his favourite colour was purple. And then he crossed his arms and held his breath. That’s when me and one of the other guys literally had to pick him up and carry him to the security office. After that, he calmed down but didn’t seem with it. It was the strangest thing – it was just like talking to my six-year-old nephew.”
The Terrordon smiled smugly with satisfaction. He was right. It was Charlotte. It was the Sleepwalker. “Is that when you called the cops?”
“Yeah,” the security guard confirmed. “Then I told him we thought his drawing might be part of a plan to rob the bank. I told him that was the dumbest thing to do nowadays since most of the money is in a time delayed safe. I told him that banks have robbery bags loaded with ink bombs that will go off as soon as they leave the bank. I told him that the serial numbers of the bills are all recorded, and that the best the robbers can do is get away with a couple thousand bucks these days, tops. I told him the bank robbery game just doesn’t pay anymore. A bitcoin heist would make more sense these days!” The guard laughed, clearly impressed with his own cleverness. “I think he was really paying attention at that point.”
“And then you…” The Terrordon trailed off.
“Yeah, then I had to go,” the guard said. “I thought he would just stay there. He just seemed so… calm at that point. It’s almost like I forgot I was talking to an adult. And then he was gone when I came back, and no one saw where he went.”
The Terrordon thanked the guard insincerely and politely, and walked out of the bank into the cool night and ocean breeze outside. A lead and a dead end. What a night. His arms were still stiff from gliding as he walked home for the night.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="5EE169EC-2FFD-4191-8899-EF32FE4BD54E">
            <Text>At first, Amy couldn’t quite process what she was hearing. She’d been trying to stay professional, but from the very start, the night hadn’t held much promise and she wondered why she’d come. Okay, there was some mild intrigue, but mainly, she’d heard good things about the pizza - only Heath had already pre-ordered a random bunch of starters. That stung. But it paled in comparison to the words she was hearing. Sure, she knew Heath a little from his journalist days. He’d seemed normal then, but all that biography work and the attention after had clearly taken its toll. He’d lost it. And now he wanted to become a superhero, with her and this ageing agent as his sidekicks - in some sort of ‘league’? No, thank you. And all that stuff about the Fisherman - wow. He needed help. Or arresting. She couldn’t work out which. It was his agent that broke the silence:
“Jacob… this is…wrong. Definitely wrong. We can’t join in… but I think you might need a little help. Some time off? It must be hard trying to write something to match the work you did on Harvey…”
She could see Heath looked shocked. He’d genuinely believed they’d say yes. Her irritation boiled over into anger and she leapt to her feet.
“Heath - you’re insane! What are you, a vigilante? A boy playing superheroes?” She pulled out her phone, and held it between them like a weapon. “I’m going to call this in - I need to report you. I mean, it’s great that you’re dangerous, but what’s really great is that you’re trying to drag Pete and I down with you, into your insanity. Now I know this, its my duty. I don’t want to be liable - I need to keep people safe… from you!”
Pete got up, moving next to her and putting both his hands round hers, coving the phone.
He spoke softly: “Come on Amy. Let’s not inflame the… ‘situation’. We don’t need to involve anyone else here. Well, not the police. He hasn’t told us any details…nothing that puts us in danger, but…’ He dropped her hands and reached into his wallet for a card. “Jacob. Here’s the number of a close friend. She does some private work and I’ll ask her to make room for you tomorrow. You need to see her immediately. Just to talk it through and put some perspective in place. I know it’s hard to hear this from friends, so I think professional advice is needed. Amy - if he seeks help, I guarantee I’ll take responsibility for him. Now, would you like a ride? We can talk about this on the way.” 
Without waiting for an answer, he picked up Amy’s purse and led her by the arm to the exit. Jacob remained seated, alone.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="0F63B92F-388E-486D-9592-89F06A7D125F">
            <Text>Jacob, with his right arm folded behind his back, slowly extended his left arm holding onto the pull-up bar, relaxing his muscles slightly. Taking a deep breath, he clenched his right fist and pulled himself up again, beads of perspiration rolling down the side of his face onto the ground. It was quiet in the 24-hours gym at 2 A.M., and there was no one else besides him and another middle-aged man over by the weights - perfect for when he needed to sort out his thoughts, even more so for carrying out deeds in the dark cover of the night.
He pulled himself up again and looked at his reflection in the mirror in front, his tensed muscles vibrating slightly under the strain. He had already swiftly improved from what he could do in the past, all that he needed was some discipline. Watching himself lift his entire weight up with his left arm, he considered that physically, he did not look that much different from the Terrordon. They are not that much different in terms of physique. Strength and agility-wise, he was confident about his frequent work-outs and if he were to rate himself, the score would not be too bad. To know how well he would really do against the Terrordon, he would have to come face-to-face with him but just where had he gone?
Lowering himself onto the ground, Jacob walked over to where the glass ceiling to floor windows would have typically given him a birds' eye view of the streets below during the day. However, it was too dark outside and he could only see himself staring back at him. Even if a crime were to occur right beneath his nose in those darkened alley streets, he would not be able to know it. He took a quick glance at the clock. It was just a few hours more before his appointment with the Police Commissioner. The Police was the most obvious candidate he could think of to get further information on the Terrordon. The front-line officers were ultimately the ones who were right where the action occurred. Even for people in the back-line support, they would have encountered people with direct exchanges with the Terrordon. So, a few weeks earlier, he had gotten in touch with his old contact at the Police Department from his journalist days and was surprised to hear that the Commissioner would like to meet him. Initially, he was furious that his contact actually sold him out to the Commissioner. Such betrayal would not be tolerated back in those days but he remembered that he was no longer a journalist and had probably long since lost his privilege with the Police. Then, calming down and giving it more thought, he realised it might not be too bad a situation to be in after all. Through the Commissioner, if he was lucky, he might be able to get access to more police files on the Terrordon than he could ever imagine and such official records would give his book the credibility it is currently lacking with only theories and no evidence to support who the man behind the Terrordon was. The next person he must find would be Amy Kennedy from San Francisco Chronicle where he used to work. She had been responsible for most of the paper’s coverage of the Terrordon since the time she joined.
"I must find an opportunity to talk to her but now, I must start getting ready," he thought. "First impressions count especially for such an important deal I have to negotiate, hopefully not to wrangle, my way though."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FF772611-2FFA-43F8-892B-A5113CBA3E8D">
            <Title>Chapter 5</Title>
            <Synopsis>Jacob decides to speak to some villains. Lisa Warne explains DID - Sleepwalker interviewed</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
JACOB HEATH is a professional biographer. He has decided his next book should be about the TERRORDON - the masked vigilante that was credited with cleaning up the streets of San Francisco at the turn of the millenium before disappearing in 2005.
Things that have already happened
Jacob has spoken with (or been turned away by) as many 'normal' sources as possible - journalist, mayor, police…
Starts with
Jacob decides to see if he can speak to some of the villains put away by the Terrordon to get their take.
Chapter details
Jacob learns that the Sleepwalker, the most famous of the Terrordon's villains (and the one he captured shortly before disappearing) is in Rampworth State Hospital (a maximum-security facility that houses mentally ill convicts who have been committed to psychiatric facilities by California’s courts.
Jacob secures permission to visit. He first meets with DR LISA WARNE who explains that the SLEEPWALKER has Dissociative Identity Disorder and has several 'personalities'. She confirms that the 'Sleepwalker personality' hasn't been heard from in over 10 years.
Jacob interviews the Sleepwalker -- and he sees several of the different personalities (although not the Sleepwalker himself) - with Lisa present. 
Jacob explains he's writing a biography of the Terrordon but the Sleepwalker has no idea who the Terrordon might be.
Ends with
Jacob leaving Rampworth.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C663978A-A6FF-461D-AAF3-DA11DA33507E">
            <Text>Jacob’s stomach felt like it was filled with lumps of lead even though he hadn’t eaten since the day before. The drive to Rampworth had been unpleasant, and he’d been forced to make two bathroom stops to relieve his nervous bowels. During the trip, his mind had summoned up all kinds of nasty tricks and replayed nightmare images from childhood featuring his much-older cousin Stan… who was both physically and mentally impaired and liked to torture Jacob when the adults weren’t in the room.
Outside the gates of Rampworth, Jacob sat for a few minutes, collecting himself and trying to control his breathing before he went to meet with Dr. Lisa Warne.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="744664B2-F50C-48BF-8C8F-2FBD054B1001">
            <Text>It was 9:30 in the morning. Jacob had been back from the gym for a couple of hours already. On the table sat his laptop, a copy of today’s Chronicle, folded open to an article called “We’re Clueless, Admit Police,” and an empty saucer. From back in the kitchen came the sound of his grumbling old pastel green espresso machine as it grudgingly spat out his third cup of coffee. One hand on the machine, muscles in his arm tensed, both eyes searching the skyline out his kitchen window, Jacob was not a happy man.
It was worse than disappointing. It was downright frustrating. His plan hadn’t worked at all. The dozen or so tabs open in his web browser each represented another news source and the most recent articles on the case. Some sources had nothing since yesterday — the story growing cold. And there was nothing in the news anywhere that he could see that mentioned the claim of responsibility he’d fabricated and gotten to the police. No one was writing about The Fisherman. Web searches for “fisherman” turned up nothing of relevance, just as news-radio on the short drive back from the gym had been annoyingly vacuous. And, as he might have guessed, without the involvement of such a super-villain, there was also no mention in the media of Terrordon. Why should there be?
In a way, he knew he was lucky that the police were stymied. Their ignoring his fictional clue was inconvenient for sure, but if they had found some real clues and were able to pursue the real culprits, that would be a whole different thing. And he knew he’d be honour-bound not to derail a real investigation with a real chance of bringing a criminal to justice. So all in all, just as well the police were baffled.
Still, he needed to inject something into this story somehow or find some other way of trying to provoke the missing vigilante Terrordon into reacting. Another man might have added the option “or give up.” But that was not an option for Jacob Heath. He would throw together a makeshift fisherman’s costume and rob something himself rather than abandon this idea.
Back at the table, sipping strong caffeine and smooth steamed milk, he again scanned the Chronicle’s coverage. There were extended quotations taken from an interview with the investigating detective, one Brian Browning. The byline of the article read: Amy Kennedy. That was the blonde woman he’d talked to a while ago. He liked her.
And it occurred to him that it was possible the press would take notice where the police obviously had not. The papers would always be interested in something sensational — sensational sells — where the police would be inclined to dismiss it. “Fisherman” could contact the press as he’d done the police. Or maybe he, as Jacob, could talk to Amy Kennedy again and, this time, suggest the Fisherman had a role in the attack. But no. How would he know of the Fisherman or his responsibility? Best for the Fisherman to claim responsibility to Amy and the Chronicle.
Jacob finished his coffee. A wry smile reached his face as he set the cup back down. Or maybe both: Fisherman could send a claim of responsibility to the Chronicle — it would be certain to reach Amy’s desk. He could then have another meeting with her, ostensibly to talk some more about the Terrordon back in 2005 and the biography she knew he was writing. And then maybe he could “just so happen” to get her to talk about what she’s been working on… “Any new leads?” he could ask innocently. Best of all, perhaps talking about Terrordon and Fisherman in the same evening would link the two together in her mind and perhaps in her writing.
Happy to have a way forward, he swiped his way through the contacts on his phone till he found her name, pushed the button, and, standing up from the table, put the device to his ear, talking while walking around the living room.
“Hey, yeah, it’s Jacob,” he smiled.
“Jacob Heath,” he clarified, “Right — Terrordon book. Listen, I was wondering… I’ve worked through another chapter and there are some more inconsistencies that are worrying me — I know you must be busy with all the….”
“Yeah,” he nodded to what she was saying in response. “I know. I can imagine…. Oh, is it?”
“Well, anyway,” he continued when appropriate, “You have to break to eat some time right? Maybe I could buy you dinner and get your take on things while we work through the appetiser?”
With a little disappointment, “Yeah, I understand, no, Friday would be fine.” Without any progress in the police investigation till then, there was a real risk of another story coming along and knocking the attack off the front page. Still, Friday was better than nothing.
“Shall I pick you up or…?”
“Right, sure, fine. I’ll meet you at the restaurant. I was thinking Joker.”
He loved the idea of meeting her to eat at Joker — the name was like a super-villain, of course, but also it was a fish restaurant. Ordering their “Catch of the Day” might suggest Fisherman to her subconscious. If you believe in that kind of stuff. He did.
“Right,” he said, “Seven suits me too. Hey, thanks for your time; I really appreciate it. See you then!”
He was still smiling and feeling warm feelings toward her as he put the phone on the table and got to work setting up the Fisherman’s claim of responsibility for the San Francisco Chronicle — a claim that would reach the desk of ace reporter Amy Kennedy before Friday at 7.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1F5EF759-C1BA-46D6-8B48-79A1EF1C33A2">
            <Title>Chapter eight</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch08-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="EB882D2B-9C28-4C2C-957E-FB88A67A5BDA">
            <Title>Title Page</Title>
            <Text>








Start Wearing Purple

</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C5425171-AF48-449C-89F1-8CE77055FE3B">
            <Title>Chapter fourteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch14-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="8CE2727A-1ACA-4DBD-915F-47369055D63D">
            <Text>The crack of the second explosion reverberated for blocks.
For a moment, nothing of the pedestrian bridge could be seen except for a plume of concrete and masonry. It reminded Jacob of a dirty wave breaking against rocks in a storm. This time, even the building beneath him shuddered. For seconds afterwards, his ears buzzed and the world became muffled cotton wool.
As the dust cleared, he saw the twisted ironwork ribs of the bridge now exposed.
There was a lull, and then the middle of the bridge gave way completely, collapsing onto the cars below. A huge slab of concrete crushed a blue Chevy as if it were nothing more than an old tin can. But there had been no one in it. He was sure of that. He told himself: he was sure of that.
He squatted behind the wall, staring at the swirls of dust, pieces of bridge still falling away, for who knows how long. He was paralysed. What now?
Sirens started up again.
More screams, more urgent now.
Beyond that, the city seemed strangely quiet and calm.
His phone vibrated. Pulling it out of his raincoat pocket, he glanced at the message on the screen:</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="49F8CB5E-B59D-42E3-BB9A-8F356F42CC1C">
            <Text>As Jacob watched the video, and although he knew that physically it was the same person, he couldn't help but be amazed at how expressive the Sleepwalker's face was. Subtle shifts in muscle, gestures, and posture gave each personality its distinction. If one were to see them all lined up at the same time, one would surely mistake them for individual people at first, thought Jacob. 
"These three personalities were new." explained Dr Warne. "I hadn't encountered them before, but it was as if all three shared the same mental space."
"Yes." agreed Jacob. "They clearly interact with each other, but it seems they aren't aware of Charlotte."
"Watch what happens next." said Dr Warne ominously.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="95A5BD9A-1592-4FE7-A06F-A82FD40FC49F">
            <Title>Chapter sixteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch16-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="36F55089-BF17-4864-8E56-6E8F4550188C">
            <Text>“Bitch!”
“Faggot, don’t you dare call me that!”
Jacob’s head pivoted to hopefully triangulate on the Sound of Trouble.  He’d built up himself enough to consider the words worthy of capitalization.  The book may even take it as a title - lord knows that everything else about writing a novel was hard, the title coming so quickly must be a sign he was finally in the groove.
The Castro district may have mellowed in recent years, but violence against the gays, well, anyone not straight, was rising.  America was not given permission to be made great again, it’s people had been simply given approval to act out the festering hate of anything not “normal”.  The Others were the bad guys.  And that was unfortunate, since most of the people here simply wanted to find love just like any other straight citizen.
His dalliance with Travis allowed him to realize firstly that he was only interested in women, and more importantly, that this area was a prime spot to try to understand what made The ’Don start helping those under attack.  
The Sound of garbage cans being upended as weapons and defensive objects led him to an alley next to Aunt Charlie’s bar.  He’d only been here once before, but the memory of the dark grungy interior and the older grizzled clients made a lasting impression.  Slow death lurking in their cups and veins.  These people remembered the mid-80s intimately.
Muffled words and meaty thuds welcomed Jacob into the alley where it looked to be a couple of larger men terrorizing a very thin asian.
“Nigger!”  a white man in lumberjack flannel - in this heat? - spit the word towards the thin man.
“That’s bullshit!”  yelled back the asian.  “We’re above that kind of talk!”
“Johnny, man, he’s right?”  The second attacker chimed in.
Jacob slowed his approach, this didn’t seem like normal shit-talking.
Lumberjack Johnny turned towards his partner in crime, “Are you fucking him too, Bruce?”
“Fuck you fag, Cory has a point!  I don’t fuck where have the neighborhood has been - no offense man, Cory’s beautiful, of course, but it’s not right what you said.  You know I was a civil rights lawyer.”
Johnny whipped around and threw the trashcan at the asian that Jacob took to be named Cory.  The man easily dodged it.
Jacob took the distraction to run up to Cory, he’d waited long enough, it was time to help save the day…or at least diffuse the situation enough for no one to get hurt.
“You need some help, man?”
Cory reacted in disgust, “The fuck you calling me a man?  Bitch, who are you?” 
He turned to Johnny, “This asshole called me a man!”
Johnny turned towards Jacob, lumbering forward, “You go balls deep in him, too?”  
Jacob became confused - Cory rushed to hide behind Johnny.
“Wha-?”  Jacob started before a trashcan lid hit him mid-pelvis.
“How many you doing at once, Cory?”  Johnny cried in anguish, but his face was in a rage as his fist swung out to Jacob, missing him completely which made the bigger man stumble.
Cory caught his partner, and Bruce picked up another lid, winding up to throw it with as much force as his inebriated mind could muster.
“I may be a twink, but I sure as shit can play some disc golf!”  the lid flew from his hands and grazed Jacob’s shoulder.
“You needed help!” Jacob yelled.
“I didn’t need anything from you!  Johnny, take his head off!”  Cory gave his possibly not-ex-boyfriend a little push towards Jacob.
Bruce rushed up and kicked at Jacob’s crotch.  The hit wasn’t powerful, but they never need to be in that area.  Jacob crumpled, and he heard Cory laugh.
“Fight!”  The little man yelled, rushing into the bar, “It’s a fight!”
Men and women started streaming out as Jacob took a heavy foot to his ribs.
The hits weren’t doing much damage, bodily that is, but his ego was simply hanging by a thread.  To add to the psyche of insults, the smell of rotting fruit and stale beer was making him gag.
“Who the fuck dumped my trash?”  A dark man in a smock yelled in outrage.
“That ass right there, Dean.”  Cory pointed to Jacob.
Jacob swung his head side to side, mouthing the word “no”, but bile was in his throat.
Johnny foot connected with Jacob’s sternum and acidic food remnants spewed out, splashing the shoes of a half-dozen on-lookers.
A chorus of swearing aimed at Jacob rose and swelled as others started gagging themselves.  These weak stomached patrons rushed back into the bar, while those with more fortitude started gathering around Jacob’s retching form.
The Sound of Trouble rose again, and Jacob’s fear rose with it.  He’d be lucky to get away with only the minor bruises he’d already taken.
“No one dumps my shit in my alley!”  Dean the bartender said as he loosened his tight shirt, “Or fucks up my shoes!”
He pulled back with a fist that had dished out it’s allotment of punishment in its day.
But the strike never struck.
“Dean, stop.”  Jacob’s teary eyes saw a form slip between him and the bartender.  Between himself and the mob of drunks.  “Stop, he’ll pick this shit up, let it be.”
“No, I-“
“The fucking cops are on their way.  Hear them?”
The siren was faint, but the sound was growing.
“I’ll make sure he takes care of it.  Go back in, serve some drinks, make some cash.  You know your yoga teacher would be disappointed if you hit him.”
The bartender deflated, and took a deep breath.  
“Yeah.  Yeah, I know.  Okay.”  Dean, turned around and silently strode back to the bar.
Jacob hoped that he’d call the crowd with him, but it seemed that his generosity ended with him not taking Jacob’s head off.
“All you, too!  Unless you want trash duty.”
“Only trash I see is puke-boy there, Travis.”  One of them men said with a disgusted look.
“Get the fuck back inside.”
“Travis?”  Jacob whispered.
He was able to stand and wiped the tears and puke from his face.
“Hey Jacob, how you doing?”  Travis turned, “You asshole, what is this all about?  Decide you were going to play gay again?  I should beat you myself for this stunt!”
“What’re you doing here?”
“I this is my neighborhood, dummy!”
“But - “ 
The siren turned out to be an ambulance passing by.  Travis used that to drive home his point.
“And it seems I’m saving you from a horrible ass-beating.  These guys don’t fuck around.”
“But - “
“You need to stay to yourself, keep out of other people’s business, dumb-ass.”
“They were going to kill that guy.”
“Who?  John and Bruce?  Those two couldn’t lay a hand on Cory if he fucked their mother!”
“But - “
“It’s a domestic dispute, Jacob.  A little case of Cory being a bit too loose with his affections, and Johnny getting more upset than normal.  Bruce would have talked him down.”
“They were getting ready to beat him down with the trash cans, Travis!”
“This happens almost every couple of weeks.  If you went inside - which you won’t! - you’ll see them at a table, probably on the same chair, as Cory cuddles into Johnny.”
“That’s not a healthy relationship.”  Jacob replied, helping Travis pick up the trash.
“Said the guy that faked gay for a month.”
“It was an experiment.”
“You were method acting, and it’s stupid.  What’re you doing down here?  Need a reminder - “
“I’m sorry!”  Jacob interrupted, and sighed.  “I’m sorry.  I know I probably insulted you, your way of life.  I didn’t mean to do that.  And…I, I don’t know why I’m here.”  He wasn’t about to bring up the fact that he was trying to understand why someone would be come a vigilante.  It would bring up his “homo-month” as Travis had originally put it, and Jacob really wanted to deflect away from that part of his methods.
“Get that can over here.”  Travis said, “We’re almost done.  I don’t believe I’m actually picking up trash for you.  Me and my big mouth!”
Travis looked critically at Jacob, “Are you hurt?”
“My balls ache, and my ego is crushed, but other than that I’m okay.  Maybe some bruising tomorrow.”
“And count yourself lucky at that!  They’d have broken some bones, the way Cory was getting them whipped up.  The puke didn’t really help, either.”
“I know.  I know.”  Jacob met Travis’s gaze, “Thank you.  I definitely needed you tonight.”
“Don’t you forget it.”  Travis smiled.  “I’d let you buy me a drink, but you should probably head out.  These guys don’t give up a grudge easy, and you did puke on their shoes.”
Jacob reached his hand over.
Travis shook it.
Jacob knew he was going to have the shakes when he got home.  Hopefully a shower and a whiskey would put him right, but at the moment, the adrenaline rush was ebbing and the fright was growing.  He’d narrowly missed being seriously hurt, and that experience wouldn’t soon leave his memories.
How had The Terrordon dealt with this fear?  Did he grow accustomed to it?  Did it eat him up, and that was why he disappeared?  
The fear added aspects to this that Jacob wasn’t quite prepared for yet.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DC9E32ED-1384-4B7C-802A-A598A0618181">
            <Title>Introduction</Title>
            <Text>Time is no substitute for talent
There is a well-known saying that if you give a monkey a typewriter and an infinite amount of time then it will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. In 2003, the staff at Paignton Zoo gave a computer to six crested macaques and categorically proved that what you actually get is five pages of the letter ‘S’ and a broken keyboard. Time, it seems, is no substitute for talent. But can talent substitute for time…?
The book you are about to read was written over the course of a single day in October 2017. For those unfamiliar with the concept of Novel-in-a-Day, it’s simple: - A skeleton of a plot is worked out in advance of the day - That plot is broken into sections, which are divided amongst the participants randomly - The writers have most of the rest of the day to write and return their chapters, working with no knowledge of the wider story or their place in it. 
I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as we loved putting it together.

Tim
October 28, 2017</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="09A84E2E-48DC-4950-852D-F8B00DA9B972">
            <Text>It had been days since the Mayor's Office said they would call Jacob back but it would appear that his luck in that direction had run dry too. "It is only to be expected," he grumbled. While he surmised that would happen, he still held within his heart a slight hope that things would change but once again was sorely disappointed. Fortunately though, during the time of futile waiting, Jacob had managed to contact Amy Kennedy. He had already failed once, no, twice. At this point, besides Amy, he could not think of anyone else he could approach. If he were to fail again, no - he could not, or rather would not try to imagine it. Since the last conversation he had with Pete, Jacob had already started blocking his calls for a while until he could keep his thoughts straight without Pete's constant pestering about the progress of his research.
Jacob and Amy were not close when he was still working with the paper so she only came to mind when he was collecting articles about the Terrordon where he noticed her name coming up several times. It seemed that the Terrordon had almost become a pet project of hers since she joined so there could be something she could tell him. Sensing her passion for the Terrordon, he approached her upfront and told her about the biography of the Terrordon that he was working on. She had immediately agreed to grant him her assistance.
Jacob could not recall if she was married so he opted for a safe, risk-free ensemble that night for their first meeting after so many years. He decided it was best not to put her off right at the beginning and burst his own chances of getting new information about the Terrordon. They had arranged to catch up over dinner at a quaint cafe not too far from the San Francisco Chronicle so that Amy could come right over after her work was done. The food was not great but it had its old-school charms. However, the best thing about the place was that there would be no crazy, rowdy millennials and their constant self-gratification. Sometimes, he really hated how the new media was destroying the world's interpretation of what was considered news and what was not.
As usual, Jacob reached his venue early and being early had its advantages. From where he sat by the window, he had a vantage view of all the passer-bys. In his mind, he pictured the image of Amy from what little he remembered, filling in bits of her appearances with memories of their brief encounters, her voice reading out loud in his head the articles she had written on the Terrordon in the past as he pored over them again, flipping through them sorted out chronologically in a file in front of him. Absentmindedly, he fiddled with his fountain pen and turned to look outside, running his eyes through the faces for one that struck a sense of familiarity. From the distance, he spotted an elegant blonde that looked like the Amy in his mind's eye. Clearing the table to make some space, he called out to the waiter and ordered a coffee while patiently waiting for Amy to make her way over. She was at the door when the waiter brought him his coffee and he looked up just in time to see her enter, take a quick sweeping glance through the cafe and finally met his eyes. She waved at him and came over with a bag load of documents and papers.
“How have you been?” Amy asked. “It's been a while, hasn’t it?” she said as she tugged her hair behind her ear and reached out to shake Jacob's hand as he stood up. 
“Yes, it's been a while indeed. I've been fine, how about you?” Jacob asked in return and helped her with her bag. It was actually quite heavy, especially for someone of her size and stature. 
"I'm good too. I hope you hadn't been waiting long. Shall we get something to eat? I'm famished. We'll talk as we eat if you're okay with it." Before Jacob could answer, she was already picking up the menu and flipping through it. Although Jacob did not know Amy well enough, she had a respectable reputation for being serious about her work. Jacob prayed hard that it would not be yet another wasted trip banging at the wall. 
"Aren't you hungry?" she glanced up to see him still watching her. "There is only one way going forward," he thought to himself and called the waiter over for a second time.
"So what are your thoughts on the Terrordon?" Amy suddenly asked between mouthfuls of her pasta. "Who do you think he is?" Jacob was caught by surprise and chewed his steak thoughtfully.
"Aren't we here to talk about him?" Amy prompted him again, slightly impatient. "I saw you running through the articles I wrote, I suppose you don't know much then..." Her face almost appeared downcast as she said that.
"Well... I'm after all here to ask you about him but I did hear some rumours..." Jacob began slowly.
"Really?" Amy's face lit up as she said it but Jacob thought he could have imagined it as her bright-eyed look disappeared when he gave it quick check as he cut another piece of his steak and put it into his mouth. "Why you go first then, tell me what you know," Amy continued.
Inwardly, Jacob weighed the pros and cons of sharing what he knew with Amy. Sharing something with her would be crucial to earning her trust at this point. Yet, a part of him was unwilling to disclose his hard-earned secrets so easily. "It must be a fair trade," he thought.
"Well... I heard sources that the Terrordon could be a Senator." Jacob made a great show of drawing out his words.
"No way! Who...?" Amy gasped and covered her mouth. Jacob thought her reaction was exaggerated and wondered if she was putting up an act with him. In any case, if she already knew that, it meant that he hardly lost anything so he actually felt rather relieved.
"Think about it, Amy," Jacob carried on, ignoring the shocked look on her face, "who else had the motivation, the power and the money? It couldn't have been just anybody and how many billionaires do we have anyway that could afford the time researching into the technology? It has to be someone with influence and military links."
"Or it could be just a thief that did it," Amy interjected. "Have you forgotten the case where there was a huge leak of military information? Although it was not revealed that anything was lost, my personal sources told me that some technical blueprints were released due to the hacking. As a result, the military had to ditch their original plans and come up with new ones in order to cover up and avoid public outrage."
"So he was just a hacker?"
"Not just any hacker - a brilliant one at that too."
"And the money-?"
"He could have hacked it too. And did you realise how he was always able to reach the crime scene in such a short time? He must have the police's communication system bugged."
"I'm sure not everything could be obtained by simply hacking alone. We are still missing an important point. So let's say he got the blueprints, how did he get anyone to manufacture the gadgets he got? Did he make them himself? Shouldn't those require some connections at the least? Wait... don't tell me, let me guess. He hacked an online Batman merchandise store? Even then, it would have been possible to trace anyone through the Internet."
Amy rolled her eyes and Jacob regretted what he said almost immediately. "Not if he was really skilful, he could easily cover his tracks. Have you actually tried buying anything from the Internet? Products? Services? Have you at least heard of Craigslist? There is almost nothing you can't buy online. As long as there is a demand, there is a supply. You just need to know which door to knock, no questions asked. That's the power of anonymity on the Internet."
"Well... if you put it that way..." Jacob's voice dropped and he conceded that Amy could be right about it too.
"You know what? Listening to us arguing like this, it was almost as if each of us knew in our hearts who the Terrordon really is." Amy switched to a light-hearted tone, as if she sensed Jacob's dispiritedness. "But what if we're both wrong, that will be really ironic. Like if he was actually a robot or something, that will be funny. Or..."
"OR HE COULD ACTUALLY BE MORE THAN ONE PERSON!" They called out in unison and Amy slapped her palm against the table. The two of them broke out in laughter at the absurdity of what they just said, drawing several turned heads and stares from the other cafe patrons.
"Actually," Amy began again, sounding suddenly serious, "there could perhaps be some truth to that." She dug into her huge bag and started pulling out some folders. "These are some photos people managed to capture, purportedly of the Terrordon. Most of them were of too poor a quality to be used in the newsprint but I did notice something strange about them." She shoved the photo albums in his direction, flipping through them quickly and pointed a few ones out. "Notice anything?" 
Jacob picked up the photos and examined them under the warm fluorescent light of the cafe. The photos were either blur or really grainy due to the poor resolution. At first glance, they did not seem very helpful at all. Then, it suddenly dawned onto him. "He was holding his gun with his left hand and here, in this photo he had the gun in his right. Not only that, you can also see him holding his spiked throwing stars in his left hand here and then his right hand in this other photo..."
"Yes! Yes! Yes! Exactly! There was something else I wasn't able to figure out previously as well but things might be clearer now." Digging into her bag yet again, she pulled out a rolled document and gently unfurled it on the table as Jacob hastily pushed their plates aside. He saw that it was a map with several clusters of coloured stickers. "I had always wondered about these," she muttered softly, almost to herself. Each coloured sticker represented a sighted appearance of the Terrordon. "I will need to go right back and see what else I can find."
For the rest of their meal, Jacob and Amy ate in thoughtful silence in view of their new-found insights. It seemed like a far-fetched idea but it was absolutely plausible, not entirely impossible. 
 	"Thank you for the dinner and for everything else tonight. I must admit, I had an enjoyable time. It was fun to find someone who shares the same amount of passion and dedication." Amy said as they walked out to the street. Before Jacob could venture a reply, Amy turned to face him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek before hurrying out into the night, in the direction of the San Francisco Chronicle.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="88C60CBB-E413-4017-AA28-64CC0AC6ED15">
            <Text>Anonymous:
In this day and age where the world has turned into a hotbed for radicals this naive talk about supervillains is dated and counter-productive. I'm disappointed in the Chronicle's coverage and would recommend that you reporter gets her facts straight before committing her wild theories to paper.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9FE6053C-64A5-455D-9080-BD31D5D4962D">
            <Text>The Sleepwalker stirred in Rampworth State Hospital. He’s been a patient in the secure mental facility since 2005, with his 7 year reign of terror throughout the San Francisco area being brought to an end a long time ago. How odd that his capture and incarceration had been at the hands of his archenemy, the masked vigilante Terrordon. As a moniker, the ‘Don of Terror’ should surely have been an accomplice, but no, Terrordon had been the foil to every underhand notion the Sleepwalker had contrived. Was it really appropriate to call this guy of average build, who was wearily rubbing his eyes, the Sleepwalker anymore? It was now the summer of 2017 and the Sleepwalker personality, or any vestige of its sadistic impulses, hadn’t surfaced in over a decade. Declared insane and unfit to stand trial for his crimes back in 2005, these days he was little more than a curiosity, having been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. Who was the former Sleepwalker, super-villain, going to be today? 
 Charlotte, his only known female personality, reached for coloured pencils and a sketch pad off the bedside cabinet, pushed her feet back down under the duvet and rested her back against the headboard. “Leo the lion likes to be yellow.” Her short dark hair really didn’t sit well with Charlotte, as she’d love to twirl it around her fingers as she concentrated to stay within the lines of the magnificent mane on the lion.  An orderly arrived and offered Charlotte a glass of water, “What a handsome lion. He looks like he’s king of all he surveys.” Charlotte glanced up from the page, took the glass, and asked, “What does survey mean?” She’s only 6 years old. “It means everything he can see. Breakfast is ready in the canteen area when you’re ready sweetie.” Charlotte returned her attention to the lion, only taking a sip of water before awkwardly placing the glass down. 
 Ten minutes later and she’s skipping along the corridor towards the smell of bacon. Her gait moved from a skip to a stride as Tim takes over the body. Tim’s Australian, and another personality that belies the fact that the Sleepwalker used to hold dominion over this frame. “G’day mate!” he beams as he arrives at the counter. “What you got cooking on the barbie?” The guy serving rolls his eyes. He’s heard this routine a thousand times before, and slides the plate filled with a full English towards Tim. “Strewth, I’m gonna bust a gut!” His eyes are devouring the food as he turns and heads towards the nearest table, shouting “Thanks mate!” seemingly to no one in particular. 
Although the facility was secure, with thick iron bars declaring the fact at every window, it was run in a fairly relaxed manner. Yes, guards were never far away, and a nurse with a syringe full of sedatives à la One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest would plunge at the first sign of danger, but the day-to-day routine was calm and easygoing. Tim sat at a table with three other patients. Sit at any table in the hospital and you could be with a schizophrenic, someone with an acute bipolar disorder, epilepsy or Asperger’s syndrome to name but a few of the diagnosed ailments abound. Tim’s outgoing and bombastic personality typically made everyone else at the table uneasy. 
“G’day, g’day, g’day!” Sausages were rolled with blunt knives, and baked beans pushed around in response, as both men and a woman averted engagement. Tim was typically unfazed when his gregarious intent was ignored, but as quickly as Charlotte had skipped into Tim, Joe wasn’t happy. He had no recollection of why he wasn’t happy, but doctors at Rampworth State Hospital has recognised a pattern. Joe often appeared after a situation had involved conflict. Nothing of note had occurred in this instance, but the probable slight rise in tension for Tim may have triggered the arrival of Joe. It would seem that none of the personalities that the Sleepwalker proffered could recall the memories of any other. Apart from the Sleepwalker. It has been a while, but careful observation of the Sleepwalker all those years ago had revealed reactions to and utterances about matters that had occurred whilst other personalities had inhabited the body. 
“I say, would you be so kind as to pass me some tea old chap?” said Joe. “It might quell my jitters.” It would appear that every personality was quite the stereotype, with Joe being an English gent. There was no tea to pass, but Joe certainly loved a cuppa. He turned from the table and his untouched breakfast and headed back to the counter for a dainty cup with saucer of Earl Grey. Breakfast was concluded in a civil manner, with Joe even engaging the lady at the table in a delightful conversation centring around a documentary he’d seen regarding the production of tea in plantation in Munnar, India.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="5C6484DC-33BF-42EB-BFAB-37101045118A">
            <Text>The Sleepwalker pressed his foot against the accelerator just to feel the g-force of an exceptional drive train. The resulting pressure exhilarated him. In the rearview mirror, he could see his men falling back unable to keep up with the rich man’s car. “You have a state senator in the boot,” Rog whispered. He clicked the cruise control then allowed the vehicle to slow back to the posted speed limit. “I am slowing down for them Rog, not for you.” He said.
“What boss,” a voice asked from the rear seat. 
“Your fellow men at arms are falling back, I must slow down for them, Rog. Your job is to make sure that the costumed menace stays in the boot. Not to question my driving, Rog.” 
“My name is not Rog.” The voice from the rear seat said. 
“Who is the boss here Gregory, you or me?”
“You sir, no question about that.”
“Good answer Rog, Gregory has too many letters in it. A name that long can cause confusion in the weak minded. From now on you are Rog, got it?”
“My brother’s name is Rodger.” Gregory/Rog said. 
”I think I will call all of you Rog from now on, that way I will not be confused as to which one of you I am speaking to.” The Sleepwalkeer said. This was a pick-up crew, hired for special occasions. Gregory the muscle, Toby the driver slash knife man, and Vincent the Silent, slim, lithe, and deadly.  
By stealing peeks in the rearview mirror The Sleepwalker enjoyed the small torture his new minion went through trying to figure out how calling everyone Rog would bring an end to confusion. Twice the foolish lump opened its mouth to mount a rebuttal but each time the mouth closed without making a sound. Deeper furrows in his forehead the only result of all that thinking.   
The sign announcing the Jason’s exit lit up in the headlights. A second later the GPS announced it was time to make an exit from the freeway. The Sleepwalker flipped on his turn signal so that his follow car would have plenty of warning that they were making a turn. 
Toby saw the signal just in time.  He cut across two lanes of traffic and came boiling down the off ramp. A screeching stop sent the panhandler near the stop sign scurrying for safety. No one from law enforcement was near enough to notice the faux pas. The boys always enjoyed a night out. “Let them have a little fun,” The Sleepwalker said through clenched teeth.
Ten miles further inland, a sleepy little burg well on its way to a cozy night came into view. Signs demanded that everyone slow down to protect the children. Boom, boom, Gregory bounced forward into the seat in front of him. “If he gets out of the boot Rog, you will die too.” 
A state police car idled at the gas station, the policeman’s profile illuminated by a bank of florescent bulbs. The Sleepwalker was not afraid of one policeman but he was on a bit of a schedule. Boom, Jason again tried to kick his way out of the boot. 
“You tied him up good, I watched you. If that cop makes a move, I’ll plug’em.” Doug said. 
“I don’t need your help right now Doug,” The Sleepwalker said.
“I thought I was Rog.” Gregory said. 
 “Gregory! Sit the fuck back in your seat like a normal human, and shut the hell up, forever.” The goon settled back in his seat, relived that the boss was yelling again, doing puzzles made him angsty.
Seven times Jason kicked at the seat but the policeman did not investigate. Gregory dealt with the jostling, poorly. Every few seconds the big man lurched forward. The seat did not give. Jason remained in the back. The policeman either did not notice or did not care. 
 A quarter mile out of town the speed restriction lifted and so did The Sleepwalker’s spirits. The last miles before Jason’s property he spent testing the cornering ability of the car. The vehicle passed all exams with flying colors. 
One hobby farm after another passed in peaceful quite. The last farm came complete with three Alpacas and an Emu. Finally, the GPS nagged The Sleepwalker to take the next turn. An estate rose out of the dark as the road curled down around an inconvenient hill. The place reeked of ‘old money’. 
“Looks like we made it to your house Jason. Now we will get some answers.” The sleepwalker said. 
In the back-seat Gregory squirmed, unsure if the prohibition against him talking, ever, had expired. Instead of saying anything he slammed his elbow into the seat, then smiled wanly, seeking assurance. “Get him out of the boot and into the house. I have some questions to ask our new friend State Senator Jason Richards. Or should I say, The Terrordon! No need to be kind Gregory.” 
Gregory walked to the back of the car. He was standing staring at the bumper as the follow car drove up. The Sleepwalker looked back to make sure it was his men pulling into the drive. Sheepishly he clicked the button the released the latch. 
“How long was I away Gregory.” The Sleepwalker asked.
“Not long like a couple seconds.” Gregory answered. 
“Liar, How Long?” 
“I wasn’t counting, I just waited like you told us. I know you got important plans to make and stuff. I just waited like you said to.” Gregory trailed off then busied himself with extricating the senator from his vehicle. 
“No use making a big deal out of it. We are all alone out in the country after all. It was the well, that caught my attention. It is kind of picturesque.” With effort, he pulled his thoughts away from the well and its innate charm. There before him stood his longtime foe. The Terrordon shorn of his toys and magical flying suit. A lowly senator surrounded by thugs. Perfect hair jostled, hands bound behind him, a bruise welling up under his eye. Now that was a charming sight. 
“Where is it Terrordon, where is the door to your secret lair.”
“You have made a terrible mistake. I am not a vigilante, I make laws, I do not break them. Not for any reason.”
“Save the stump speech, no one here is ever going to vote for you. Tell me where the door to your lair is businessman!” The Sleepwalker really spit that last word out, with luck some of it got on the senator. Now he was having fun. Bringing down the hoity toity, high and mighty, that is what life is all about. Reducing movers and shakers into frightened children shaking in their boots. 
“Is it the well, is that why I am so drawn to it?” How does it open, is there a secret door at the bottom of a ladder down in moleville?” The Sleepwalker asked.
“Two years ago a neighbor boy fell down that well during one of my fundraisers. He dressed as the Lucky Leprechaun, guarding his treasure in the well. Exchanging lucky tokens folks could throw into the well for campaign checks. He was horsing around dancing on the rim and, and the poor child fell in. The boy died.” Jason said.
“I bet you got your checks off the body, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Jason bowed his head in shame, “I did. However as a token to the parents I filled the well with cement.” Jason said
“Do you mind if I do not believe your sentimental little story. Vincent go check the well for a knob or latch, some way to open a secret door.” From where he was standing Vincent could see a crescent of cement lit by a lamp held by a carriage boy on a pole. 
“Maybe not the well, still, we have all night to find your nest even if I have to take that house apart stick by stick. Drag his sorry ass over here Gregory, we will have a look inside.” The Sleepwalker walked to the carved front door. 
“Open the door Toby, Gregory has his hands full.”
“I don’t have a key.”
“Who says it is locked” 
Toby tried the door, “locked”
“Check his pockets do I have to think of everything?”
Vincent walked up and buried his hatchet into the polished wood. Three more chops left the deadbolt hanging from the door frame. “Now there is a man of action, note to self, see if the crew will dump Gregory, join up full time. Toby is a good driver and drivers are as hard to find as reliable drummers.”   
The Sleepwalker shook himself then kicked the broken door open. The group all moved into the foyer. To the right a fire burned in a fireplace. The fire light revealed a man’s place, dark wood and warm leather chairs. To the immediate left a coat closet with its door ajar. Past the closet a hall led into a dining room. 
“Is there anyone here senator? I notice there is a heartwarming fire burning. Who lit it?” The Sleepwalker asked.
“It is automatic, a computer starts the fire, I do not burn wood any more only gas.” Jason replied.
“Toby, Gregory up the stairs, Toby left, Gregory right, search every room for Terrordon gear, he has to have a room full of it so don’t waste time looking under beds just yet. 
Vincent, you go to the dining room after you make super double sure there is no secret door in the coat closet. Look in the kitchen too, look for a dumb waiter. The senator and I are going to retire to the drawing room. I thought you might have a bigger place, this is nicely appointed and all but hardly a mansion.”
“My grandfather built it. With his own hands.” Jason said
“Sure, sure, save it for the reelection posters.” The Sleepwalker replied.
“This way senator I bet you have an amazing scotch collection. I am craving something peppery with a hint of tobacco on the finish. Why don’t you take this chair?” The Sleepwalker shoved Jason sideways toward a mahogany and leather chair. The senator twisted and hopped trying to keep his balance. Instead he gracelessly fell to the floor.   
The Sleepwalker stood over the fallen man triumphant. “You are the Terrordon. I am in your house. Tell me where your burrow is then I will bring Jacob out to get your side of the story. You will get to tell everyone why you did it before you go to jail for all the laws you broke chasing me over the years.”
“I have no secret lair. There is a passage from my bedroom down to the maid’s quarters. Dad told me he would tell me about it when I was older. I would have liked to hear his stories.”
“I… Have you…
Dead…
To rights senator.
Tell me the truth and no more sappy stories.” The Sleepwalker kicked the prone man, boot toe right up the ass.
Vincent walked into the room, I couldn’t find any secret door. I did find a dumbwaiter but it only went up to the master bedroom. I sent an apple up to Toby, it didn’t come down. Toby walked in cutting an apple with a shiny chrome knife. “Want a slice boss, it is a damn fine apple.”
“No, I want some Terrordon toys, the real kind. I need evidence before I call that reporter.” The Sleepwalker forced his voice into a calmer range. 
The Sleepwalker left Jason on his floor and walked around the corner to the bottom of the stair. “Come here boys.” As each man came close they got a slap to the back of the head. Whispering he said, “listen, I am going to have you put the senator in that nice chair of his and I will watch his eyes. He will look at the entrance to his lair because his only hope is to get in there and get some Terrordon weapons. You watch too maybe one of us will catch him looking right at the access portal.”
Gregory came sauntering down the stairs looking dejected. “I looked under all the beds just like you said but not even one little weapon.”  
Toby began flipping his knife folding up his butterfly. Once finished he stood there grinning like a kid at a school play holding his folded knife. 
“So, what, I could do that, wanna see?” Gregory said.
“We can all do that, big whoop, I bet even the senator could do that, can’t you senator?” The Sleepwalker said. 
“Yes, I,” another swift kick to the coccyx silenced Jason.
The flashing knife made The Sleepwalker think of Billy the drummer in his band back during his senior year. Plasmatronica, they could have been something special. I wonder what Sweetlips and Flash are doing. Man, Flash could play bass like nobody’s business, I hope he is still playing bass. Billy could twirl his sticks but he kept rushing, then that one day Billy hit on Prudence, he had invited Pru why would she giggle for the stinking drummer?
“What is wrong with him?” The senator asked. 
“Nothing he visits other worlds in his mind, like a genius. That is where all the great plans come from. Go on ask him.” Gregory said. 
“Correct in the main Gregory.” The Sleepwalker said shaking off his short trip into the past. “Now senator we are going to all have a nice glass of scotch. You can tell us some stories about your grandad. 
“That was a petite mal seizure, you’re autistic” Jason blurted it out before he thought it through.
 “The psycho crying tits, called me all sorts of things.” The Sleepwalker said.
“The Psycho what, called you what?” Jason asked.
 “The psycho crying tits, The psycho crying tits, sound it out for Christ’s sake.”
“I must be dense.” Jason said in a moment of defiance. 
“Physiatrists, the schools made my mam take me to the Physiatrists.” The Sleepwalker punched the nearest wall hard enough to leave a dent. “Those pricks talked a lot but never said anything useful. Over and over they said that I was smart I could be what I want to be. And looky here,” the sleepwalker flashed his best jazz hands imitation. ”I am what I want to be. Set him in that chair boys.” The Sleepwalker said.
All four of them watched in silence. “Nothing, he didn’t look at nothing but you boss.” Gregory said.
“Where is your gear, your car, Toby look in the garage. Why did I not think of the garage? What is that you are looking at Jason. A funny small piano?”
“It is a harpsichord, I play it sometimes to help with stress, the sound soothes me.” Jason said at once regretting his praise of the instrument.
“What you have to play the proper series of notes on the mini piano? Is that the trick, then the automatic fireplace slides out of the way?” The Sleepwalker asked. 
“You’re nuts, I am not The Terrordon, I am a law maker.” Jason shouted.  
The Sleepwalker blinked, he did not like shouting unless he did the shouting.  “I just thought of a new game. Vincent will play your Harpsichord with his hatchet until it is a pile of wood. Then we will set you and your nice chair on the pile and light the pretty little piano on fire. 
Until you die you will be able to tell me the location of your lair and I will save you from the flames. I do not want you dead! The flames I want licking you are the flames of shame and derision. I could be satisfied with you being Dead however, if you insist. Vincent play my favorite song won’t you, Appetite for Destruction.”  
The Sleepwalker laughed deep in his chest. He did love seeing beauty reduced to ash. Gregory find us some nice high proof booze to lite this sucker up with. Twenty minutes later Gregory was getting drunk, Toby was back from the garage with no good news. Vincent was sweating, drinking an ice tea purloined from the fridge behind the bar. The Sleepwalker played with a zippo lighter found next to a large ashtray holding the remains of fat cigars.
“One last chance Jason. Toby has the rope tied to your chair so we can pull you out as soon as you tell us where to find the door. Ready, hands on the rope Toby. Get set.”
Gregory howled in pain. A Terrordon shaped ninja star protruded from his hand. The bottle of brandy shattered by the force of the weapon spilled down onto the intarsia floor. The Sleepwalker dropped the flaming cigarette lighter on the broken body of the harpsichord. 
“Let the senator go. It is me you want.” The Terrordon said. 
The flames rushed into life around the senator. Fire crawled up Gregory’s pants consuming the fine spilt brandy on their way to his pierced hand. The big man ran out of the room, you could hear his feet pounding up the staircase. 
Toby pulled on the rope tied around the chair. “No leave it, get The Terrordon, fuck the senator.” The senator and his chair tipped backward but not out of the fire. 
A bouncing glass bauble sucked up everyone’s attention. The glass did not break as it bounded toward the fireplace. Tink, bounce, Tink, bounce, directly into the coals of the fireplace. The glass did nothing, sitting like a jewel in the coals.  The liquid inside started to boil. An explosion of light blinded everyone. The Sleepwalker ran. A bolo cord wrapped around his ankles. He hit the ground hard. “Show yourself asshole,” shouted the villain. 
“Here I am you vile scoundrel.” The Terrordon said. The cozy flames of the fireplace outlining his all too familiar form. 
Vincent rushed the Terrordon screaming, hatchet raised. The Terrordon reached into a pocket on his belt and blew the retrieved powder into the rushing thug’s face. Vincent ran on past the vigilante slamming into the wall. The hero held the hatchet now. The Terrordon used the blade to open Vincent’s skull from the back. 
Gregory fell down the stairs. Leaving burning clothes and flesh on every step he landed on. Toby turned to run but felt the blade of Vincent’s axe tear into his spine. Toby strutted in halting steps the hatchet protruding from his shoulder blade like an aborted chicken wing. The Terrordon apprised the scene calculating his next move. Flames bit at curtains, ate at the still moving Gregory, and chewed into wood everywhere. 
The Sleepwalker hacked at the cords holding his feet. The bolo gave way. The Sleepwalker got to his feet.  “Who are you,” he screamed as he ran out the door. 
The senator was unconscious on his back still tied to the chair. The Terrordon calculated that he could not cut the man free and catch The Sleepwalker both. With Toby's butterfly, he cut Senator Jason Richards free of his bonds. It took some effort to load the big man on his shoulder. Outside in the cool night air The Terrordon watched the senator’s house burn. A siren in the sleepy town over the hill screamed, begging for help against the newly reported blaze. Volunteer firemen would be here soon. </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DAC1A042-45D9-4DCC-80A2-9B512EF01581">
            <Text>Jacob has spent the drive wondering what Doctor Lisa Appleton Warne would be like. Normally, he skyped with potential interviewees, as he liked to see their expressions as they talked. Doctor Warne, on the other hand, wouldn’t Skype. She would only talk on the phone, and as she was British and Jacob was unused to the accent, he hadn’t managed to get a to get a lot out of the short conversation other than ‘Appleton was her middle name and he shouldn’t forget it.’ Not that she’d come across as domineering, just that Appleton seemed to be important to her.
Jacob was pondering this as he reversed the car into a ‘visitors’ parking slot outside the main building. He was reaching for his shoulder bag when there was a tap on the side window. He turned to find a petite brunette smiling down at him.
“Doctor Warne?”
“The same,”she said. He got out and closed the door, realising that she was not only petite but short with it.  
“Lock the car, please, Mr. Heath. And please make sure your security badge is visible at all times. You wouldn’t want to be mistaken…”
“For a patient?” he interrupted her. “The guard said that, too.”
“Yes.” Warne nodded. “There’s a bit of an unfortunate story attached to that. But never fear. It was a while ago, and the person involved has quite recovered…. So I’m told.
“Anyway, Mr. Heath, you’re not here for that. You’re here for The Sleepwalker.”
“Please, call me Jacob, Doctor Warne,”Jacob said with his most winning smile. Docor Warne cocked her head up to look at him.
“Very well. I shall. In private you may call me Lisa, but I must insist you call me Doctor Warne in front of Sleepwalker. He is a very manipulative man and I cannot allow him to have the slightest hold on my psyche. Neither, Jacob, can you. ”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FA2E1ECA-10A7-4242-A307-8885E202AF8A">
            <Title>Chapter thirteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch13-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1F505274-A2F2-41FE-BBCA-7AC922703B41">
            <Text>Jacob pinched the bridge of his nose. This was not going in the direction he had hoped. Most of the articles dealing with the bomb threat had been either dismissive or openly ridiculing the Chronicle's take and Amy herself. There was a short op-ed called 'This is not a story of heroes and villains' that directly cited Amy's article and called it 'silly' and 'childish', and a famous journalists had published a post in her Facebook account in which she called the Chronicle's coverage 'shameful'. The post had received more that 5,000 likes and upwards of a hundred comments, most of them supportive.
He felt a little bad for Amy; after all what she'd been doing was only what he had wanted her to do and now she was receiving quite a lot of heat for it. On the other hand, what if it had worked? He knew the pitfalls of journalism and he told himself that Amy would survive. Besides, he could always vindicate her, make the Fisherman real despite this setback. The question was, of course, how.  
Maybe he had rushed things a bit—or maybe not? This would be exactly how the Fisherman would act, and if answered with the same level of derision he would—what? 
Quit?
He, Jacob, would. What he'd been doing was dangerous enough, no matter how interesting or useful for his project. He was weaving through the red line, in and out, putting himself in some rather compromising situations for the sake of drawing out someone who most likely would not reappear. 
But the Fisherman wouldn't quit. He would feel enraged and insulted and he would definitely step up his game at this point. If a bomb threat would not set him up as the credible villain he needed to be for Terrordon to come back, then he'd have to do something else. Something more radical.
He opened a new browser window and fired up the VPN and the secure link he'd learned to set a few months ago. He'd been nervous about the Dark Net at the beginning, but after some intensive—and intense—research he found he could navigate it with some confidence. Most of it was surprisingly practical and very trade-oriented and he could skirt the places he really didn't want to go into. He valued the insight into this underside of the internet, and although his only aim at getting access had been research for his book (he thought Terrordon would use it even if he was retired), now he was finding he could really used it some other, hitherto unexpected ways.
He started looking for information on how to make a bomb. </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7DFFA709-D4E3-49C2-AC6C-DEE5FDC5A086">
            <Title>Chapter one</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch01-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FC813E8E-7FBA-4FCB-B3C6-46188F00FA2B">
            <Title>Copyright</Title>
            <Text>START WEARING PURPLE

Originally published: 2017

Copyright © 2017 Various Authors
$$Ch01-Grey$$, $$Ch02-Grey$$, $$Ch03-Grey$$
$$Ch04-Grey$$, $$Ch05-Grey$$, $$Ch06-Grey$$
$$Ch07-Grey$$, $$Ch08-Grey$$, $$Ch09-Grey$$
$$Ch10-Grey$$, $$Ch11-Grey$$, $$Ch12-Grey$$
$$Ch13-Grey$$, $$Ch14-Grey$$, $$Ch15-Grey$$
$$Ch16-Grey$$, $$Ch17-Grey$$, $$Ch18-Grey$$
$$Ch19-Grey$$, $$Ch20-Grey$$
Story by: Tim Rogers

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental, and more than just a little bit scary.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons 
Attribution - NonCommercial - NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. 
You are free to share (to copy, distribute and transmit the work) 
under the following conditions:
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified 
by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that 
they endorse you or your use of the work). 
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes. 
No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work. 
For more details, visit:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/

Original cover photograph by Tim Rogers

www.novelinaday.com</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="318345DE-873A-49F9-BD87-D492346BABFE">
            <Text>	From three hundred meters up, the Terrordon blended in with the night. Mostly. His new vantablack supersuit was created just for operations like this — where dropping out of the sky onto a heavily guarded island with thirty hostiles could get him killed. The suit actually absorbs light, which was really cool until the Terrordon stepped in front of a mirror. Where did the muscles he worked for years to sculpt go? And the pteranodon symbol on his chest had disappeared into the black of his chest, which disappeared into the black blob that was the rest of his body. He was an outline of a human, though his eyes and the lower half of his face were still visible thanks to the cutouts in his cowl.
	Tonight’s suit was a variation of that first extra dark suit. Instead of using vantablack over the whole thing, he used it to cover main pieces and as a sinewed texture over the rest. The logo on his chest was painted in black chrome.
	The drone carrying the Terrordon at three hundred meters in the air above Alcatraz Island released, and he began his controlled descent. From his night vision lenses, he could see the dark dots on the ground below moving slowly. Those were the Sleepwalker’s henchmen, each outfitted with a rifle. Some carried the gun in front of their bodies, but most of them just had it slung over their shoulder.
For a moment, he had thought about whether the metallic logo could give him away, so he adjusted his body. He began to fall faster, so he activated his cape’s hang gliding ability. He was very quickly approaching the ground and at the wrong angle. He gave up his concern about the logo to do whatever he could to slow his fall. But it wasn’t enough. The Terrordon thought quickly and aimed for the top of the roof of the quartermaster’s building on the northwest corner instead of the ground between the water tower and the laundry building, which was the ideal landing site for him to have a tactical advantage. 
His body landed with a crash, and, though he was concerned at the noise from going sixty-five kilometers per hour to zero by slamming against a rusted metal roof, he knew all of the henchmen had been on the other side of the island, congregating around the lighthouse. He was going to be safe if even for a minute. The Terrordon figured that the Sleepwalker was keeping his hostages in the lighthouse, so, while his landing may draw some attention, he had time to form a new plan. But he figured he would be better off forming it from the powerhouse next door rather than staying right where the crashing sound came from. 
Each step crunched against the metal of the roof. As powerful as his supersuit was, the boots were still clunky and more utilitarian than super. He jumped from one roof to the next, and moved quickly to the access door. It was open, and he squeezed his muscular frame through the small square opening and onto the access ladder that led him down into a dark room.
When he reached the floor, he leaned against the ladder to catch his breath. And then he gasped.
This entire floor of the powerhouse was lined with barrels, each had some wiring connected to the top and a simple electrical interface. The Terrordon took a look at one of them, and he recognized it as the type of bomb that could be detonated from a cell phone. As he walked from one barrel to the next, they all had an identification number — probably the code identifying the barrel so the Sleepwalker could be confident which bomb he was detonating.
“But why would he leave his bombs unguarded?” the Terrordon asked himself. 
“I didn’t,” came a reply.
The lights in the powerhouse turned on, and the Terrordon’s night vision lenses glowed so bright that they blinded him. He deactivated them, but it was too late. He tried to duck behind a barrel, but he could hear footsteps approaching. In this suit, it was impossible for him to rub his eyes without messing up the makeup and cowl, so he clenched them tightly and reach for a small smoke bomb from his utility belt. He pressed a button on the ball slightly larger than a marble and rolled it toward the part of the room he hadn’t yet explored.
An ominous laugh echoed. The Terrordon still couldn’t place it, but he wasn’t impressed by it.
“Still working on the laugh, huh?” the Terrordon asked to the room he was now squinting to see. 
“Why do you have to do that?” the Sleepwalker asked angrily.
The Terrordon was using this as an opportunity to buy some time. “Why do you need to keep changing your laugh? It screams of insecurity. The Timekeeper never changed his laugh.”
“The Timekeeper got caught his first time out,” the Sleepwalker defended. “And his laugh was a childish cackle.”
“And what would you call your laugh? A maniacal giggle?”
“Maniacal? What are you implying?”
“You’re imbalanced. Have you noticed how all of the supervillains always end up in the asylum instead of a penitentiary? You need professional help.”
“I’m the one who’s imbalanced? You’ve copied a comic book character down to the armored car and ninja-style throwing weapons.”
“But you’re trying to kill innocent people. Women and children and moms and dads…”
The Sleepwalker scoffed. In all of Terrordon’s time fighting villains, he’d heard a lot of them scoff at the idea of killing people, but this scoff was different. It was more apprehensive than uncaring. It was almost as if the Sleepwalker hadn’t thought through how others might be affected by his actions. 
The Terrordon got to his feet and took in the room around him. There was a group approaching him through the smoke about ten feet away. They would be on him in a moment. There was also a single figure over by the stairs to the room. That was probably the Sleepwalker. But, even if he sprinted at him, he would end up being tackled — or worse, shot — by the group approaching him. He crouched with his cape around him and positioned his body to prepare to fight.
As the people stepped through the smoke, they were dressed in plain clothes and seemed to shuffle more than walk. They looked like the photos of the civilians that he remembered from the news, and their eyelids were droopy. They were sleepwalking. 
The Terrordon thought it through. These were civilians, moms and dads. They didn’t deserve to be hurt in any way. But, if he didn’t hurt them, many more people could be killed from these bombs. He figured his best option would be to run at the Sleepwalker in the other direction in hopes of forcing him to stop the approaching group. So he pivoted and ran the twenty strides over the the stairs, and, to his surprise, the Sleepwalker wasn’t there. The Terrordon blinked hard twice in an effort to fully recover from the flash and saw that it was just another sleepwalking civilian, the largest of the bunch, approaching him.
He jumped up on the nearest barrel, but, before he could catch his balance, a figure popped up and pushed him back. It was the Sleepwalker! If only the Terrordon had jumped onto a barrel on the other side…
The small mob grabbed onto the Terrordon, and, though he thrashed a bit, he didn’t want to hurt any innocents, so he eventually stopped fighting. The group tied his hands behind his back and forced him to sit on the group.
“Too many rules,” the Sleepwalker said shamingly. “You have too many rules about the safety of others to be effective. If only you would’ve fought these mindless drones, you would probably have me tied up on the floor right now. But you don’t.” 
The Terrordon tried buying a little bit of time. “Now that you have me, why don’t you tell me your whole evil plan?”
“Well…” the Sleepwalker started, “...I’ve got these barrels and…they’re going to be delivered to highly populated areas around San Francisco for maximum...umm...” The Sleepwalker trailed off and gave his uncertain scoff. And then again. “It’s not that I feel…” And he scoffed again.
The Terrordon tried freeing his hands, but he just couldn’t get himself free. They had bound his wrists with a belt, and he hadn’t spent time trying to escape from leather bindings. Sure, he’d gotten out of handcuffs or zip ties or rope hundreds of times, but he never thought to test against a leather belt.
“Kill him,” the Sleepwalker said to the only member of his hostage group with a gun. It was a large man with a cropped haircut. He looked like he’d done military service and could probably hit a target from a hundred meters away, which would make the Terrordon an easy target at 3 meters. But the man didn’t even raise the gun. “Kill him,” the Sleepwalker repeated angrily. But the man didn’t move.
“It seems that even sleeping people have more conscience than a crazy person like you.
“If I’m so crazy, then I’ll do it myself,” the Sleepwalker said defiantly and he barged over to the man carrying the gun, took it from his arm, hoisted it, and aimed for the Terrordon’s chest. 
Then a moment passed. Then another. Then the Terrordon had an idea. He adjusted his body and caught one of the ceiling lights on the black chrome logo on his chest and aimed the reflection right into the eyes of the Sleepwalker. The Sleepwalker jumped and dropped the gun. The Terrordon jumped to his feet and charged at the Sleepwalker. He gave the Sleepwalker a headbutt, and the Sleepwalker fell to the floor unconscious. 
When the Sleepwalker woke, he found himself in a daze on the roof of the powerhouse. He was sitting and his hands were bound behind his back, and the lights from approaching helicopters shone in the distance. Nearby was the group of hostages, all looking awake, pointing guns at a group of the Sleepwalker’s henchmen, who were also bound and sitting. The Sleepwalker had failed.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9490F524-0591-4CDA-AE57-5B925643AF59">
            <Text>Jacob put down the pen, looked across to where the sun was leaving meaningless, flat squares of light across the carpet and closed his eyes.
In his mind, he again saw Lisa, the doctor at Rampworth leafing through the case file. And once again she said the same the thing.
He is more than one person.
Jacob heard movement out in the hallway and wondered if there were other guests booked onto this very same floor of the hotel. He had managed to find the room fairly easily, and had paid in cash. This place wasn't too far from the Westin Hotel which made things easier. He had more time to formulate his plan.
He turned the thing over in his mind looking for flaws - potential gaps in the planning might lead to disaster. Lisa had told him about the personalities that seemed to make up the psychology of the Sleepwalker. The dominant one was Joe. It was Joe who made all the rational decisions - where to go and what to do.
Jacob returned to the paper in front of him. Had it been a mistake to get involved in this case? He didn't think so. Immersing oneself in the life of someone else was the only true way to tell the story.
But there were dangers here too. It was possible that in shadowing the Sleepwalker, one might become tainted with the same evil that drove the killer forward.
Jacob shivered in the gloom of the hotel, in the places where the sunlight hadn't yet reached. It was all a long way from his time writing about Harvey Milk.
He reached over to his tape recorder and spooled back the tape, pressed play and listened to Lisa once again. The was a nervous quality to her voice that Jacob didn't care for. He listened carefully and she spoke again of how the Sleepwalker had escaped, his method of concealment, the errors in security that had let the Terrordon lose once again. Fear stalked the corridors of the hospital and now blind terror pervaded the streets too.
Jacob stood, went to the window of the hotel and touched the glass there. It was about twenty minutes by bus to Union Square. His informant had told him that the Westin Hotel had someone booked in under the name of Joe.
Jacob wondered dimly if the information was reliable. Sometimes you paid a lot but you never really knew if it was good until it was too late.
He thought about ringing Emmy. She had left three messages on his phone but every time he began to dial, some thought, some feeling would pull him back before he could finish dialling. Maybe it was wrong to involve them in what he was up to. They had their own lives and so did he. That he had chosen to spend it in journalism was his decision.
Back at the small, makeshift desk, he took up his pen again and continued to sketch outlines. His plan was to check out of the hotel in a few hours and book himself into the Westin. There he would wait, biding his time until Joe made an appearance.
And then what? Asked a voice inside. Are you going to try to apprehend him?
Jacob had not thought that far ahead. It made no sense to rush plans.
Well, you'd better start thinking about that outcome, the voice suggested.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="D404D3E8-1B94-4593-A404-0F475B896396">
            <Text>The Sleepwalker stirred in Rampworth State Hospital. He’s been a patient in the secure mental facility since 2005, with his 7 year reign of terror throughout the San Francisco area being brought to an end a long time ago. How odd that his capture and incarceration had been at the hands of his archenemy, the masked vigilante Terrordon. As a moniker, the ‘Don of Terror’ should surely have been an accomplice, but no, Terrordon had been the foil to every underhand notion the Sleepwalker had contrived. Was it really appropriate to call this guy of average build, who was wearily rubbing his eyes, the Sleepwalker anymore? It was now the summer of 2017 and the Sleepwalker personality, or any vestige of its sadistic impulses, hadn’t surfaced in over a decade. Declared insane and unfit to stand trial for his crimes back in 2005, these days he was little more than a curiosity, having been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. Who was the former Sleepwalker, super-villain, going to be today? 
 Charlotte, his only known female personality, reached for coloured pencils and a sketch pad off the bedside cabinet, pushed her feet back down under the duvet and rested her back against the headboard. “Leo the lion likes to be yellow.” Her short dark hair really didn’t sit well with Charlotte, as she’d love to twirl it around her fingers as she concentrated to stay within the lines of the magnificent mane on the lion.  An orderly arrived and offered Charlotte a glass of water, “What a handsome lion. He looks like he’s king of all he surveys.” Charlotte glanced up from the page, took the glass, and asked, “What does survey mean?” She’s only 6 years old. “It means everything he can see. Breakfast is ready in the canteen area when you’re ready sweetie.” Charlotte returned her attention to the lion, only taking a sip of water before awkwardly placing the glass down. 
 Ten minutes later and she’s skipping along the corridor towards the smell of bacon. Her gait moved from a skip to a stride as Tim takes over the body. Tim’s Australian, and another personality that belies the fact that the Sleepwalker used to hold dominion over this frame. “G’day mate!” he beams as he arrives at the counter. “What you got cooking on the barbie?” The guy serving rolls his eyes. He’s heard this routine a thousand times before, and slides the plate filled with a full English towards Tim. “Strewth, I’m gonna bust a gut!” His eyes are devouring the food as he turns and heads towards the nearest table, shouting “Thanks mate!” seemingly to no one in particular. 
Although the facility was secure, with thick iron bars declaring the fact at every window, it was run in a fairly relaxed manner. Yes, guards were never far away, and a nurse with a syringe full of sedatives à la One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest would plunge at the first sign of danger, but the day-to-day routine was calm and easygoing. Tim sat at a table with three other patients. Sit at any table in the hospital and you could be with a schizophrenic, someone with an acute bipolar disorder, epilepsy or Asperger’s syndrome to name but a few of the diagnosed ailments abound. Tim’s outgoing and bombastic personality typically made everyone else at the table uneasy. 
“G’day, g’day, g’day!” Sausages were rolled with blunt knives, and baked beans pushed around in response, as both men and a woman averted engagement. Tim was typically unfazed when his gregarious intent was ignored, but as quickly as Charlotte had skipped into Tim, Joe wasn’t happy. He had no recollection of why he wasn’t happy, but doctors at Rampworth State Hospital has recognised a pattern. Joe often appeared after a situation had involved conflict. Nothing of note had occurred in this instance, but the probable slight rise in tension for Tim may have triggered the arrival of Joe. It would seem that none of the personalities that the Sleepwalker proffered could recall the memories of any other. Apart from the Sleepwalker. It has been a while, but careful observation of the Sleepwalker all those years ago had revealed reactions to and utterances about matters that had occurred whilst other personalities had inhabited the body. 
“I say, would you be so kind as to pass me some tea old chap?” said Joe. “It might quell my jitters.” It would appear that every personality was quite the stereotype, with Joe being an English gent. There was no tea to pass, but Joe certainly loved a cuppa. He turned from the table and his untouched breakfast and headed back to the counter for a dainty cup with saucer of Earl Grey. Breakfast was concluded in a civil manner, with Joe even engaging the lady at the table in a delightful conversation centring around a documentary he’d seen regarding the production of tea in plantation in Munnar, India.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="D4C05B54-3746-4C68-8FE5-A5718C21E9F0">
            <Text>As Jacob finished reading his notes out loud, Lisa sat silently. Jacob looked over all he had written and realized there was nothing there to point him in the right direction. Before he could say anything Lisa reached across the table and placed her hand over his.
“Do you understand? Please tell me you understand and have come to your senses. Drop this. Let it go.”
“How an I? How else can I write this book?”
“Like every other author. Sit at home. Make phone calls. Look up things on the internet. Interview officers and other people. Figure out what they do and do that instead. Just run from this Sleepwalker chase.”
“If I don’t? Will you stop me?”
“No. But I wish I could.” She withdrew her hand from his. As she stood up from the table she mumbled the waiter, “put it on my tab with 25 for you”, then motioned for Jacob to follow. Sitting in her car, she looked at Jacob and said, “There is some … help … I can give you. This is off the record.”
She started the car, rolled up the windows and turned on the radio.
“Paranoid much?” Jacob smirked.
“You still don’t get it do you.”
“I guess not.”
Pulling out of the parking lot, Lisa accelerated quickly. She took a straighter road than previously to she could focus on communicating. 
“Sleepwalker is NOT in control. I don’t know who or what is. Unmedicated the transitions from personality to personality are fast and frequent. While Sleepwalker seems to be coordinating I don’t believe he really CONTROLS the other personalities. That’s where Joe may help you. He fancies himself a connoisseur of teas. He has a particular favorite though. He was always talking about the ‘perfect cup’ at Westin on Union Square. Whenever he would get agitated he would become desperate for a cup or tea always requesting one from Westin. Because I … know things … I can tell you that a person really determined to find the Sleepwalker would start looking in that area for Joe. Joe is the safe one. Find Joe and you find the rest of them. Kind of obvious since all 8 of them share one body.”
“I’ll be careful” Jacob said. 
“No you won’t. Careful would be walking away from this and coming home with me. But you won’t, will you?”
“Not today.”
Lisa parked the BMW in her designated spot. “Dr Lisa Appleton Warne, D. Clin. Psy” the placard read. He was just invited home with a Dr. His mother would be proud. Why wasn’t he going with her. 
Jacob climbed out of the passenger side of the BMW, walked over to Lisa and kissed her gently. Without a word he entered his miserable Honda and started to pull away. He opened his phone and hit the speed dial.
Had he looked in the mirror he would have seen Lisa saying, “Good bye Terrordon”.
The phone was ringing. 
Pete answered. 
“Pete, you won’t believe this…”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C075CD2B-B471-4C3A-ADB2-CC4C8CEEEED5">
            <Text>August 2005</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="48C49391-8859-4E5D-A5A5-7D810B0DCA80">
            <Text>EMMY
you ok?</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="8C469DD6-9DD1-4EC9-8566-264151E16EF8">
            <Title>Chapter seventeen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch17-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F62CA680-B3E3-40F2-A5DB-B129AB73633C">
            <Text>The thunder rumbled ominously, the sky grey and overcast. It seemed to mirror Jacob’s mood, though he knew that was wishful thinking. Stuff like that only happened in storybooks. He was off to see Pete again for their regular quarterly update and he had no progress to show. For all he knew, he had just walked past the Terrordon carrying a kale smoothie. Probably not though, the Terrrordon was definitely taller. Though, maybe his outfit incorporated hidden heels to make him look taller and more intimidating – now, that was a thought. He laughed to himself as he stepped into his agent’s office. 
“Hi Pete. It’s the same as ever. Zip, zilch, nada. I’m even out of synonyms for nothing. This is depressing.”
“Hello to you too, Jacob.”
Jacob slams a massive ring binder on Pete’s table, “Do you know what this is? 16 years of research on the Terrordon. 16 years. And I still don’t know who he is. I clearly wasn’t cut out for journalism. Good thing I quit, aye?”
“You’d said you had a new lead to chase…,” Pete stopped talking, gaping as Jacob extracted a folded document from within the binder and unfolded it to cover his entire desk. It was an evidence board, clearly, but he had not been prepared for the sheer number of pictures, post-its (and were those ribbons? Oh yes, probably from his sister Emmy working in some gift shop, Blue and Brown was it?) covering every square inch of that sheet. Clearly, tracking down the Terrordon’s identity had moved past being a passion project. Pete wondered how he had missed the signs – surely he should have picked up on it ages ago. But this was the first time that Jacob had no other ongoing project but the Terrordon book; he had always been prompt with deadlines, there had been no reason to suspect just how obsessed he had become.  
“Explain to me why you have a magically expanding evidence board?”
“Had to watch Harry Potter with Pacey a while ago. The Maurader’s Map is seriously cool, so thought I’d create my own version. And I had all those origami skills from when I wrote Haruki Murakami’s biography,” Jacob replied absently, poring over the board. 
“Oh yeah, and that lead from a while ago turned out to be a bust,” he continued. “I thought I was going to get a breakthrough from the comic books. You know how he’s clearly been inspired by Batman? Anyway, I thought I could try to cross-reference that with what little other data points I have to figure out his identity. Seems logical right? But do you know how many comic book stores there are in San Francisco? Well I do. Not that you care about the number. But trust me, it’s a lot. And not all of them keep records. Because none of them ever think that one day they would be responsible for the sale of a comic book that might just inspire a kid somewhere to become a vigilante. As if that’s too far a stretch.” 
Pete raised his eyebrow, bemused at the sight of Jacob ranting. 
“And libraries, don’t get me started on libraries. Return a book just 1 day late, and they’ve got the records to charge you that fine. But go in asking for who has borrowed Batman comics in the past 30 years and suddenly they don’t have any records.”
He ran his hand through his coiffed hair. “I’m at a dead end. There just isn’t enough information available for me to figure out who the Terrordon is. Or was, he might be dead now for all we know.”
“Well, then just write what you do know. And maybe you’ll inspire other readers out there to join you in figuring out his identity.”
“You know I don’t write speculative fiction. You’re going soft in your old age. Seriously, write a story without all the facts? No way, that would undermine my credibility,” Jacob scoffed.
“Then it’s time to move on. I mean, Jacob, look at this evidence board.”
“It’s great, isn’t it?” Jacob returned to scrutinising all the information he has on the Terrordon, tuning out Pete’s nattering. Probably just him expounding on his latest theory of who the Terrordon could be. His personal favourite was when Pete decided that the “don” was significant – he had been convinced that the Terrordon was Japanese, and existed on a diet of salmon dons. Or was an English lecturer from Oxford or Cambridge. Or was Spanish because, Don Juan of course. Or was ex-mafia and was paying homage to his roots. Little had he realised that it was just wordplay on Pteranodon, a flying reptile that existed in the time of dinosaurs, which Terrordon had adopted as his symbol. Probably just a derivative of Batman, though the Pteranodon, was not actually an ancient ancestor of the modern bat – the wings are completely different as anyone who had done just the slightest bit of research could have told him. 
Something in Pete’s voice catches Jacob’s attention again. “You’re clearly obsessed with him. It’s a good thing I know you’re straight or this would look like stalking. Listen. You’re one of the best and that’s why I’m your agent. You’re able to inhabit someone else’s shoes like nobody else I’ve met. You bring another person’s story to life. But maybe it’s at the expense of yourself – I mean, when was the last time you were just Jacob Heath?” 
Pete raised his hand, stopping Jacob from, no doubt, protesting that of course he was being himself. 
“And not undercover somewhere pretending to be something or someone you’re not, just for research purposes. Listen to me Jacob, let this one go. It’s been 16 years, you’ve been writing about him from your Chronicle days. You’ve given it your best shot. You’ve tracked down every lead. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. There are plenty of other books you could be working on. Look, the proposals are all right here,” gesturing to the pile of files stacked precariously on one corner of his desk, carelessly pushed aside earlier by Jacob when he was unfolding the evidence board. 
“The man simply does not want to be found. The only way you’re going to get the details you need is if you get him to come out of retirement so that you can meet him yourself.” 
“I know. Why do you think I…,” Jacob trailed off, realising he hadn’t actually told Pete about his ‘adventures’ for the past few months. He winced, this was not going to go well. 
“Why do I think you did…Wait. What exactly did you do?” Pete said, rising to his feet. 
“Nothing much, just the usual investigative stuff. Never reveal the sources and all that,” he said in an increasingly high pitched voice.
“Don’t even try Jacob. I recognise that face. You looked like that the entire time you were ‘dating’ Travis. I know what you get like when you’re gathering material. You go full method on me.” He started gesticulating agitatedly. “For Pete’s sake, you pretended to be in a gay relationship for a whole month just to understand Harvey Milk. Spill, what have you done now?”
“Er, Pete. You know you of all people should never use the expression for Pete’s sake right?” he grinned, hoping to defuse the situation. 
Pete glared. Jacob squirmed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get out of this easily.  
“I might have tried to immerse myself in the same lifestyle as the Terrordon,” he mumbled, “you know, fighting crime undercover. I had to understand why he did it. And how he could stand to just walk away from it all.” Forgetting himself, his eyes light up as carried on excitedly, “Oh Pete, that rush from knowing you just saved a target from being mugged, it’s indescribable. And that’s just the start of it.” 
He stopped abruptly realising Pete had collapsed back into his chair and was looking at him aghast. 
“You. You were the Terrordon wannabe that everyone was talking about? What on earth were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed! Not to mention the police were looking for you.”
Jacob absent-mindedly rubbed his stomach, feeling the faint scar through the shirt. “I know, and I’ve stopped. I promise,” he said, holding Pete’s gaze. “I just needed to know what it might have been like to have been him. Good chance to put into practice the martial arts skills I learnt for Jackie Chan’s biography.” He shuffled his feet. “And I was hoping I would get his attention. You know, show him he had an ally, and that he wouldn’t have to bear the burden alone. God knows the city could do with him coming back.”
“And pray tell, where did you get this marvellous idea from?” 
A few heartbeats passed. “Pacey.”
“Pacey? As in your 5 year old nephew Pacey?”
“Yes, the same Pacey we spoke about earlier. And he’s 4 actually.”
“And what exactly did obsessed with Harry Potter and comic books and lives in a fantasy world Pacey have to say about the Terrordon that convinced you that you should become a vigilante yourself?”  
“Well he said that in comic books, the only people that seem to know anything about the superhero are his journalist or photographer friend, his sidekicks or his arch-nemesis. I covered him extensively for 4 years, in fact those were the only articles I ever enjoyed writing. I was the Iris West to his Barry Allen and he never once reached out. So clearly that avenue was closed.” 
“And instead of doing what any sane person would do and letting sleeping dragons lie, you decide to try and take the law into your own hands on the slim chance that it might get his attention?” Pete asked incredulously. 
“A Pteranodon is a flying reptile actually.” Jacob quailed at Pete’s expression “But fine, dragons are close enough,” he hastily added.
Jacob had never seen him this angry. He didn’t understand why though, surely Pete knew that he was always going to take any chance possible to find out who the Terrordon was. That’s what he did – find out what made a person tick in order to write a compelling story. Admittedly, he’d never had to track down someone’s identity first as well though, usually his clients were more willing. 
“That’s it. I’m pulling the plug on this project. It has gone on for far too long. I don’t even need you to look at the rest of these proposals. In fact, remember how you once told me you had written an outline for a novel? I want you to go back to that for a while.”
“What? Pete, come on, you’re overreacting. I’m so close to figuring out who he is. I can feel it. Don’t do this to me,” Jacob pleaded.
“You just came in here, not 30 mins ago, complaining about how you’d hit a complete dead end! Jacob, you know you’re not any closer to finding him than you were a year ago. I shouldn’t have let this go on for this long; I hadn’t realised how method your ‘method writing’ had become.”
Pete carried on talking over Jacob’s futile protests. 
“Take the next few weeks off. I’ll see you once I’m back from Connecticut after Thanksgiving. If you’re lucky, maybe you did do enough to get his attention and he’ll come out of retirement. In which case, happy Thanksgiving indeed and we can celebrate when I’m back. Otherwise, I expect to see some progress on that novel. God help me, I can’t even remember the last fiction book I represented. Have I made myself clear?”
Realising that Pete would not take no for an answer, Jacob nodded meekly. He would just have to carry on without Pete. It would be like writing Harvey Milk’s biography all over again – researching on his own. 
“Very well. Looks like there is nothing left to say. I’ll get out of your hair then. Happy Thanksgiving in advance,” Jacob offered as he folded up his evidence board and packed it away. As he bid Pete farewell and made his way out of the office, he realised that maybe Pete had gotten one thing right though. Maybe he could afford to take a few days off before getting back to the investigation. It had been a tough few months after all. 
He should probably get started on Pacey’s Halloween costume, August wasn’t too early after all. He frowned, trying to remember what options Pacey had given him. It definitely hadn’t been the Terrordon, no matter how much he had tried to cajole his nephew into dressing up as the coolest local superhero ever. Villains were way more popular apparently. He stopped in his tracks. 
That was it. 
That was how he would be able to get the Terrordon out of retirement. Normal crime didn’t seem to warrant the Terrordon’s attention anymore. But he’d watched all the movies. The superhero always turned up to meet the villain. 
He would have to do it himself of course. He nodded grimly to himself. San Francisco, watch out, there’s a new Super Villain in town. Time to raise hell. Pete would thank him later for the bestseller, he was sure. What should he call himself though? Ah yes, Pacey would know a cool name. He continued walking down the street.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="B5FBE837-4907-4E45-9DC4-E100CFD36351">
            <Text>The video continues.
The personalities identified as Captain Bane and the first mate Jimmy B. have gotten into an argument. The Sleepwalker's features tirelessly switch between them. They steadfastly ignore Dr Warne, who remains seated and lets the scene play out.
Suddenly Jibbles' voice calls out.
"Ca…Captain, Sir. I think there is someone else here with us."
"You think or you know?" scolds Jimmy B. "I've already seen the dame. She ain't no looker she is."
"No, not her." replies Jibbles nervously. "I…I'm not sure. I can hear someone else."
Bane looks in the direction where Jibbles would be standing, suddenly his neck jerks backß.
"Uwagh." His hands reach for his neck.
"You're too loud!" calls out a fourth voice from the pained features of Bane.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3111987B-612E-482D-97DA-6014F63FD568">
            <Text>He had also seen a number of quick-fire articles on his bomb threat; the reaction and tone was generally right, but the analysis was—disappointing. They'd all gone with the international terrorism angle, some even going so far as to dedicate some time pointing out how the terrorists seemed to be 'changing their tactics'. He googled 'Fisherman' again and the relevant articles had dropped to page 4. Also, the Kennedy piece in the Chronicle had suffered a rash of comments, all of which were basically laughing at her angle:</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E905099C-05B0-499B-9AC7-1CFF0542DE29">
            <Text>Eureka Books occupied an attractive old building on the corner of Eureka Street and 21st Street. The store was lined with bays made of dark oak shelf-units surrounding an area in the centre with a wide oak table with a couple of comfortable chairs. Its stock combined a wide range of titles including many modern works on a wide variety of subjects as well as second-hand and rare books. At the back of the store, a wooden staircase let to an upper floor specialising in artist’s materials and books on art. In the corner near the door was a cash-desk, occupied by a young woman concentrating busily on her nail polish.
The other speciality of the store was author readings, which is why Pete had honed in on this as one of the bookshops for the tour. As they entered, a small, but well-groomed man came up, smiled at Pete and said, “What can I do for you? Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“I’m Pete Schlamme. We’re here for the meet-and-greet and book-signing of Jacob’s new book on Lance Armstrong …”
“Ooh yes! I’ve heard of you. Well, there’s no-one here yet, but if you’d like to come over here with me, we can be cosy and work out the best way to go about it!”
“Jacob, I’m just going with …”
“Marvin,” with a big smile.
“… with Marvin to sort out how we’re going to do this. Do you mind looking around by yourself for a few minutes?” and he and Marvin disappeared into the book-stacks.
Left to himself, Jacob glanced at what was on offer on a couple of shelves, but he wasn’t really interested, not in other people’s books. What interested him was the thrill of writing his own, of being in the zone, of being totally involved in his subject and in the act of creation. When that was finished, the results invariably bored him and he was simply restless. He wasn’t married and currently had no girlfriend.
The girl behind the till had long titian-red hair, a creamy skin and warm brown eyes. He went over.
“Hello, I’m Jacob Heath.”
“Oh yeah?”
“We’re here for me to sign copies of my new book on Lance Armstrong.”
“Oh yeah?” She carried on scrutinising her nails.
“Do you think many people will come?”
“Probably not.”
“Why not?”
“None of our regulars is into cycling.”
“Oh. Do you have many regulars?”
“What’s it to you?” Still concentrating on her nails.
“Just an innocent query to pass the time.”
“Oh yeah? Well, before you think up any more innocent queries, just push off. I’m not interested.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tits are more interesting than testicles! Get me?” And she jabbed at her nails with her nail-file.
As Jacob turned away, Marvin came across with Pete following behind. “Well, hello! The famous Jacob Heath! I loved your book on Harvey Milk; you really got into the skin of our community.”
Jacob turned back to see the smirk on the girl’s face. “That’s it, Pete,” he shouted. “I’m absolutely sick of this farce. Brunhild behind the till here tells me we’re unlikely to find any interest here, anymore than we did at those other deadbeat places. This tour has been nothing but a chance for you to scout out for yourself. I’ve had it with the whole tour, I’ve had it with you, I’ve had the people I’ve had to deal with through your agency up to here, and I’m out. No more. You can fucking well sign the books yourself as far as I’m concerned.”
He turned, strode the one step to the door and heaved it open just as an elderly lady was about to push it open. He burst out, trying to slam the door but was foiled by the automatic closing mechanism. On the way out he nearly knocked the old lady over, paused for a second to take a breath then set off, just hearing, but not registering, a plaintive elderly voice saying, “What an incredibly rude young man! But am I in the right place for the book-signing …”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="325F1D11-D7D4-4DF8-8647-1B59A00863F2">
            <Text>When he awoke, he saw that the squares of light were now tracing their path up one of the walls. He checked his watch. It was now three-thirty. He would have to leave by five. He could hear people arguing in the room next door, the sound of roadworks down in the street below and the voice of a girl out in the corridor, probably the same maid who had helped him up with his suitcase.
He found the remote for the small, battered portable TV and thumbed through the channels.    On NBC, he soon discovered that the Sleepwalker had been busy yet again.
Jacob listened and watched as the news reporter, standing in front of a shabby apartment block told everyone listening what had just happened.
"Police arrived here just after midday responding to a call from the building supervisor. Mark Harrison, made the discovery some time before eleven this morning in the pool that residents here use as part of their housing agreement."
Jacob watched as the camera panned left across grubby looking deck chairs to the pool and the tarpaulin that police were now using for the crime scene.
"The battered body of Alice Hall, a twenty-eight year old student has been removed and taken for forensic examination."
Now the camera pulled away and back to the reporter.
"Right now there is no solid information on the killer but people in the Bay Area will no doubt be forming their own opinions on who was responsible. I have with me Chief Harrison from the police."
The camera widened to show both there reporter and a uniformed individual who had clearly never been in front of the cameras before.
"Let me put it to you, Chief Harrison. Given the recent events at Rampworth, many people out there are going to conclude that this is the work of the Sleepwalker and with -"
"That's just rumour right now. And it's one that media outlets like the one you work for are very unhelpfully fuelling. Therefore we -"
"And with that in forefront of the minds of all the taxpayers here in San Francisco, they'd like to know just exactly where all those tax dollars go. With cuts to the police department in recent years and the Goldstein scandal last summer, many will conclude that your department just isn't up to the job of finding this man."
Jacob listened to the arguments back and forth while he packed his things. He left, leaving the television playing to an empty room. Down in the foyer, he had the receptionist ring for a taxi to take him to the Westin hotel.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="0EFA8158-67A1-4BB2-90AE-5AD8B93F294B">
            <Text>"I'm sorry." said Dr Warne regretfully after the video finished. "That's all I have from that session, and that's usually all that Joe ever mentions. There haven't been similar incidents since then, and it's why I had thought that we had managed to treat the Sleepwalker."
"No, no. It was very insightful." reassured Jacob. "It's just the type of information I can use…for the biography. Thank you for your time, and for showing me the recording."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="4086CB89-3EA1-409E-B325-556158749709">
            <Text>It was unfortunate that the weather was so bleak, Jacob thought, otherwise Lisa’s office would have been cosy and delightful. With several doors off it, that she had said were kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. It was a large space warmly decorated in rich colours, with a royal blue carpet. Two couches facing each other over a large coffee table were in the middle of the room. A overflowing bookcase took one wall, her desk another, a large bank of monitors a third, and then there was a fire. A real, honest to goodness, log fire. Jacob found he was gawping and shut his mouth.
Lisa laughed delightedly. 
“How…?”
“I insisted on it as part of my contract. Honestly, I have no idea how they did it. But it is real, and I get logs delivered! It’s almost like being at home.”
“I’m impressed. Especially as it’s not on an outside wall.”
“Yes, well. Let’s sit.” Lisa gestured at the couches and they sat opposite one another. Jacob rummaged in his bag and took out his old digital recorder.
“Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
“I must apologise, but it is not allowed. You may make notes, of course. But be aware Rampworth records everything.” Lisa gestured to the inset ceiling lights, and Jacob saw they each had a small glowing red dot in their rim.
“All of them?”
Lisa nodded. “Yes.”
“Is that not a tad… intrusive.”
“Yes. But it is part of the contract, and one does get used to it… after a fashion. Tea, or coffee?”
“Coffee, please.”
“You Americans and your coffee,” Lisa smiled. “Alright. I’ll play mother while you get your notebook out.” Jacob watched as Lisa went through the kitchen door, then pulled his bag onto his lap. He’d come across the ‘no recording’ problem on the Harvey Milk project, and had kitted his bag out accordingly. The old digital recorder he had produced was a working dummy. The real recorder was the bag itself, with tiny top-of-the-range microphones, and a solid state recorder fitted into the bag’s bottom. It could, with the right settings, record for a week without problem. He turned it on.
By the time Lisa returned with a tray Jacob had his notebook and biro out and ready. He passed her the plate with biscuits and poured her a cup of tea, then coffee for himself out of a cafetiere. He cleared his that.
“So, tell me about The Sleepwalker.”
It’s probably better that you tell me what you know first,” Lisa said. “In outline will be fine. Then I can fill in the gaps for you.”
“Okay. As you know I wrote a biography of Harvey Milk. My next project has the working title of ‘Terrordon: The Man, The Myth.’ 
“In a nutshell Terrordon vanished after catching Sleepwalker in 2005. Sleepwalker was judged unfit to stand trial due to insanity, and has been here, at Rampworth, ever since.”
“You’re correct, in as far as it goes. But what you don’t know is that The Sleepwalker suffers from Dissociative identity disorder, or DID, which was previously known as multiple personality disorder, or MPD. It’s why Sleepwalker couldn’t be prosecuted.”
“What?”
“He has several different identities. Seven, in fact. All different. I should say all very different. 
“What?” Jacob could feel a headache coming on. He was more than confused, and wasn’t sure what to ask Lisa next.
“It would be best if you meet them, Jacob. Though honestly there’s no telling who you will get to meet. There’s no routine, no changing of the personality every ‘X’ number of hours of days. They come and go as they please.
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, and I’ve been working with them since I arrived. DID is controversial
“The first of the seven is Doug. Doug’s a tough New Jersey builder. He’s great with his hands, but is very quick to temper. 
“Billy is a farmer from Alabama. He likes photography, though he doesn’t get much chance in here.
“Rog is a very quiet Californian. He generally wants to be left alone to read.” Lisa waved at her bookcase. “Rog has read most of these, and some more than once.
“James is also Californian, and hasn’t grown any older since he arrived. He’s perpetually 18 years old, he’s gay and very camp with it.
“Tim is an Australian. He’s got a typical out going personality, and is quite the showman and actor.
“Joe is English. A real British ‘gent.’ This psyche often appears after any conflict, and is the most remorseful personality. Joe, like me, loves tea.
“Finally, there’s Charlotte, who is 6 years old, and the only known female personality. Or, the only female that shows herself. She loves to draw and, for her age, she’s very good at it. Any questions?”
“Umm, yes. Could you give me a minute here,”Jacob said, finally glad that he’d taken a course in shorthand. He checked back over his notes for mistakes, then frowned. “You haven’t mentioned Sleepwalker.”
“Ah. Yes. Sleepwalker himself hasn’t been seen in ten years. There is a possibility that he’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes. Or maybe subsumed would be a better choice of word.”
“Subsumed? Who on earth would, could, have subsumed him? He was villainous. Truly evil, and none of the other psyches you’ve described sound like they’d have stood a chance against him.
“That, Mr. Heath, is indeed a question that needs an answer.”Lisa smiled. “Now, if you’re ready we’ll go and meet… one of them.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A76E343A-D968-4214-8795-D325C60EB074">
            <Text>"This is 'Charlotte', she is the young child personality." explained Dr Warne. "By her speech patterns and behaviour, I estimate that she is around six years old. She's usually busy drawing."
From the angle of the video Jacob could clearly see that 'Charlotte' was drawing a picture of a cruise ship. A surprisingly detailed one, he thought.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="5B01B880-BF98-418A-B449-FD2AD8116364">
            <Title>Title Page</Title>
            <Text>Start Wearing Purple

</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FAAA277E-8807-4D51-9693-5DE6E77BD6FE">
            <Title>Chapter ten</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch10-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="08B94EB2-5C83-4DFA-B86D-7B189C7A78C9">
            <Title>Chapter sixteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch16-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E27A6BCD-4FF4-4319-B3A9-A6CFCA0727D0">
            <Title>Full Title Page</Title>
            <Text>Start Wearing Purple

written as a
Novel-in-a-Day

 #
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F4D09211-A626-40A1-8F28-FA6553FCA91E">
            <Title>Chapter twelve</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch12-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CF2588DB-1A56-4EEA-98D7-DADC8BBCEB38">
            <Title>Locations</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="AA50DE27-04B8-4E42-905E-89E9B18497FE">
            <Title>Full Title Page</Title>
            <Text>Start Wearing Purple

written as a
Novel-in-a-Day

 #
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7F249B23-A4AE-4AEB-B0C2-B772BDCDD931">
            <Text>From three hundred meters up, the Terrordon blended in with the night. Mostly. His new vantablack supersuit was created just for operations like this — where dropping out of the sky onto a heavily guarded island with thirty hostiles could get him killed. The suit actually absorbs light, which was really cool until the Terrordon stepped in front of a mirror. Where did the muscles he worked for years to sculpt go? And the pteranodon symbol on his chest had disappeared into the black of his chest, which disappeared into the black blob that was the rest of his body. He was an outline of a human, though his eyes and the lower half of his face were still visible thanks to the cutouts in his cowl.
Tonight’s suit was a variation of that first extra dark suit. Instead of using vantablack over the whole thing, he used it to cover main pieces and as a sinewed texture over the rest. The logo on his chest was painted in black chrome.
The drone carrying the Terrordon at three hundred meters in the air above Alcatraz Island released, and he began his controlled descent. From his night vision lenses, he could see the dark dots on the ground below moving slowly. Those were the Sleepwalker’s henchmen, each outfitted with a rifle. Some carried the gun in front of their bodies, but most of them just had it slung over their shoulder.
For a moment, he had thought about whether the metallic logo could give him away, so he adjusted his body. He began to fall faster, so he activated his cape’s hang gliding ability. He was very quickly approaching the ground and at the wrong angle. He gave up his concern about the logo to do whatever he could to slow his fall. But it wasn’t enough. The Terrordon thought quickly and aimed for the top of the roof of the quartermaster’s building on the northwest corner instead of the ground between the water tower and the laundry building, which was the ideal landing site for him to have a tactical advantage. 
His body landed with a crash, and, though he was concerned at the noise from going sixty-five kilometers per hour to zero by slamming against a rusted metal roof, he knew all of the henchmen had been on the other side of the island, congregating around the lighthouse. He was going to be safe if even for a minute. The Terrordon figured that the Sleepwalker was keeping his hostages in the lighthouse, so, while his landing may draw some attention, he had time to form a new plan. But he figured he would be better off forming it from the powerhouse next door rather than staying right where the crashing sound came from. 
Each step crunched against the metal of the roof. As powerful as his supersuit was, the boots were still clunky and more utilitarian than super. He jumped from one roof to the next, and moved quickly to the access door. It was open, and he squeezed his muscular frame through the small square opening and onto the access ladder that led him down into a dark room.
When he reached the floor, he leaned against the ladder to catch his breath. And then he gasped.
This entire floor of the powerhouse was lined with barrels, each had some wiring connected to the top and a simple electrical interface. The Terrordon took a look at one of them, and he recognized it as the type of bomb that could be detonated from a cell phone. As he walked from one barrel to the next, they all had an identification number — probably the code identifying the barrel so the Sleepwalker could be confident which bomb he was detonating.
“But why would he leave his bombs unguarded?” the Terrordon asked himself. 
“I didn’t,” came a reply.
The lights in the powerhouse turned on, and the Terrordon’s night vision lenses glowed so bright that they blinded him. He deactivated them, but it was too late. He tried to duck behind a barrel, but he could hear footsteps approaching. In this suit, it was impossible for him to rub his eyes without messing up the makeup and cowl, so he clenched them tightly and reach for a small smoke bomb from his utility belt. He pressed a button on the ball slightly larger than a marble and rolled it toward the part of the room he hadn’t yet explored.
An ominous laugh echoed. The Terrordon still couldn’t place it, but he wasn’t impressed by it.
“Still working on the laugh, huh?” the Terrordon asked to the room he was now squinting to see. 
“Why do you have to do that?” the Sleepwalker asked angrily.
The Terrordon was using this as an opportunity to buy some time. “Why do you need to keep changing your laugh? It screams of insecurity. The Timekeeper never changed his laugh.”
“The Timekeeper got caught his first time out,” the Sleepwalker defended. “And his laugh was a childish cackle.”
“And what would you call your laugh? A maniacal giggle?”
“Maniacal? What are you implying?”
“You’re imbalanced. Have you noticed how all of the supervillains always end up in the asylum instead of a penitentiary? You need professional help.”
“I’m the one who’s imbalanced? You’ve copied a comic book character down to the armored car and ninja-style throwing weapons.”
“But you’re trying to kill innocent people. Women and children and moms and dads…”
The Sleepwalker scoffed. In all of Terrordon’s time fighting villains, he’d heard a lot of them scoff at the idea of killing people, but this scoff was different. It was more apprehensive than uncaring. It was almost as if the Sleepwalker hadn’t thought through how others might be affected by his actions. 
The Terrordon got to his feet and took in the room around him. There was a group approaching him through the smoke about ten feet away. They would be on him in a moment. There was also a single figure over by the stairs to the room. That was probably the Sleepwalker. But, even if he sprinted at him, he would end up being tackled — or worse, shot — by the group approaching him. He crouched with his cape around him and positioned his body to prepare to fight.
As the people stepped through the smoke, they were dressed in plain clothes and seemed to shuffle more than walk. They looked like the photos of the civilians that he remembered from the news, and their eyelids were droopy. They were sleepwalking. 
The Terrordon thought it through. These were civilians, moms and dads. They didn’t deserve to be hurt in any way. But, if he didn’t hurt them, many more people could be killed from these bombs. He figured his best option would be to run at the Sleepwalker in the other direction in hopes of forcing him to stop the approaching group. So he pivoted and ran the twenty strides over the the stairs, and, to his surprise, the Sleepwalker wasn’t there. The Terrordon blinked hard twice in an effort to fully recover from the flash and saw that it was just another sleepwalking civilian, the largest of the bunch, approaching him.
He jumped up on the nearest barrel, but, before he could catch his balance, a figure popped up and pushed him back. It was the Sleepwalker! If only the Terrordon had jumped onto a barrel on the other side…
The small mob grabbed onto the Terrordon, and, though he thrashed a bit, he didn’t want to hurt any innocents, so he eventually stopped fighting. The group tied his hands behind his back and forced him to sit on the group.
“Too many rules,” the Sleepwalker said shamingly. “You have too many rules about the safety of others to be effective. If only you would’ve fought these mindless drones, you would probably have me tied up on the floor right now. But you don’t.” 
The Terrordon tried buying a little bit of time. “Now that you have me, why don’t you tell me your whole evil plan?”
“Well…” the Sleepwalker started, “...I’ve got these barrels and…they’re going to be delivered to highly populated areas around San Francisco for maximum...umm...” The Sleepwalker trailed off and gave his uncertain scoff. And then again. “It’s not that I feel…” And he scoffed again.
The Terrordon tried freeing his hands, but he just couldn’t get himself free. They had bound his wrists with a belt, and he hadn’t spent time trying to escape from leather bindings. Sure, he’d gotten out of handcuffs or zip ties or rope hundreds of times, but he never thought to test against a leather belt.
“Kill him,” the Sleepwalker said to the only member of his hostage group with a gun. It was a large man with a cropped haircut. He looked like he’d done military service and could probably hit a target from a hundred meters away, which would make the Terrordon an easy target at 3 meters. But the man didn’t even raise the gun. “Kill him,” the Sleepwalker repeated angrily. But the man didn’t move.
“It seems that even sleeping people have more conscience than a crazy person like you.
“If I’m so crazy, then I’ll do it myself,” the Sleepwalker said defiantly and he barged over to the man carrying the gun, took it from his arm, hoisted it, and aimed for the Terrordon’s chest. 
Then a moment passed. Then another. Then the Terrordon had an idea. He adjusted his body and caught one of the ceiling lights on the black chrome logo on his chest and aimed the reflection right into the eyes of the Sleepwalker. The Sleepwalker jumped and dropped the gun. The Terrordon jumped to his feet and charged at the Sleepwalker. He gave the Sleepwalker a headbutt, and the Sleepwalker fell to the floor unconscious. 
When the Sleepwalker woke, he found himself in a daze on the roof of the powerhouse. He was sitting and his hands were bound behind his back, and the lights from approaching helicopters shone in the distance. Nearby was the group of hostages, all looking awake, pointing guns at a group of the Sleepwalker’s henchmen, who were also bound and sitting. The Sleepwalker had failed.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FE2FA369-2BE5-483A-8645-452125A3A11E">
            <Text>@Blndgrrlxxoo
Whys nobody saying THE TRUTH! Real threat are the white domestic terrorists stop blowing smoak into our eyes</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="631A8E97-D15A-48B7-BC0E-B56800308CEA">
            <Text>Lisa’s BMW M5 was a bit of a surprise. 
“Listen, I know what you’re trying to do. You realize this guy is messed up? It’s likely to end poorly for you. I don’t think I’ve been been too subtle regarding my personal interest in … well … you. Why should I help you knowing that I’m endangering something I’m interested in?”
“For a psychiatrist you sure don’t hide your emotions well.”
“Why should I?” Lisa was clearly irritated by his response. 
“I guess I just figured …”
“As a psychiatrist I know what a healthy display of emotion is. I also know when I need to make a move because someone else is to unsure of themselves.”
“Touché”
“Hold on. I like this little stretch of road.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="893479F3-2895-47B4-BAF8-1CD63FB7DA6F">
            <Text>“When you said ‘around the corner’ I was expecting a few blocks, not 30minutes of high speed curves.”
“Why? You’re entering a world, this world of the Sleepwalker, where every statement means something different than the surface of the statement suggests. Right about now you should be wondering ‘is she serious about me?’ And I’d answer ‘yes I am.’ And then it will hit you ‘it doesn’t matter what Lisa answers because I can never know what is true and what is false.’ And then you begin to understand how much danger you are walking into.”
Jacob realized that there was more to what Lisa was saying then he really understood.
“Please. Please stop this. He is dangerous beyond anything a sane person should approach outside a prison. Do not do this.”
“How did Terrordon find him? How did he catch him? Where do I look? What will I find?”
Lisa looked up from her meal. “Terrordon used a profiler, someone that looked at the crimes and drew some circles on a map, provided some clues where to look and even suggested how to bait an irresistible trap. Terrodon used that information in 2005. I think I might have been the profiler.”
“Wait. What?” Jacob was struggling to comprehend exactly who this woman sitting across from him was. “You know who Terrordon is?”
“No. I was contacted in 2004 and met with 5 different men. Each said that he was not Terrordon. I was paid well and told that I would get the opportunity to understand the Sleepwalker once he was caught. That’s how I made my way to the US and to Rampworth.”
Jacob suddenly felt small. Whoever Terrordon was, he had a large reach and the ability to direct the “machinery of the state” to get one very pretty woman a job and then to get a specific convict into that woman’s care. 
“Do you understand just how dangerous this man is?”
“Which man?”
“Exactly.”
“Tell me what I need to know to find the Sleepwalker.”
“Men. You never learn.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="5664F9AB-4783-4C58-A15A-37AA358FED04">
            <Title>Chapter ten</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch10-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DA0656D8-F38E-4CC3-B0C4-9BEAF7E985FB">
            <Title>Chapter 12</Title>
            <Synopsis>Sleepwalker learns terrordon is back - escapes</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
The TERRORDON was a masked vigilante that was credited with cleaning up the streets of San Francisco at the turn of the millenium before disappearing in 2005 after he caught his arch enemy, THE SLEEPWALKER
Things that have already happened
A new super villain, the FISHERMAN has started terrorising San Francisco, and the Terrordon has returned. 
Starts with
The Sleepwalker is in Rampworth State Hospital being treated for Dissociative Identy Disorder. 
Chapter details
The Sleepwalker 'personality' hasn't been seen for over ten years. He's in the common room of Rampworth when he sees the news that the Terrordon has returned. 
His personality alters -- the Sleepwalker personality takes over control and is delighted. He escapes from Rampworth.
Ends with
The Sleepwalker is successfully at large again.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C38F23EF-B37F-4326-9650-45A356EAFCED">
            <Text>“What?” Jacob startled aloud while frantically looking for other news and police reports. 
There was no mention of The Fisherman whatsoever, none in the news or in the SFPD report.
He checked every news report in the San Francisco Bay area, even very social network with the SF hashtag and the local tv news, but they were all reporting other organisations claiming responsibility for the terror attack of the day before.
What happened? Jacob was anxious and sweaty, did the police receive the claim but decided to keep a low profile? That could have happened. Releasing the news of a maniac who attacked the city under the name of The Fisherman could have caused a potential mass panicking. Will the news make it to The Terrordon? 
Jacob sat at the desk, head in his hands, unsure of what to do next. </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="64C601B1-A42E-4800-8DFF-F3B6D1052342">
            <Text>@IllPatriot692
Another Islam threat on American soil!!1!! When will be wake up and destroy the a**holes!!! #MAGA #terrorthreat #PatriotsforJesus</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="AB6FD48B-DAA4-49F1-96E1-0E8A3E73D36A">
            <Title>Introduction</Title>
            <Text>Time is no substitute for talent
There is a well-known saying that if you give a monkey a typewriter and an infinite amount of time then it will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. In 2003, the staff at Paignton Zoo gave a computer to six crested macaques and categorically proved that what you actually get is five pages of the letter ‘S’ and a broken keyboard. Time, it seems, is no substitute for talent. But can talent substitute for time…?
The book you are about to read was written over the course of a single day in October 2017. For those unfamiliar with the concept of Novel-in-a-Day, it’s simple: - A skeleton of a plot is worked out in advance of the day - That plot is broken into sections, which are divided amongst the participants randomly - The writers have most of the rest of the day to write and return their chapters, working with no knowledge of the wider story or their place in it. 
I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as we loved putting it together.

Tim
October 28, 2017
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A3E1D52F-1BEC-4B4F-88D8-9276E750ED57">
            <Title>Chapter three</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch03-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="09E03451-B7DF-43D1-A2BC-7C06B621A14F">
            <Title>Jason Richards</Title>
            <Text>Name:
Jason Richards

Job:
Member of the California State Senate

Gender:
Male

Age: 47

Appearance:
6’2”, caucasian, very athletic build. Handsome, with short neat dark hair, and the kind of clothes, watch, and cars that only the very wealthy can afford

Family:
Thomas Richards, father, and Mary Richards, mother, both deceased — car accident when Jason was 10. No siblings

Background:
Inheritied a lot of money from his parents. Is majority shareholder in Richards  Tech Solutions - a very successful listed company. Gave up the playboy life around 2010 and turned to public life.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="35F005C1-D499-4ACB-90BF-C507086C9912">
            <Text>Jacob dropped the phone, barely noticing the crack as it hit the wood flooring.  He was too busy trying to get his head around the news he had just received.  The Sleepwalker was free, earlier today he had broken out of Rampworth State Hospital, although how the hell that happened he had no idea, Rampworth was meant to be a secure mental hospital, holding some of the worst villains in society.  It was not meant to be like a hotel, somewhere you can just go open a door and walk out.  The scary part, the really scary part was depending which of the seven core personalities the Sleepwalker was using would depend very much on how much danger the citizens of San Francisco were in, and even worse if he was using a new core personality that no one yet knew about, what extra terrors that could bring. The Sleepwalker was not only one of the most famous super villains but he was also the arch-enemy of the Terrordon, the Terrordon who was out of retirement trying to capture a false villain, Jacobs false villain, the Fisherman.
Jacob knew he had to get rid of the Fisherman, the Terrordon had a real villain now to catch.  He walked over to his laptop, and searched all his files for any Fisherman related ones and deleted them, he deleted any social media accounts related to the Fisherman, and only when he was sure he had covered everything he could think of did he stop, and allow himself to think clearly.
Jacob paced trying to think what to do next, the most important thing to him was writing the biography of the Terrordon and now he had this great opportunity to really understand the mindset of the famous masked vigilante, chasing down his arch-enemy. Thing was how best to do that, how to really understand how the mind of the Terrordon worked, he was a super hero.  He walked over to the coffee machine and poured himself a coffee, sipping as he walked back across the room, glancing at the television, taking up most of the space on one wall, he could see that the top story now was the Sleepwalker, how he escaped, where he might be, what he might be doing.
 It hit Jacob then, of course he should try and capture the Sleepwalker, become his own super hero, try to think like the Terrordon, how he would go about capturing him. He would need help though, he could not do this alone, but who would be best, or perhaps more importantly, who would be willing to help him.  He was not stupid he knew there had to be something in it for whoever did help him, it was not going to happen for love.  He smiled, yes he knew exactly who to ask. 
Jacob walked over to the phone laying on the floor, cracked and broken.  “Bugger” he fumed, he moved around the room until he found his cell phone, hidden under a pile of cushions.  He searched through his contacts stopping at a name, Amy Kennedy, staring at it in thought for a few moments before he decided to ring her.
Ten minutes later he was ready to leave, he had made two calls and was sure that they were the right calls. He checked the news before leaving to make sure the Sleepwalker was still at large, nothing had changed, although sightings had come in from the public. Jacob made note of those sightings and then he turned off the television and walked out the front door.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="40A06AE8-0F9C-412A-851A-886A5FAD7F70">
            <Text>“Gimme the remote, you ass. Nobody cares about “Say Yes to The Dress”. Andy sat across from the old lady who clutched her remote like a prized toy on Black Friday. 
Maryann sneered, waving the remote between arthritic fingers. “My granddaughter loves this show, and I’m going to find her the perfect dress for her wedding…”. She smiled, eyes glued to the box as some pretty and irritating blonde tried on yet another identical gown. The remote fell from her fingers, skittering across the floor, clacking against tile and over a nondescript puddle in the middle of the room.
Bodies dove for the device, the most power they had at their disposal in years. Bodies pushed and prodded, limbs grabbed and mouths bit. The TV shifted and the screen jerked between images, trying in vain to appease a multitude of masters. Rog just hoped the batteries would die quickly, there was too much noise here. 
Rog...why did they call him Rog when it felt so wrong? Sat and watched the show before him on the floor, thinking somewhere in the back of his mind that it was more entertaining to watch this than whatever else could be found on TV. 
A victorious hand jutted out of the pile with remote in hand, and the TV settled onto a local news channel. A man sat behind the desk, papers held in front like they held the secrets of the universe. His smile belied a sense of urgent fear and excitement, suddenly aware again for the first time that he was in front of a camera, speaking to millions. The reporter leaned forward in his seat, aggressively describing a scene like a promotion depended on it. 
“We’ve just received confirmation from exclusive sources that Terrordon has returned! He has stated he will make an announcement soon…we have live video feed…” 
The man trailed off. The rest didn’t matter, though the man temporarily named Rog didn’t know why, not yet. His head hurt, more than usual, the hum driving him up and out of his chair and away from the commotion the orderlies were just now starting to break up. 
He stumbled back toward the drinking fountain, the distance from the noise only making things worse. Something told him he should find Judd. None of that made any sense, but agreeing with the thought made his headache lessen, if slightly. He relaxed without the throbbing pain, and remembered Judd was one of the guards posted past the main rec room. The voice grew stronger in Rog’s mind. Mention Martha and he’ll fold like a chair.
Rog felt strange, his head full, too full as he walked toward Judd, his shorts pulled down by a gut that dared the buttons on his shirt to hold in his belly for one more day. 
Judd stared down, his frown and posture exuding confidence and power. “What you need?”
Rog, or someone else, pulled his head up from staring at his shoes. A smile crept across his lips, though he didn’t think much was funny, except for the man’s build. God, that was funny how fat he was. Rog felt sleepy, even though standing up and sleeping wasn’t a good idea. He could feel, in his soul, that relaxing right now was a good idea.
The Sleepwalker came forward. Pushing through the remaining bits of Rog’s control, he cracked his neck, his neck - for the first time in years - and stared up at the fat fuck. 
“Remember Martha? I do. If that still means anything to you, I think I need to be taken to medical.” His smile grew, fully back under his control. 
The man’s smug, unearned smile dropped like his gut, and he keyed his shoulder radio. “Got a patient here who needs direct medical care, escorting him myself to bay 7.” 
The Sleepwalker balled his hands into fists to prevent his excitement from carrying over into the air as a proud shout. There was no Bay 7, the dumb bastard had done his part. He swiped his keycard, and pushed open the hallway door for the prisoner now free. 
He stretched, feeling his limbs and senses for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. Each finger felt rusty as he flexed. Light and sound assaulted him, threatening to drive him back inside the prison of his own mind, but he knew he could not be thrown into that prison, or any prison, any longer. He was free now. And his revenge fueled him. 
The Sleepwalker tore down the hall, laughing at other inmates behind steel doors and laying on tables. The lights flickered in classic sanitarium fashion. Some were dead, he hoped. That would make for an even better scene when the papers got ahold of it.  He ran faster, bare feet padding quiet thwaps along the tile. The light over the far hallway door remained red. He rushed it faster. 
Just as his hand hit the latch, it snapped to green, and he was out, onto harder, colder concrete and into a storage area. He let his feet take him, didn’t dare question it since they seemed to know more than he could by thinking. 
A single guard, this one armed more than Judd could ever dream, walked past the escaped prisoner. “Halt!” he screamed, trying to reach for a gun he never had to use. 
The sleepwalker laughed as he ran, sliding into a kick that dropped the man just as his gun came free. The handgun went off, lighting up the room with a flash and report so loud the Sleepwalker was afraid he’d be driven from control of his own mind, back into the dregs of whatever other voice his fractured head could churn up. 
He felt the other voices, cold and scared, one or two mildly brave. Accents and attitudes that weren’t his own tried in vain to claw at his attention, but they were weak. They had always been weak. The only way they had held sway for so long was those damn medications. Rog took most of them, he knew. Rog would pay dearly for that. 
The guard fought hard, swinging his arms and squeaking his boots on the sterile tile floor. It all seemed so distant, as he held control over him, that anything could remotely interrupt this moment. The way it felt to kill, the pure focus of it, was more than he could ever hope to feel in any other mundane interaction. It was perfection to steal a life. It was the one thing that could never be given back, even if he was caught. 
He focused, and held, squeezing the life out of the guard’s throat as he pushed back the influence of all the other voices in his head that fought for attention. The guard’s breath jerked, then stopped, as did the voices. He smiled, grabbed the gun, and hurried on.
A duffel bag waited next to the only light in the room. A cargo bay door, lifted just a foot or two from the ground, opened for the only light in the entire place. His gown flapped in the breeze, and irritated him, so he tore it off, shedding the last of his shackles of this place that held him for so long. He ripped the patient bracelet with his teeth. 
The duffle was heavier than he remembered it should have been, so he ripped it open and dumped it out on the floor. The purple jumpsuit caught his attention first, and he slipped it on fast. No alarms yet, Judd did his part. He made a mental note to make it quick for Martha, when he found her again. It all came back to him, the address, the security code on her door...5774...a fantastic return to glory this would be. And just in time to show Terrordon how far he could fail. 
Donning his equipment took little time, but a radio sat in the bottom of the pile, not a part of his usual attire. He smiled, remembering who would invariably sit at the other end. The one who had set up this entire drop, this entire plan. 
He keyed the button and waited, knowing these first words in ten years would be so cherished. “My dear, have you missed me?”
At first there was nothing. Just static answered him, the first free response he had in years to any interaction with the outside world. Eventually, there was a spike in the receiver. Gentle sobs cut through a stammering voice as he relished the Mynx’ reply, “more than you know, baby. Now go get that bastard. And have some fun for me, would you?”
The Sleepwalker smiled, dropped the radio and slipped under the cargo bay door. Stepping out into the world for the first time in years, he laughed, free and loudly. Punctuating his mirth, an alarm sounded, blaring and obnoxious and welcome. The ruse was over, the villain was back, and he would never, ever be trapped inside his own damn body again.
“Gimme the remote, you ass. Nobody cares about “Say Yes to The Dress”. Andy sat across from the old lady who clutched her remote like a prized toy on Black Friday. 
Maryann sneered, waving the remote between arthritic fingers. “My granddaughter loves this show, and I’m going to find her the perfect dress for her wedding…”. She smiled, eyes glued to the box as some pretty and irritating blonde tried on yet another identical gown. The remote fell from her fingers, skittering across the floor, clacking against tile and over a nondescript puddle in the middle of the room.
Bodies dove for the device, the most power they had at their disposal in years. Bodies pushed and prodded, limbs grabbed and mouths bit. The TV shifted and the screen jerked between images, trying in vain to appease a multitude of masters. Rog just hoped the batteries would die quickly, there was too much noise here. 
Rog...why did they call him Rog when it felt so wrong? Sat and watched the show before him on the floor, thinking somewhere in the back of his mind that it was more entertaining to watch this than whatever else could be found on TV. 
A victorious hand jutted out of the pile with remote in hand, and the TV settled onto a local news channel. A man sat behind the desk, papers held in front like they held the secrets of the universe. His smile belied a sense of urgent fear and excitement, suddenly aware again for the first time that he was in front of a camera, speaking to millions. The reporter leaned forward in his seat, aggressively describing a scene like a promotion depended on it. 
“We’ve just received confirmation from exclusive sources that Terrordon has returned! He has stated he will make an announcement soon…we have live video feed…” 
The man trailed off. The rest didn’t matter, though the man temporarily named Rog didn’t know why, not yet. His head hurt, more than usual, the hum driving him up and out of his chair and away from the commotion the orderlies were just now starting to break up. 
He stumbled back toward the drinking fountain, the distance from the noise only making things worse. Something told him he should find Judd. None of that made any sense, but agreeing with the thought made his headache lessen, if slightly. He relaxed without the throbbing pain, and remembered Judd was one of the guards posted past the main rec room. The voice grew stronger in Rog’s mind. Mention Martha and he’ll fold like a chair.
Rog felt strange, his head full, too full as he walked toward Judd, his shorts pulled down by a gut that dared the buttons on his shirt to hold in his belly for one more day. 
Judd stared down, his frown and posture exuding confidence and power. “What you need?”
Rog, or someone else, pulled his head up from staring at his shoes. A smile crept across his lips, though he didn’t think much was funny, except for the man’s build. God, that was funny how fat he was. Rog felt sleepy, even though standing up and sleeping wasn’t a good idea. He could feel, in his soul, that relaxing right now was a good idea.
The Sleepwalker came forward. Pushing through the remaining bits of Rog’s control, he cracked his neck, his neck - for the first time in years - and stared up at the fat fuck. 
“Remember Martha? I do. If that still means anything to you, I think I need to be taken to medical.” His smile grew, fully back under his control. 
The man’s smug, unearned smile dropped like his gut, and he keyed his shoulder radio. “Got a patient here who needs direct medical care, escorting him myself to bay 7.” 
The Sleepwalker balled his hands into fists to prevent his excitement from carrying over into the air as a proud shout. There was no Bay 7, the dumb bastard had done his part. He swiped his keycard, and pushed open the hallway door for the prisoner now free. 
He stretched, feeling his limbs and senses for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. Each finger felt rusty as he flexed. Light and sound assaulted him, threatening to drive him back inside the prison of his own mind, but he knew he could not be thrown into that prison, or any prison, any longer. He was free now. And his revenge fueled him. 
The Sleepwalker tore down the hall, laughing at other inmates behind steel doors and laying on tables. The lights flickered in classic sanitarium fashion. Some were dead, he hoped. That would make for an even better scene when the papers got ahold of it.  He ran faster, bare feet padding quiet thwaps along the tile. The light over the far hallway door remained red. He rushed it faster. 
Just as his hand hit the latch, it snapped to green, and he was out, onto harder, colder concrete and into a storage area. He let his feet take him, didn’t dare question it since they seemed to know more than he could by thinking. 
A single guard, this one armed more than Judd could ever dream, walked past the escaped prisoner. “Halt!” he screamed, trying to reach for a gun he never had to use. 
The sleepwalker laughed as he ran, sliding into a kick that dropped the man just as his gun came free. The handgun went off, lighting up the room with a flash and report so loud the Sleepwalker was afraid he’d be driven from control of his own mind, back into the dregs of whatever other voice his fractured head could churn up. 
He felt the other voices, cold and scared, one or two mildly brave. Accents and attitudes that weren’t his own tried in vain to claw at his attention, but they were weak. They had always been weak. The only way they had held sway for so long was those damn medications. Rog took most of them, he knew. Rog would pay dearly for that. 
The guard fought hard, swinging his arms and squeaking his boots on the sterile tile floor. It all seemed so distant, as he held control over him, that anything could remotely interrupt this moment. The way it felt to kill, the pure focus of it, was more than he could ever hope to feel in any other mundane interaction. It was perfection to steal a life. It was the one thing that could never be given back, even if he was caught. 
He focused, and held, squeezing the life out of the guard’s throat as he pushed back the influence of all the other voices in his head that fought for attention. The guard’s breath jerked, then stopped, as did the voices. He smiled, grabbed the gun, and hurried on.
A duffel bag waited next to the only light in the room. A cargo bay door, lifted just a foot or two from the ground, opened for the only light in the entire place. His gown flapped in the breeze, and irritated him, so he tore it off, shedding the last of his shackles of this place that held him for song. He ripped the patient bracelet with his teeth. 
The duffle was heavier than he remembered it should have been, so he ripped it open and dumped it out on the floor. The purple jumpsuit caught his attention first, and he slipped it on fast. No alarms yet, Judd did his part. He made a mental note to make it quick for Martha, when he found her again. It all came back to him, the address, the security code on her door...5774...a fantastic return to glory this would be. And just in time to show Terrordon how far he could fail. 
Donning his equipment took little time, but a radio sat in the bottom of the pile, not a part of his usual attire. He smiled, remembering who would invariably sit at the other end. The one who had set up this entire drop, this entire plan. 
He keyed the button and waited, knowing these first words in ten years would be so cherished. “My dear, have you missed me?”
At first there was nothing. Just static answered him, the first free response he had in years to any interaction with the outside world. Eventually, there was a spike in the receiver. Gentle sobs cut through a stammering voice as he relished the Mynx’ reply, “more than you know, baby. Now go get that bastard. And have some fun for me, would you?”
The Sleepwalker smiled, dropped the radio and slipped under the cargo bay door. Stepping out into the world for the first time in years, he laughed, free and loudly. Punctuating his mirth, an alarm sounded, blaring and obnoxious and welcome. The ruse was over, the villain was back, and he would never, ever be trapped inside his own damn body again.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="18F76BAC-AA64-40B7-81D7-5985374B197B">
            <Text>Jacob drank his third coffee in the terrace of the Gary Danko. The first part of its strategy had quickly been executed, he bet from now on some human behavior. He remembered years when he had worked for the Chronicle. He remembered this journalist who got involved so much into the cover of the interventions of the Terrordon. When he worked on Harvey Milk's bio, he enjoyed observing the habits of others and had been surprised by the application with which this Amy seemed to live her life. Every day, steadfastly, she left the office in 11: 50 am to go in this restaurant. Always the same. He had followed her several times, curious to see to what extent the journalist had pushed the habit and he had not been disappointed. 11: 55 am, he drank the last sip then raised eyes, and a smile took shape on his face: today either, he will not be disappointed.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="6039D881-31CA-4205-8F02-6905EF42C2C2">
            <Text>He refined the details, got the numbers for all major newspapers in the city and spent a busy half hour drafting a script. He had to sound unhinged but intelligent, credible and also just enough over-the-top to be a believable supervillain. A lone wolf with a bit of flair, not so mundane to make Terrordon think that this would be a matter best left to the police, but not so crazy to be dismissed as a prank.
It took him some tries to record the message correctly because he kept cracking up, mostly because he was so nervous. When he was done he left it alone and went for a workout; he needed to unwind a bit. 
It did him good; as soon as he got back he re-played the message and edited it to distort his voice. Once distorted and edited, the message worked even better than he had thought: he sounded menacing,  believable, and with just the right amount of style to be the Fisherman.
Then he took the burner phone he had bought earlier and started making calls.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="45DE00E8-804C-4619-9BEA-BA49BFDC84A1">
            <Title>Spacer</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="88A87F78-AEC7-4120-A631-D908A04C748E">
            <Text>From a vantage point across the bay, the Terrordon looked at the burning wreck of a house, and through his binoculars he could even make out Jason Richards being treated by a paramedic before being loaded into the ambulance for treatment at the hospital.
Retiring in 2005 had been a personal choice, but now the Sleepwalker was back on the streets of San Francisco and had implicated a prominent State Senator. They would all come for him, because they would all want their own kind of revenge.
Was this the right time to show his face?
No, he thought, shaking his head and turning to return to the Terrordon Cave. This time he would need to take down the Sleepwalker. Before he killed someone.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="AECC7679-7EE5-4127-80C4-634034ED6848">
            <Text>Medication followed breakfast. Joe stood in line, patiently waiting for his concoction of pills. He’d never understood why he had to wash the assortment down with water rather than tea, but he obliged on every occasion. Each patient was medically assessed for a period during the day, but as there were only so many doctors to patients. The ratio meant there was plenty of leisure time available. Charlotte would always play or draw. Tim’s exuberance would scare other patients back to their rooms. Rog was another personality, there were seven in total that had been uniquely identified, not counting the Sleepwalker, and Rog was a very quiet Californian. He basically wasn’t there, a void, simply wanting to be left alone to read. It was Rog that shuffled away from the dispensary towards the library. It wasn’t an extensive library in the hospital, but Rog settled onto an obscurely positioned beanbag with a well worn copy of the Bhagavad Gita. 
His harmonious repose was disturbed by a commotion emanating from the common room. The television has been turned up much loader than usual, with people watching, both patients and staff, bellowing indistinctly. Although his instinct was to slink further into the recesses of the library, his state was further dislodged when he thought he heard the name Terrordon mentioned on the TV. Joe was back, purposely up to his feet and striding towards the corner of the common room that had rows of chairs in front of a television. Patients were agitated, as breaking news headlines scrolled with the names Fisherman and Terrordon emblazoned. There was a new super-villain terrorising San Francisco, and his name was the Fisherman!
At the same time as the Sleepwalker had been captured back in 2005, the Terrordon had disappeared. With the superhero’s work complete, his nemesis defeated and humiliated, he’d gone off the radar and hadn’t been heard from or seen over the last 12 years. It would appear with the coming of the Fisherman, Terrordon had reemerged from slumber to take care of the good people of San Francisco. Looped video footage showed the Fisherman blowing apart suspension sections of the Golden Gate Bridge, with the athletically built Terrordon gliding into scene on his cape, lashing the shattered strands back together and thus preventing the bridge from losing stability.  
Joe was feeling uneasy. There was definitely something much worse afoot that using milk with Darjeeling tea. He cramped to his knees, holding onto the back of one of the TV chairs. What would the world be like having Terrordon back to cheer, without the Sleepwalker adding balance? Would the Sleepwalker and Fisherman be able to unite together against a common enemy? Joe was gone, and the most dissociative identity was about to cause disorder. The Sleepwalker was back, and he was in a ruthless mood! The chair arched and smashed into the TV screen, catapulted with a force that belied the frame that had tossed it so effortlessly. The nurse with syringe was comically dispatched. Due to the severity of the situation, she’d had her hand wrapped around the syringe with thumb ready on the plunger, arm leverage thrusting everything down towards the neck of the Sleepwalker. Like taking candy from Charlotte, he’d dodged the lunge and used the momentum of the nurse’s arm to follow through into her abdomen, pushing on her own thumb to dispense the contents of the vial into her. 
With terrifying speed and agility he was onto one of the guards before they’d even managed to make it to the scene of the commotion. The guard’s sidearm was cocked to his own head, as the Sleepwalker backed him down a corridor towards a secure door. It took little negotiation to convince the guard that he ought to be fumbling for his keys. An alarm sounded as the door opened, but the Sleepwalker was free again. As a sign of intent, he shot the guard twice before disappearing into the bushes and away from Rampworth State Hospital for the first time in 12 years! News channels thought they’d already had their scoop of the day, but they were sorely mistaken. </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="56CBB465-E71C-4E4E-8258-C7DEEC4ED042">
            <Title>Chapter six</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch06-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E05C2F54-AC9F-4B8D-B263-54A03A866A5D">
            <Title>Briefing Pack (GENERIC)</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7F7FCEA6-5AEC-43B2-84B9-DEC4B5D8CB15">
            <Title>Chapter 18</Title>
            <Synopsis>Jacob goes back to asylum to find out about personalities. Find a regularly occurring one. Get Lisa’s take. Decides on (x). Where would that personality go... </Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
The SLEEPWALKER has broken out of Rampworth State Hospital and the TERRORDON is back on the streets of San Francisco after being away since 2005. 
Things that have already happened
JACOB HEATH is writing a biography on the Terrordon and interviewed the Sleepwalker in Rampworth prior to his escape. He's now trying to get into  the mind of a hero by trying to catch the Sleepwalker himself.
Starts with
Jacob goes back to Rampworth to speak to DR LISA WARNE, who oversaw the Sleepwalker's treatment.
Chapter details
Jacob speaks with Lisa. She is very surprised that the Sleepwalker personality re-emerged.
Jacob tries to see if Lisa knows  anything that would give him a clue what the Sleepwalker might do, or where he'd go and hide. 
Lisa explains that the Sleepwalker personality won't be perpetual - he'd quite frequently be switching to the other personalities -- and won't necessarily have much control over it. 
They go through several of the personalities. Lisa explains that the 'Joe' personality was the one that felt the most remorse and would most likely emerge after periods of disruption and stress. 
It should also come out that Joe always wanted tea if he was agitated. He'd complain that it was never as good as in hotel x or y. 
Ends with
Lisa tells Jacob that -- if Joe had a favourite, it would be the Westin on Union Square. He talked about that one more than others.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2632A52D-5E89-49C3-9A6A-157E29037A58">
            <Text>That was when he heard it.
Sirens.
He’d expected it, of course—you could hardly set off an explosion in the middle of San Francisco and not expect the emergency services to show up. But something about hearing them rather than imagining them—the mundanity of their wail on the wet city streets—brought back the doubts. It seemed obvious now, the reality of it: the police were going to arrive; the Terrordon would not.
Like a chink of light in a cave, he caught a glimpse of the insanity of his plan. Twelve years the Terrordon had been gone. Did he really expect him to turn up now?
He fumbled for the second tin and peered over the wall. The pedestrian bridge looked clear. No cars or people below it, either. The area was empty; everyone had fled.
The sirens were still some way off. There was still time.
He clenched his jaw so hard he could feel the surface of his back teeth crumble.
Jacob’s thumb trembled.
But the Fisherman pressed the second button nonetheless.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="0BE01798-BBA0-4FDE-BA3D-248CB3FD884B">
            <Title>Chapter twenty</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch20-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A52E2567-CCB4-40DB-A727-7F8CF5B96CFD">
            <Title>Full Title Page</Title>
            <Text>








Start Wearing Purple

written as a
Novel-in-a-Day









 ￼
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FECFE68C-FACA-43B7-9EF4-286CDB7911AB">
            <Title>Chapter 14</Title>
            <Synopsis>Jacob, with a villain to catch now switches to hero to help catch the Sleepwalker. tries to recruit journo friend and agent to be his League - they think he’s flipped. Journo wants to call cops agent says no but want Jacob to get help.</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
JACOB HEATH is a professional biographer. He has decided his next book should be about the TERRORDON - the masked vigilante that was credited with cleaning up the streets of San Francisco at the turn of the millenium before disappearing in 2005.
Things that have already happened
Jacob invented a villain -- the FISHERMAN -- and the Terrordon is out of retirement and the SLEEPWALKER has broken out of Rampworth State Hospital.
Starts with
Jacob learns that the Sleepwalker has broken out of Rampworth.
Chapter details
Now that there is a real villain for the Terrordon to catch, Jacob, decides to 'retire' the Fisherman and focus on trying to catch the Sleepwalker -- to get into the mindset of a hero to better write the biography of the Terrordon. 
He tries to recruit AMY KENNEDY -- a journalist at the Chronicle who has done a lot of the press coverage on both the Terrordon and the Fisherman and whol knows Jacob a little as well as his agent, PETE SCHLAMME, to be in his "league" to help. They think he’s flipped. 
Amy wants to call the police on Jacob as unstable and probably a bit involved. Pete calms Amy, but insists Jacob to get help.
Ends with
Jacob is left on his own.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="5091A9E5-7F2B-4E77-A1D0-FA406757208A">
            <Title>Chapter two</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch02-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3E350CD6-3E52-4C4A-9870-37204579F940">
            <Text>The Sleepwalker was unsure whether he would have liked to hear shots fired. But as such things go, not everything can be under one's control, so it might as well end happily for the little family. More importantly, he hoped that the restaurant would keep its business. The coffee really was outstanding there.
He pulled a large black bag out from behind the red brick wall next to the bank. Moving swiftly, he walked back towards Spruce St. Station further down on California. He walked past Wells Fargo, where some of the employees had come outside to see what the commotion was about. Every now and then he caught snippets of people talking, worried, scared. 
"… robbed a bank …"
"… police everywhere."
"A man in purple …"
"… do you think it's him?"
"They said he was back."
"The Sleepwalker?" 
He walked past the other banks and stores, the bag resting heavily on his shoulders. Of course it needed to be heavy. It contained close to $ 40,000.
Minus the money for a new purple suit.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="0AD3689C-1C43-4282-8D43-6C4492EA7AFB">
            <Title>Chapter eighteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch18-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C9F06D4C-1141-494D-8AED-C2384C2400EB">
            <Text>‘The Artist’ had been his first choice. But it had proven hard to come up with an appropriate meme. A palette? A brush? Not threating, and not exactly iconic. There was no hook. The thought had brought him back to his conversation with Pete. A hook. Fishing. Why not? It was cruel, bloodthirsty, barbaric – just like the terror attack itself. And it came with its own symbol. Who could miss the symbolism of the hook? The web had been plastered with images of the brutal steel barbs that the doctors had cut out of the flesh of survivors and corpses alike. Not a few had made a point of the irony that similar barbs were sold in tackle shops all over the country without anyone batting an eye.
He’d thought about an internet campaign to publicize his invented super-villain, but it was too easy to get caught that way. Old-school physical action was the way to go. And when he recalled the ad for free block and tackle on a freecycling list, he’d known just how to do it.
He’d arranged a porch pickup for the gear, and dropped all of it around the corner except for the dull steel hook that came with it. A couple of hours with a file, and he’d managed a decent point on the thing, and even the suggestion of a barb, though the steel had been tough enough that a suggestion was as far as he got.
He’d spent the night with a home-made stencil and a bag of red spray paint. Not much – just the rough image of a fishing hook above the word FISHERMAN. But he’d sprayed it on enough sidewalks and walls in enough neighbourhoods that people would notice.
The hard part had been the inciting event – the thing that grabbed people’s attention. The steel hook, of course, but attached to what? He realized then that he’d been too quick in throwing away the block and tackle, and had to go out to buy a long red nylon rope. He’d paid cash and worn his hoody, but surely the clerk would remember. It didn’t matter, he decided. If anything, it could add to the legend of the Fisherman. 
He hadn’t been able to get near the Civic Center lawns by City Hall. They were still roped off and watched, the blood still not all washed off. Instead, he’d taken the rope and tied it to a tree at the end of Fulton. The hook he’d tied around the neck of the Simon Bolivar statute. A slightly muddled image perhaps, but he was a writer, not an artist. Or a super-villain, for that matter. They’d get the point.
He’d kicked things off with an anonymous web post asking “Is this the Fisherman’s lair?” It had a picture of Fisherman’s Wharf, of course; some fish shop, just to drive the point home. A few other comments on local news sites, all taking the view that of course the Fisherman was responsible for one atrocity or another.
Then, with his clothes in the washer, and all the red washed off his hands, he’d gone to bed happy. Tomorrow, there’s be a new villain. Tomorrow, perhaps, the Terrordon would re-emerge.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="681FD22C-7948-4E95-A3DF-7D902B84DBE0">
            <Title>Chapter four</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch04-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9601DF3F-0501-45A7-A39D-AEABA0BC6BDF">
            <Text>@IllPatriot692
Another Islam threat on American soil!!1!! When will be wake up and destroy the a**holes!!! #MAGA #terrorthreat #PatriotsforJesus</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FFE983DA-89AA-4EAF-AF52-FFB070A2F379">
            <Text>“Pete, you ok? I guess we have to put your grand soirée on hold. No, I’m not running around screaming his name…I’m actually entering home right now, I’ll probably display the light signal in the sky and call him out.” Jacob was famous for using irony and sarcasm in delicate situations. He saw them as weapons and as a cheap instrument to stay away from psychologists.
Jacob was assorted in his plotting and by the time he entered the flat he was soaking wet. Damn it! he thought, I might as well take a hot shower and think the plan through. He always found shelter in water. When he was a child he loved spending time in the swimming pool, his parents allowed him to take group lessons and soon became clear he was in his natural element. During the university years, at Seton Hall, he was the star of the Pirate Blue swimming team. 
As the shower drops flowed down his head and body, Jacob felt the anger caused by the attack, the fear for his loved ones and the scar it would once again inflict on the city he loved. There must be a way to contact The Terrordon, he must feel angry too, he thought. As soon as he was out of the shower he followed his train of thoughts to a rather extravagant conclusion: he was going to create an antagonist so hostile that Terrordon will feel compelled to face him. After all I am a writer, a biographer, Jacob said to himself, I have scratched more than the surface of Harvey Milk’s life, this time I will enter the mind of a criminal.
Jacob made a cup of coffee and sat at his desk, computer switched on and started to type away an identikit of his super villain. The research he made at the San Francisco Public Library database on most wanted criminals in history, gave him enough material to create a compelling villain, but he needed a name. Jacob went back to his water connection once again and feeling like a fish who doesn’t want to be caught, just like The Terrordon, he came up with the nickname The Fisherman. 
The Fisherman, in his mind, was going to be the ultimate villain, who viciously attacked San Francisco and won’t get caught unless The Terrordon will rise again to defend his city. Jacob was quite satisfied with his creation, however he had to come up with a plan to send a claim of responsibility to the press. Being a biographer he was used to get inside the people minds’ he was writing about, so after profiling The Fisherman psychological mindset, he came up with a plan. He had little time and a lot of work to do.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9630BA86-E507-46C2-9672-3FAAD504A15C">
            <Text>8 00 am, the alarm clock goes off. Jacob jumps off the bed, feverish. It’s been three days since he sent this message to the police, three days since his narks give him the same information: no investigation is launched, the declaration of The Fisherman is not seriously taken. This morning, he wakes up with a certainty: if there is nothing new from the police, he will change strategy. Not a minute to waste, he gets dressed hurriedly with almost clean clothes and stops a few minutes in front of the mirror to tidy up his hair. He quickly goes to the front door of his hotel room, catching along the way his briefcase of the left hand, his keys and his telephone of the right hand, then get out in the corridor. He presses the button which calls the elevator, waits for a few seconds. He taps his foot nervously. Too long. He rushes down the stairs then hears the bell of the elevator. Too bad, he continues after a second of hesitation. When he arrives in the hall, he slows down the step to appear peaceful, then leaves the hotel after a brief greeting to the employees.
When he arrived on the pavement, Jacob saw his nark which waited for him on the other side of the street. He took a big inspiration then crossed to join him, avoiding in the passage narrowly a car which failed crushed him. He did not take time to greet his interlocutor and put hands on his shoulders. “Well then? Answer! Did the cops finish to open an inquiry?”
“Woh woh ! Peace ! They’re still waiting for the pigs that fly. My cover jumped moreover, I stop there. Bye.”
The nark went away, leaving Jacob planted in the middle of the street, looking off into the distance, the tight fists and the wrinkled jaw. It was necessary to bypass the police by talking to the press, it was the only way. He already knew what he had to do and went to the newsdealer of the street corner, bought the newspapers of the day then got into the Starbucks close by.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="619AA2B8-FD66-431B-9584-DE7735FDB078">
            <Title>Chapter eleven</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch11-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="53DFB7BA-12BB-47BE-9DF7-1E91E5CF397E">
            <Title>Chapter 13</Title>
            <Synopsis>Sleepwalker robs a bank / store gets cash</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
The TERRORDON was a masked vigilante that was credited with cleaning up the streets of San Francisco at the turn of the millenium before disappearing in 2005 after he caught his arch enemy, THE SLEEPWALKER
Things that have already happened
The Terrordon is back, and the Sleepwalker has escaped from Rampworth State Hospital
Starts with
The Sleepwalker - now dressed in purple - is free on the streets of San Francisco
Chapter details
The Sleepwalker robs a bank or a store or in some other way manages to acquire sensible sums of cash (say about $40,000).
Ends with
The Sleepwalker gets away with the money
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="8C597039-193F-4737-8FA0-83FF2394A9CA">
            <Text>Anonymous:
In this day and age where the world has turned into a hotbed for radicals this naive talk about supervillains is dated and counter-productive. I'm disappointed in the Chronicle's coverage and would recommend that you reporter gets her facts straight before committing her wild theories to paper.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="80A3720B-260B-4BDC-B477-229833CB1FB2">
            <Text>Jacob looked down and saw that he was holding a gun. He knew what that meant. Why did he have a gun? I shot him. It was me. Why did I shoot him?</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="8D16DD66-B9A1-40AF-81AC-7BD50AF141CC">
            <Text>The San Francisco Fire Credit Union on California Street was perfect for his needs. It was a gigantic bank, it was very stylish, but most importantly, it conveyed the message that you must be crazy to attempt to rob it. He was crazy so that seemed like a very kind invitation to do just that. 
As always, he had multiple plans with multiple avenues of approach ready at his disposal. Still, he needed another half hour or so to decide which one to tackle and how best to go about it. 
The Sleepwalker sat in a chair by the window inside of Ella's restaurant, just across from the bank. He had put his jacket across the back rest of the wooden chair next to him, and was sipping a coffee. Elegantly and completely at ease.
"Can I bring you anything else, hon?" the young waitress asked. She was no more than 21, short red hair and wearing a very fashionable nose ring in a piercing on the left wing of her nose. 
"Oh, you're a darling. Thank you, but I'm fine."
"Holler if you need more."
I most definitely will, he thought to himself. 
For a moment, he contemplated the waitress and wondered which part she could play in what was about to develop over the next forty-or-so minutes. But in the end, pragmatism won out. She was a sweet girl, and managing to involve her into the plan would only complicate things for him. He watched the other customers.
The coffee was surprisingly good. I make sure that the Others will remember this place, he thought. The Sleepwalker took another sip and sighed a satisfied sigh.
At the far end of the restaurant was a father with two young girls, probably four and six. They were certainly spoiled, fighting happily through a big stack of pancakes while making a mess only kids could make. The father was typing on his smart phone. What a jerk.
At the bar sat a large man with some alcoholic beverage, deep in thought. 
A family of two adult children, two parents, two grandparents and some man in an expensive-looking suit were digging through the menu, quiet, unsure what they wanted to order. He wondered how the man in the suit fit into this. He looked not related to any of the others. Could it be a lawyer?
Two police officers, a man and a woman, were talking with another waiter, occasionally laughing. The Sleepwalker had to resist the urge to laugh too. Instead, he drank more coffee and merely smiled.
There were at least ten more people randomly distributed in the restaurant, but brief glances told him that none of them would help his plan in any way, so he faded them out from his mind. 
One of the pancake girls was getting syrup all over her. It was the older one of the two. The dad didn't notice, still busy with the phone. What a jerk. Very well, the Sleepwalker decided, I just suppose that is the way it's going to be. 
He looked over to the police officers. They were still laughing. Oh well. 
The Sleepwalker slid out of his chair, leaving a five dollar bill and taking in a last sip of coffee as he got up, then disappeared to the restrooms. On his way, he nodded to the officers, smiling politely and interrupting their laughter for a fraction of a second.
He loved it when the air became tense with anticipation. Soaking in the atmosphere, he opened the door to the ladies' restrooms, entered one of the remarkably clean stalls, closed the door without locking and pulled out a knife.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="858B3A15-B7D6-4F3F-87E5-67F7775AF003">
            <Title>Front matter</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9CFABD14-9CC5-477E-B1C4-FDEFB502E2A9">
            <Text>Video continues.
A child's whimpering fills the room. The image of Dr Warne hesitantly moves towards the slumped figure. When she is sure who it is, she steps forward.
"Calm down Charlotte." says Dr Warne with forced warmth. "What happened, why are you crying?"
"It went dark." cries Charlotte. "I lost my crayons."
The soft sobs continues as Dr Warne's image moves to a small cupboard and takes out a plastic cup. Crouching back to the sobbing form of Charlotte, Dr Warne proffers the cup and asks: "Would you like some tea?"
"Why yes, madam, if you let me." says a gentle male voice. "I'm awfully sorry for any trouble I've caused. I would love a cup of tea. You wouldn't by chance have Earl Grey?"
The two stand up and go to the table. The video shows Dr Warne calling to one of the nurses to bring a freshly brewed cup of tea.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C35B6FF8-0B8E-4836-908C-999C525627CA">
            <Title>In Memoriam</Title>
            <Text>In Memoriam
I was incredibly saddened to learn recently that our good friend Montrée Whiles passed away earlier this year, after her car was struck by a drunk driver. 
Montrée was one of the most enthusiastic members of the NiaD family, and her passion (and chasing) certainly helped keep the event running this long! The more I’ve learnt over the past few weeks about this remarkable woman, the more and more respect I have for her. I won’t share specific details here since she deliberately chose to use a pen name for her writing, but trust me — she was one of the good ones.
Taken far too young. We’ll miss you.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A6C965F0-9AF7-427D-8DA5-7FBDDE42BEA8">
            <Text>The next few hours left Jacob numb.  Something about the girl, the woman he had covertly observed in order to seek trouble had shook his foundation.  And yet, like that, she exited his life.  He understood her rationale, and he decided to abide by it.  
He spent the afternoon walking the streets of the Tenderloin, all the way down Geary to Van Ness, and up O’Farrell to Market.  The experience of the breakfast with Sika forced a shift in his priorities.  As enamored as he had been in becoming the first author to document the true story of Terrordon, he had now lost faith in the tactic of creating data, or method writing for this particular subject.  Looking for trouble where none was…perhaps that was a bridge too far for him.
As night settled in, his sleep cycle upended by the day spent awake, he began to pack his clothes and “special” tools.  The distance would be too long to walk with the suitcase and the duffel bag to North Beach, but he had a small wad of money for a bus or a cab. 
He looked around the room once more to ensure he had not forgotten anything.  The hotel would probably charge him one more night since he didn’t check out early enough.  So be it, thought Jacob.  Serves me right.  
He picked up the two bags and set the duffel down while he reached for the doorknob.
A piercing scream emanated from somewhere below.  
He paused an looked toward the window.  
Another scream tore through the evening.  
Jacob dropped the suitcase and opened the window to its four-inch stop.  A scream again, and a female crying and wailing.
He looked down at the sidewalk.  It was barren.  
His mind raced…the alley….
Jacob threw open the door and hesitated.  He briefly considered running up to the roof where he could look down ten stories into the alley.  He discounted it.
“What good would that do?” he muttered aloud.  “I am not Terrordon….”
He ran down to the elevator, which he rarely used, and now discovered was ancient and slow.  As the seconds ticked by, he darted his eyes to the stairwell door, and bolted for it.  
On the street, he immediately shot to the corner of the building, stood against the wall and slowly peered around the corner.  
In the darkness of the alley, some fifty feet inward from the street, Jacob saw the shape of a large man holding a female form by the collar.  It was Sika, and she was mostly crumpled onto the ground, held up only be the man’s grip at her throat.  She gasped and emitted sputtering cries.
Jacob’s heart raced, as did his mind.  
Okay, he thought, this is what you wanted - an invitation to trouble.  This is trouble!  Get in there, dammit!  Go!
He straightened up, pulled down on the front of his jacket, and took a deep breath.  He pivoted around the corner and into the alleyway.
Facing the man, he cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me.”
The man did not respond to Jacob.  
Jacob advanced several yards and spoke again.  “Excuse me, I would like to talk to you.”
The man pulled Sika up from the ground and turned to face Jacob.
“What do you want, m*****f*****?” he growled, still holding Sika by the collar.  
She whimpered and said what Jacob perceived to be a name…Ricardo.
Jacob puffed out his chest and bellowed.  “I’m a customer. For the girl.”
Two eyes glinted in the reflected streetlight.  The man lifted Sika up, and she stood, shaking.  He took his hand away from her collar.  She collapsed back down on the ground.
“We are closed for business,” said the man.  
Jacob advanced several more yards, slowly.  “Well, I have cash.  That’s what this is all about, right?”  He pulled out the thin stack of folded bills from his pocket.  
“Don’t come any closer,” said the man.  “I said, we are closed for business tonight.” 
Sika stumbled up to the wall of the hotel and leaned against it.  “Go away, Jake,” she uttered in a low, cracked voice.
“Listen, mac… Ricardo, I have one thousand dollars here.  Come on, what do you say?  Let me have her for one night.”  He waved the paper money in front of his face.
A new scream erupted from Sika.  
Jacob felt his hand go numb and the side of his face hit hard on the ground.  His eyes saw shapes in the dark moving away from him.  He heard heavy footsteps, more crying and the slamming of car doors, followed by a squeal of tire rubber.
He lay in the alley for an unknown number of hours.  He didn’t try to move.  His face hurt, his body was numb, and the ground was cold.  But he just wanted to stay there, trembling in a fetal position.
Defeat.  Pure, unadulterated, and embarrassing.  How could it come to this, he thought.  What have I done….
He heard the scuffle of rough shod feet moving toward him.  Jacob’s vision was blurry, but he could see in the sideways orientation of the alley relative to his head that the sky was lightening.  Morning was here.
And so was a homeless man who had apparent need to relieve himself, very close to Jacob.
With the first splatter against the nearby hotel wall, Jacob leaped up.  His first steps were tentative, but he regained his balanced.  
The homeless man croaked, “Sorry about that.  Can I have some spare change?”
Jacob shook his head and looked at his fingers, bruised when Ricardo grabbed the money from his hand.  
“I’m a little low myself, mac,” said Jacob.  
He went upstairs to his room, retrieved his bags, and took the elevator down to the lobby.
He wobbled out to O’Farrell street and made a left, and another left at Leavenworth, embarking on a long walk to North Beach.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DEF0A390-EE61-4358-BEC0-B7D83A6ADDE6">
            <Text>It was much later and Jacob was still at the computer. The reaction to his message had been rather quick and, to his mind, mixed. He was currently in Twitter, reading with a mixture of chagrin and fascinated horror:</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3F06C83D-9AAB-44CB-B039-9FCE0DB5531E">
            <Title>Spacer</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="57A8BE88-C4A3-4530-B6FD-65CCAB441355">
            <Text>As Jacob finished reading his notes out loud, Lisa sat silently. Jacob looked over all he had written and realized there was nothing there to point him in the right direction. Before he could say anything Lisa reached across the table and placed her hand over his.
“Do you understand? Please tell me you understand and have come to your senses. Drop this. Let it go.”
“How an I? How else can I write this book?”
“Like every other author. Sit at home. Make phone calls. Look up things on the internet. Interview officers and other people. Figure out what they do and do that instead. Just run from this Sleepwalker chase.”
“If I don’t? Will you stop me?”
“No. But I wish I could.” She withdrew her hand from his. As she stood up from the table she mumbled the waiter, “put it on my tab with 25 for you”, then motioned for Jacob to follow. Sitting in her car, she looked at Jacob and said, “There is some … help … I can give you. This is off the record.”
She started the car, rolled up the windows and turned on the radio.
“Paranoid much?” Jacob smirked.
“You still don’t get it do you.”
“I guess not.”
Pulling out of the parking lot, Lisa accelerated quickly. She took a straighter road than previously to she could focus on communicating. 
“Sleepwalker is NOT in control. I don’t know who or what is. Unmedicated the transitions from personality to personality are fast and frequent. While Sleepwalker seems to be coordinating I don’t believe he really CONTROLS the other personalities. That’s where Joe may help you. He fancies himself a connoisseur of teas. He has a particular favorite though. He was always talking about the ‘perfect cup’ at Westin on Union Square. Whenever he would get agitated he would become desperate for a cup or tea always requesting one from Westin. Because I … know things … I can tell you that a person really determined to find the Sleepwalker would start looking in that area for Joe. Joe is the safe one. Find Joe and you find the rest of them. Kind of obvious since all 8 of them share one body.”
“I’ll be careful” Jacob said. 
“No you won’t. Careful would be walking away from this and coming home with me. But you won’t, will you?”
“Not today.”
Lisa parked the BMW in her designated spot. “Dr Lisa Appleton Warne, D. Clin. Psy” the placard read. He was just invited home with a Dr. His mother would be proud. Why wasn’t he going with her. 
Jacob climbed out of the passenger side of the BMW, walked over to Lisa and kissed her gently. Without a word he entered his miserable Honda and started to pull away. He opened his phone and hit the speed dial.
Had he looked in the mirror he would have seen Lisa saying, “Good bye Terrordon”.
The phone was ringing. 
Pete answered. 
“Pete, you won’t believe this…”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="01B08F59-2DCB-45BB-81AF-40F45E7BB84D">
            <Text>After his second drink, he used the lobby bathroom and then returned to where he could see anyone coming into the hotel. He reflected on the photograph Lisa had shown him back at the hospital. In all likelihood, the Terrordon would find a way to blend into the crowd of faces spilling into the reception area.
He would need to look for Joe. That was the only option right now.
Beyond the doors, a scuffle broke out. The sound of two well-dressed young men fighting. From their slurred speech and aimless attempts at throwing punches, it seemed they had been drinking.
Jacob looked away from the spectacle that hotel staff were attempting to solve and found himself staring at the solitary figure seated alone at a table by one of the large bay windows.
The figure that walked through the haunted landscape of the Sleepwalker was here.
Jacob carefully crossed the room and sat down opposite him.
The man looked up from his drink. "Do I know you friend?" His smile somehow sick and weak.
"It's Joe isn't it." Jacob replied, not offering his hand. Something about the man, his skin, sent a wave of repulsion through him. "Actually, you're not Joe are you? A recent unauthorised departure from Rampworth? That's about it, I guess."
Now the man spoke again but his voice had taken on an uncomfortable, bird-like quality. "Now, friend. You've gone and upset Joe. You see he's just the guy who lives inside. Helps me keep everything straight and proper. Kind of like my older brother. Handing on his timely advice for when things attempt to fall apart."
Like some magician performing a trick, some sleight of hand performance, Jacob watched as the Sleepwalker rose, producing a pair of surgical shears. A light glinting on metal and turning precious. In one moment, the Sleepwalker removed the head of the woman sat at the next table in a way that reminded Jacob of how his mother had once clipped roses in their garden.
A wave of blood, hot and thick washed out, drowning the white table cloth in a sea of red and carrying away the wine glasses to wear they smashed on the floor.
And as Jacob began to feel the world around him start to swim out of focus, the cutting and tearing began.
"And you, my friend," said the Sleepwalker, in that same bird-like tone, "Well, I'll save you for last."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DCF14168-E8E7-42E7-91A9-D9A1087E2AB3">
            <Text>@AryyaStarrk
That someone would believe this is actually the work of a lone wolf is SO ridiculous is laughable! #BombThreat #AmericaUnderSiege</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="41D91842-159D-45DB-B7B7-446046EDE725">
            <Text>Jacob woke up with a headache and his body felt cramped and sore. He didn’t remember falling asleep on the sofa. He didn’t remember much at all.
He opened his eyes and, for a moment, had that vague, perplexing sense of unfamiliarity. It quickly turned to a solid awareness of unfamiliarity. He wasn’t home. This wasn’t his sofa. He sat up.
“Welcome Mr Heath, it is good to see you are awake.”
The voice came from behind. It sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t pick it.
“Allow me to introduce myself, I am The Sleepwalker.”
Jacob stopped. He felt the hairs on his arms start to rise and his hands suddenly felt very cold. He realised he wasn’t breathing.
“Do make yourself comfortable Mr Heath. Although, since you are one of the very few people who visited me at Rampworth, that makes you a friend. So, Joseph, your head will be rather sore, so you will find some water and some pain killers on the coffee table beside you.”
Jacob glanced at table and saw a pitcher of water and a little box of Tylenol beside it. He didn’t move.
“Stephen forgot to get soda water while he was out fetching you, so the water is—I regret to say—only tap water.”
Stephen? Keeping his head still, Jacob’s eyes darted about the room. Two men, both looking like they were linebackers for a professional football team, stood on either side of the door. One of them glanced at the water bottle. Stephen.
“It seems you don’t trust me. The medication box is sealed, and you can examine the blister packs – if I was going to kill you I’d pick a method that was much more fun than poison.
“Allow me to demonstrate. 
“Stephen! Please pour four glasses of water.”
The man who had glanced at the water bottle jumped a little then, after a momentary pause, swaggered forward and poured the water. He picked up the box of pills between his thumb and forefinger, displaying it to Jacob while he used a key to snap the plastic seal. He returned the box to the table and stood up.
“Jacob, you will choose a glass of water for yourself, and one for Stephen. You will open the pillbox and remove 4 pills, two for you and two for Stephen. Stephen will consume the water and the pills that you give him. You may wait as long as needed to see that he has not been harmed. We need to talk, and I need you to have a clear head. I don’t want to ask Stephen and Derrick to help you, but will if I need to.”
Jacob looked up Stephen and imagined him forcing a pill down his throat. If he was going to die, then he was going to die, so he may as well do it on his terms. He reached out, broke two pills out of their blister pack and downed them with a whole glass of water. He had to admit, he did feel better having the water.
“You’re not going to share? Well, it seems that Stephen is not needed then.”
There was a thud and Stephen fell backwards to the floor. A crossbow bolt stuck out from his chest. He didn’t even twitch.  
Jacob fought a sudden surge of nausea.
“See? Now that’s how you have fun.” 
Sleepwalker stepped into view, an empty crossbow slung nonchalantly across his shoulder. He dropped in to the chair on the other side of the coffee table and grinned. 
“Oh this is so much more fun than I thought.” 
He reached down beside the chair and pulled up a new bolt, then held it up over his other shoulder as he called it out to Derrick.
“Arm this for me will you? There’s a dear.” 
As Derrick took the crossbow and bolt, Sleepwalker looked at Jacob. 
“Now my friend, we need to talk. It seems a rather amusing coincidence that the Fisherman would appear so soon after you visited me—or rather, visited my friends—at Rampworth. And how strange that you should want to know so much about Terrordon, and then that Terrordon himself would reappear. It almost makes one believe that these events are all connected in some way. 
Jacob could hear his heart. It seemed so loud he wondered why Sleepmaker wasn’t raising his voice. 
“Perhaps the Fisherman is just bait to catch a dinosaur from another age? And the Terrordon is most certainly a dinosaur worth catching don’t you think?”
Jacob could barely feel his hands or feet, and had to consciously remind himself to breath.
“Now Jacob, we’re friends. You can tell me. How do you intend to use your Fisherman to reveal the Terrordon’s true identity?”
Jacob shook his head, swallowed, and tried to speak, “…”.
“Do you want some more water my dear? Please, do tell.”
Jacob tried again, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh Jacob, I am so disappointed in you. I thought we were friends.”
Sleepwalker raised his hand and Derrick placed the loaded crossbow into it.
Jacob stared at it.
“Now, I’m sure your dear sister Emmy would agree this was just a misunderstanding. Do you know that I bought that pitcher from the Teal and Taupe? It’s a lovely little store and Emmy’s doing such a good job there. You really should go there and see what she’s done.”
Jacob blanched.
“And little Pacey is adorable. Walking around the yard, talking into his toy mobile phone, he looked just like his Daddy. I’m sure he’ll make a fine accountant one day. And don’t his grandparents love him? They don’t seem to mind all the time they spend looking after him while Emmy’s at work. They do seem to wish they could see you more often.”
With a barely perceptible flick, Sleepmaker fired the crossbow again. The pitcher of water exploded. 
“Oh dear, an accident. I’ll have to go back to the store and buy another one from Emmy. I’d hate for there to be other accidents…”
It was too much for Jacob, “You’re right. It’s me. The Fisherman is the bait. I want to find out who the Terrordon is. I’m trying to write his biography, but I don’t know who he is.”
“See? I knew we were friends. So how will you find out his identity?”
Jacob took a breath, “I don’t know. I didn’t get that far. I just thought that, if he came out of retirement, I’d work it out then. But I haven’t. I don’t know how I’ll do it.
Sleepmaker burst into laughter. 
“Oh my friend, that is delightful.” He kept chuckling, “This is even more fun than I’d imagined. Tell you what, for a bit of a lark, I’ll help you. What the Fisherman can’t do on his own, he’ll manage with the help of The Sleepmaker. What do you say?”
Jacob, relieved to still be alive, and hoping to keep his family safe, just nodded.
“Excellent! I haven’t felt so alive for 10 years!! Derrick, take Jacob downtown and dump him somewhere public. But be nice, he’s my friend now.
 Oh this is grand!”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F2326F62-AC49-4831-A04A-6D19A66D8C43">
            <Text>Pete took Jacob’s arm. “Come on, let’s have something to eat here; the food’s good! And the bookshop isn’t expecting us for another hour.”
Pete pushed Jacob through the door into the café. Jacob looked around. The café was eclectic. It was floored with paving-slabs, the tables had recycled wood tops on industrial iron supporting frameworks and were accompanied by rush-seated chairs with their woodwork painted in various vibrant colours. Along the left as they entered was a wide bar with a black granite top, with tall distressed wooden barstools in a line along it. All the paraphernalia of the baristas was ranged along a matching black granite surface behind, with cupboards beneath and shelves above. The front of the bar and the wall behind the bar were tiled with a patchwork of encaustic tiles. The rest of the walls were painted mid-brown but mostly hidden behind photos and posters depicting icons of the gay community. There  was a mirror on part of the wall behind the bar to allow the baristas to keep and eye on the customers while they were making the coffees. A number of tables were free.
“Let’s sit here,” said Pete, choosing a table under a photo of Harvey Milk.
“You would choose this one, wouldn’t you! Harvey Milk is in the past. I finished with him years ago, but you keep bringing him up. I’m sick of it.” Jacob sat down grumpily.
A waiter shimmied across. “What can I do for you?” he asked, ogling Jacob’s trim figure.
Before Jacob could react, Pete said, “I’ll have an all-day breakfast, and a large latte with added caramel syrup.”
“And you, Sir?” with a smirk.
“Oh, avocado on wholemeal toast, and a regular black americano!”
“Thank you!” He shimmied off with a moue.
“And I’m sick of Lance Armstrong and bicycles!” Jacob continued ill-temperdly. “And what has that brought in the last couple of stores on this tour? A handful of people looking like aliens in lycra leotards and weirdly-shaped helmets queueing for my signature on a book that is history for me. And who was Lance Armstrong? Someone who built himself a reputation for being a miracle of human endeavour, the man who recovered from cancer to win the Tour-de-France through taking banned substances … a man who got people, organisations, the government to fund him to the tune of millions of dollars, all on the basis of lies. I’ve had Lance Armstrong and I’ve had bicycles. They’re history as far as I’m concerned … just like Harvey Milk. And I can’t wait for this tour to end. My work, my life is writing, not sucking up to people I can’t stomach.”
At that moment the waiter brought their food.
“And look at you; look at what you’re eating! A heart attack on a plate … fried bacon, fried eggs, fried potatoes, fried tomatoes … ketchup loaded with sugar and salt and more butter! And then a latte with syrup to which you’re in the process of adding more sugar! And yet you lecture me on looking after myself better …”
Jacob started to pick at his avocado on toast. Pete started to eat his plate of food while he wondered how to respond to this diatribe. At that moment a new customer entered the coffee shop. He was tall and tanned, with long, wavy blond hair and a moustache and eyebrows of a much browner shade. His eyes, which looked somewhat tired were pale blue, but were icy cold. His shoulders were broad and his well-honed torso was clear from his open, tight-fitting shirt in a violent geometric pattern of clashing pink, red and violet. He was wearing extremely tight pink velvet trousers with a silver belt revealing a narrow waist and tight buttocks. His feet were shod in silver trainers.
He went and sat at one of the stools at the bar. “My usual, Pedro please!”
“One chai latte with added sprinkles coming up!” smiled Pedro behind the bar.
Pete had turned in his chair to enable him to look this new customer up and down. He liked what he saw and it showed. The man at the bar picked up his mug to take a sip, and as he did so, he glanced in the mirror. His eyes met Pete’s and he registered the interest. He sat for a few moments sipping his drink thoughtfully and then, making up his mind, he picked up the mug and walked over.
“You’re new here, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you before. Have you just moved into the area?”
Pete had turned slightly pink; Jacob looked furious.
“No,” said Pete, “We’re just passing time before we go round the corner to Eureka Books. We’re going there for a meet-and-greet and book signing for Jacob here’s new book.”
Hearing the name, the newcomer turned to look at Jacob, who was sitting there with a face like thunder. “Jacob, book … you’re not Jacob Heath by any chance?”
“Yes, he is,” Pete replied. “He’s just written a biography of Lance Armstrong”.
“Jacob, I didn’t recognise you, you’ve changed so much! I’m Travis! You remember me. What happened? We had such a good thing going together!”
Pete’s eyebrows rose; he had never even thought Jacob might be bisexual.
Jacob looked up, his dark eyes flaming redly. This was Travis with whom he’d flirted for a month or so while trying to get background for his biography of Harvey Milk. That Travis had been a bit flabby, with mousy hair and irregular teeth and no suntan. This suntan looked fake; he had obviously spent a lot, or conned someone into spending a lot on having his teeth straightened and whitened and on working out in a gym. Well, he hadn’t been for Jacob then, and this was certainly not for Jacob now.
“Jacob, why did you walk out and disappear? We must get together again. You look gorgeous, so fit and slim. You’ve really been looking after yourself” intoned Travis.
“Travis? We never had anything going, Travis, just get that straight. I was writing a biography of Harvey Milk; I needed inside information on the LGBT community; you supplied it. That’s all. We never ‘consummated’ … we talked about sex, because I needed to know more from the gay point of view, but that was it.” He raised his voice, “What was then was nothing; ‘now’ for you and me simply doesn’t exist. Just get that straight in your mind. I’m not gay, I’ve never been gay; you didn’t attract me then and you certainly don’t attract me now!” he almost shouted.
“Jacob, that’s not true; I did mean something to you, you told me I did!” Travis said on a wail.
“What you meant to me was a source of information. Nothing more, nil, nada. OK?”
“You made me think you loved me and all the time you were just using me! That’s just like you people. You only want to know us when you can make use of as I hate you, I hate you!” he screamed.
Pedro the barista came across. Though not tall, he was muscular and strong. “OK, you two, out. Pay your tab and get out. And never bother to come back; we don’t need your sort here!”
Jacob flung out of the bar and began striding up the street. Pete went to the bar leaving Travis head down at the table. He got out his credit card and paid. He apologised to Pedro, but Pedro was adamant, “You two have been creating a bad atmosphere ever since you got here. You’re banned!”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="30A4D626-2BB3-47BC-8749-0460529DEE0E">
            <Title>Title Page</Title>
            <Text>








Start Wearing Purple

</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="38FAAB26-42B6-4AF8-A602-82606C422202">
            <Title>Copyright</Title>
            <Text>START WEARING PURPLE

Originally published: 2017

Copyright © 2017 Various Authors
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Story by: Tim Rogers

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental, and more than just a little bit scary.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons 
Attribution - NonCommercial - NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. 
You are free to share (to copy, distribute and transmit the work) 
under the following conditions:
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified 
by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that 
they endorse you or your use of the work). 
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes. 
No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work. 
For more details, visit:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/

Original cover photograph by Tim Rogers

www.novelinaday.com</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E09FF094-57AB-48B7-9834-61B857926115">
            <Title>Chapter sixteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch16-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3AEED4A7-3343-4DFE-903E-B85A22221670">
            <Text>Two hours later, the Sleepmaker was parked and behind the wheel of a black SUV. In front of him, his three-remaining crew in a police car dressed in full uniform.
“Looks like he’s asking for the check.”
“To re-iterate, I need you all on high alert. We’re almost through our list of candidates, it’s highly likely Richards is the Terrordon. Remember, stay back and don’t put your lights on until he turns off the 101 onto March road. Keep him busy until I get there. If shit goes wild and he gets the better of me hit him with the tranquillizers. If I’m in the way, shoot us both. Got it?”
“Roger that.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="ED5D9F42-CB99-4D31-BD5D-7243F2F5B3FF">
            <Text>By the time the Terrordon made it back to the Terrordon-mobile, texts were rolling in on the Nokia about a disturbance at CryptoCon, a marquee gathering in town of movers and shakers in the bitcoin and cryptocurrency world. He threw the armoured car into gear, and with a cloud of blue diesel smoke, lumbered across town.
At the convention centre, it quickly became clear something traumatic had occurred. Two of the event staff, a set of raven-haired identical twins, were being consoled by other staff at the registration desk. The girls seemed visibly relieved to see the Terrordon there, and in a brief, fleeting moment he felt redeemed to be back, in a reminiscent but strangely stale ‘has-been’ sort of way.
“It was terrible,” the girls chorused together. One of them wrapped her arm around the other as she continued, “he was such an asshole!”
The Terrordon winced. It could only be Tim, he thought. That swaggering, jaw-wagging, pompous fool. Asshole indeed. “Australian, right?”
“How’d you know?” The girls chorused again, sniffing through their tears. “He was just so mean, and so purple. I mean he was dressed all in purple, but even his face was purple with rage! Veins popping out and everything!” The girl continued with a traumatized, far away look. “We were just checking people in. He shoved his way in front of the line and demanded a delegate package. Said he was Lord Steve Irwin, and rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated. Isn’t that the Crocodile Hunter guy?” A look of confused recognition crossed her face. “Then he said he damn well better be allowed in, since he was the Inventor of Bitcoin, the Lord of Cryptocurrency, the Defender of something-else-I-can’t-quite-remember. But everyone knows Satoshi Nakamoto is the creator of bitcoin! I can’t even tell you what he said after that – it would make a sailor blush. An Australian sailor!”
The Terrordon nodded understandingly. He could only imagine. Tim was prone to explosive tirades of unparalleled profanity when he didn’t get what he wanted. A beration into submission when theatrics failed. “Then what happened?”
“Well, at that point there was no doubt he was a psycho! My boss found an extra package of passes just to get rid of him as she was calling the police on her phone.” She paused thoughtfully. “And then…”
“And then what?” The Terrordon leaned forward in anticipation.
“And then he was just gone. Disappeared. It was so…”
“Anti-climactic?” The Terrordon finished her sentence. The girl nodded in agreement. For someone so theatrical, Tim sure missed the plot, he thought to himself sarcastically. But the Sleepwalker was gone again. Always a step ahead. Always one frustrating, vexing, infuriating step ahead.
Without a clue to where the Sleepwalker had vanished to, the Terrordon spent the rest of the day wandering CryptoCon, searching fruitlessly for his nemesis. He was plotting something with bitcoin to be sure. But what? Where? When? Why? The questions haunted him as he turned in for the night, tossing and turning himself into a restless sleep.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="95489D09-FBB5-49D5-927F-B53A5687D394">
            <Text>Back at Rampworth Jacob knocked at the door after having been let through by the receptionist, and a familiar British accent distractedly invited him in. The accent belonged to Dr Warne, who was busily arranging some papers while speaking on an antiquated phone, and skilfully avoided getting her arms caught in the cord. Jacob was surprised that there were even phones like that left over, not to mention in working order.
"Uh-hm." voiced Jacob by clearing his throat.
"Oh, it's you Mr Heath." remarked Dr Warne as she hung up. "I hadn't expected you to come by again so soon."
"Well, after I heard about the Sleepwalker breaking out, I thought I'd talk to you again to get some insight as to how or why it happened."
Dr Warne looked at Jacob for several moments and let her brow wrinkle several times before replying.
"Frankly I'm surprised that the 'Sleepwalker' personality had re-emerged." she stated with a hint of genuine regret. "I thought that we had achieved some significant progress. Otherwise I wouldn't have agreed to you interviewing him."
"Do you maybe know where he could have gone to?" asked Jacob, he tried to remember any hint he might have gotten from his previous interview, but came up blank.
Dr Warne looked at him in confusion.
"Why would you want to know that?"
"Oh, it's for the biography I'm writing." answered Jacob, barely avoiding to make it seem too obvious that he was more than interested. "I thought that maybe it could be a place that I've already written about during my research on the Terrordon. Just to add a bit more excitement to that chapter."
At first Dr Warne replied she did not know, but when Jacob asked about what the Sleepwalker might do, her face lightened up as she remembered something.
"There might be something." said Dr Warne determinedly. She beckoned Jacob to follow her into the next room. It was the archive for the patients she had treated, containing all written and recorded material. As she looked for a particular box she explained: "Although the Sleepwalker is the more prominent personality, he isn't perpetual, meaning he isn't always at the forefront. He would frequently switch with the other personalities, sometimes involuntarily."
Having found the right box she brought it back to her office, Jacob followed close behind. His curiosity was peaked at the mention of the Sleepwalker's other personalities. Correction, the other personalities inhabiting the same body with him, he thought.
"I'd like to show you a video from one of our earlier sessions." stated Dr Warne. "There was a peculiar incident that might be insightful. Perhaps it can help you in your research."
In contrast to the old fashioned phone Dr Warne had on her desk, Jacob was quite surprised to see her take out an isolinear optical disc and insert it into the player in her office. One of the mediums that one of his friends kept mentioning was supposed to replace ultra blu-rays or such.
"This isn't the stone age, Mr Heath." said Dr Warne after having correctly read his expression. "We do like to keep accurate records with good video quality. We don't use video cassettes like you see in the movies. Although the sound is a little off due to the microphone."
"As you surely know, there are several personalities besides the Sleepwalker." explained Dr Warne. "Even more than the frequent or 'core' personalities we've identified over the years. This is from one of our earliest sessions during the treatment."
As the video started Jacob could clearly see that it was an older recording, because the figure he recognised as the Sleepwalker had longer hair compared to the time when Jacob had interviewed him previously.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F7EEB9C8-21A5-4D4D-BB44-93374E373457">
            <Text>The slouch in his shoulders was especially pronounced now, and Jacob’s voice had gone nearly monotonous, a far cry from his enthusiasm on their first stop. A guest in the crowd was reading the day’s newspaper, flipping the pages loudly; another was typing almost aggressively on his phone. Pete had to interrupt the session twice within half-an-hour in order to remind some people in the room to shut the hell up or get out. All expressed in professionally polite words, of course.
Why have they even bothered to show up, Pete sighed inwardly, if they weren’t all that interested anyway?
San Francisco, being the home city stop, had a seminar waiting for Jacob the moment they hit town. There was a sizeable amount of people who turned out, too. Enough to fill up more than half the room and make it seemed not-as-empty as some of their previous stops.
Problem was, the people that showed up ranged from people who were genuinely interested to random passing acquaintances of Jacob who had dropped by to because the guy they knew was holding a talk, and Pete had gotten sick of saying “no” to people who had come up to him claiming that, “I know this guy, he’s my friend. Think I can get a free copy of whatever book that is?”
Those were the people could never understand the amount of work Jacob had put into every line, the amount of dedication that he had poured into the very soul of his works. Jacob was not exactly famous, but his books were enough to earn him this book tour, which was steadily getting less appealing as the days went by. Pete could only do his best as Jacob’s literary agent to lighten the burden, but as far as he could tell, Jacob wasn’t faring all that well, not with the strain that was taking its toll on him.
The audience could not see the dark bags under Jacob’s eyes beneath the makeups, nor the gaunt in his frames hidden by long sleeves. Jacob had one of the best body build for someone his age, especially since he had picked up cycling due to Lance Armstrong, but Pete still worry. Worried about Jacob and how obsessed he got when writing a new book; even more so because he knew about how the writer barely looked after himself when between projects. Pete had to shove granola bars at the younger male because he had nearly forgotten about needing to eat, and there was even this one time he realised Jacob had not eaten anything save for those cups of black coffee throughout the entire day because Pete wasn’t there to constantly remind him.
Goodness, Jacob was turning the fifty-year-old him into a mother-hen. Bless his greying hair.
Pete shook his head, trying to focus and stay on task. The reading session had dragged on for some time, and they had finally moved on to the Q&amp;A session. He passed a bottle of water to Jacob, who accepted it without much acknowledgement. Pete could hardly blame him; the day had been long.
“Hey,” someone shouted from the crowd during the lull, “how much have you earned so far?”
There was a moment of disbelieving silence as Pete just stared at the lad who had voiced that out with no small amount of concealed horror. Jacob, on the other hand, stilled. “Pardon me?”
“I mean, writing biography is easy, right? All you need to do is write down what the guy has been through his life,” the same person continued, unbothered by the looks he was getting. “Man, I’d do it if I could, it sounds so easy.”
That person had just about mocked every biographer out there. His comments were nothing new with regards to the general writing industry, but at that point of time, Pete could tell that the last of Jacob’s restrain had snapped.
“If it sounds so easy, why don’t you do it?” Jacob’s smile was sharp and tight, and Pete resisted the need to take a step back. This was the prelude of a outburst, the calm before the storm. The room was eerily quite, the people giving Jacob their full attention for the first time since the session started.
The guy had the galls to laugh. “Nah, I have an actual day job.”
“So you’re saying that writing is not a proper job?” Jacob’s voice bordered on incredulous.  “You know what? I’m— I’m out of here. I can’t do this any longer.”
And he stood up, strode over to the door, resting a hand on the knob. For a split second, it was as if the man was truly debating about leaving, but the moment was up when the knob was twisted open, and Jacob stepped through the door.
The door clicked shut with Jacob’s departure, the sound amplified and reverberated around the dead silence of the room.
Ah, the remaining dates on the tour would have to be cancelled, Pete decided, stifling the urge to sigh again. There was simply no way Jacob could continue, not after what had happened. He ran a hand through his hair, mind already planning his next step. Time to do some damage control.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="112B1AC7-E698-4DC9-A60E-8F1573FC02B7">
            <Title>Also by</Title>
            <Text>Also by Novel-in-a-Day:

The Dark
Lunar520
Made Man
Section7
Marshal Law
3 Ghosts

www.novelinaday.com



sponsored by
Literature &amp; Latte, creators of Scrivener
#
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="BC9AB7C9-6FE8-4A59-999D-596ACE9ADC32">
            <Text>Morning came on like a sickness; a coughing in the back of the throat and a steady stream of denials rubbed out of puffy eyes. The futile attempt to spit a dream out of the mouth, a dream that became an irritating hair on the tongue and something important to remember about the Tuesday sirens. Something beyond the closing curtains had left an oddly physical ringing in his ears.
Something, something. Jacob thumbed the glass of his phone. Black. The button was never on the right side of the damn thing. Nothing. The charging cable was coiled useless on the floor. It didn’t matter, his plans for this morning did not include the ritual of swatting aside bedsheets and slipping on spandex for his morning ride down the Pinecrest on Geary. They did not include needing a phone, or his backpack full of notes and writing materials.
He sat on the side of his sagging mattress, feet cold on the tile and revelling in the night vision that comes from waking up in the dead hours of the morning in a house perched within a rare lightless bend of road facing the sea. The earlier agitation from his dream had become soothed a little by the lunar light, save for that odd ringing in his ears and an unfamiliar odour that had crept in through the cracks in his house.
Shaking his head, he made his way over to the closet and on hands and knees reached into a small gap between the wall and the floor. After a moment of cautious probing, he found the little lever he had installed and with a click, the false back to the closet swung upon and a red light fluttered and buzzed into incandescence. Here was an altogether different sort of spandex; the sort not meant to be easily seen in the dark.
As Jacob donned gadgets and tights, and his mind was fixed upon only one thing: taking down Violeta Guillema.
It might be a little premature, but he considered this night to be his primary achievement to date. The years of planning and physical training had all been orchestrated to bring him here, a night where, if all went according to plan, he could say he tracked down a murderer and menace to the community—and to at last know what it was that Terrordon felt when he brought all of his talent and training to that same point, and sunk the blade of that effort into the chest of some vile person. What does justice feel like, then, when it is still 37° hot and dripping through your fingers?
Not for the first time he shook his head to clear the daydream (can one daydream at 4am, his mind giggled) and wondered if he’d perhaps gone too far; Travis sobbing across a decade of time, the accusations, all so terribly deserved.
It wasn’t until he had slouched down around the corner of his road where the view went from seaside to cityscape that he realised something was not right. The city was still draped thick with night fog, but it seemed dark where it shouldn’t be, and angry knots of orange boiled beneath belts of something much darker than fog. That ringing in his ears was still going on, and for the first time he realised it wasn’t in his ears at all. It was the civil alert sirens.
He pulled a small pair of binoculars from his utility belt and flicked the night vision on. It was the cheap stuff, no doubt Terrordon managed to get his hands on some of that great next gen military gear back when he was operating, but a biographer that rarely publishes and moonlights as a wannabe avenger has to be contended with what you can pick up at hunting goods store. All thoughts of Violeta and Terrordon slipped away when his eyes made out the city. A numb recollection of those waking moments resurfaced—the roar of something, of dishes falling, dogs howling against their chains. Jacob gradually began to feel foolish, standing there in his black spandex and his makeshift pointed blade of justice.
Before him the city of San Francisco shimmered in dust and fire.
It was a mindless period of time that followed. The power was out, but with a moon as yet only reddened by smoke he could see well enough to finally notice the complete disarray of his flat. But as for the time between then and now, racing his bike through the dark and rubble-strewn Nob Hill, he couldn’t say, nor could he say why he had decided to ride into the thick of catastrophe. Perhaps it was the stain of journalism that drew him into the embrace of misery. Or maybe it was just that he was human.
It was somewhere between putting down the binoculars and puncturing his tire on Sutter ST that he overheard people talking about it being an attack. At first he paid no credence to what was clearly paranoia over what was clearly the aftermath of an earthquake, but the closer he got to the centre the less certain he was of his scorn. A vast interdepartmental turf war was being waged between police, rescue workers and what appeared to be more than a few men in black.
Though his mind was still in a state of numbed shock, it was somewhere between Sutter and Market, crawling over chunks of street and bodies alike, that Jacob realised there was finally a reason for Terrordon to come out of whatever hole he had crawled into for the past twelve years. Well, to be fair, there wasn’t a reason just yet.
But he would make one.
Jacob reached for his backpack before realising he was still wearing his ridiculous superhero uniform, and thus quite without pen, paper or even phone to write with. It was probably just as well, he thought, this isn’t the sort of thing one should write in their own hand. He needed a way to get a manifesto to the cops. With this many agencies investigating the whole of downtown, it shouldn’t be too difficult to use his old press jargon and a little name dropping to get into the right place to leave a conspicuously marked package where it would be found—preferably a few minutes after he had left.
Through the screaming and the panic he jogged over to Van Ness, just another frightened citizen by all accounts, and rounded the corner, barking out a laugh. It was still there after all these years, the typewriter repair store. Ten minutes later he yanked a sheet of old yellow onionskin paper from a battered Remington:</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CD92C68F-D05D-4C5F-8B0D-6BBFA9DC46A3">
            <Text>Jacob, with his right arm folded behind his back, slowly extended his left arm holding onto the pull-up bar, relaxing his muscles slightly. Taking a deep breath, he clenched his right fist and pulled himself up again, beads of perspiration rolling down the side of his face onto the ground. It was quiet in the 24-hours gym at 2 A.M., and there was no one else besides him and another middle-aged man over by the weights - perfect for when he needed to sort out his thoughts, even more so for carrying out deeds in the dark cover of the night.
He pulled himself up again and looked at his reflection in the mirror in front, his tensed muscles vibrating slightly under the strain. He had already swiftly improved from what he could do in the past, all that he needed was some discipline. Watching himself lift his entire weight up with his left arm, he considered that physically, he did not look that much different from the Terrordon. They are not that much different in terms of physique. Strength and agility-wise, he was confident about his frequent work-outs and if he were to rate himself, the score would not be too bad. To know how well he would really do against the Terrordon, he would have to come face-to-face with him but just where had he gone?
Lowering himself onto the ground, Jacob walked over to where the glass ceiling to floor windows would have typically given him a birds' eye view of the streets below during the day. However, it was too dark outside and he could only see himself staring back at him. Even if a crime were to occur right beneath his nose in those darkened alley streets, he would not be able to know it. He took a quick glance at the clock. It was just a few hours more before his appointment with the Police Commissioner. The Police was the most obvious candidate he could think of to get further information on the Terrordon. The front-line officers were ultimately the ones who were right where the action occurred. Even for people in the back-line support, they would have encountered people with direct exchanges with the Terrordon. So, a few weeks earlier, he had gotten in touch with his old contact at the Police Department from his journalist days and was surprised to hear that the Commissioner would like to meet him. Initially, he was furious that his contact actually sold him out to the Commissioner. Such betrayal would not be tolerated back in those days but he remembered that he was no longer a journalist and had probably long since lost his privilege with the Police. Then, calming down and giving it more thought, he realised it might not be too bad a situation to be in after all. Through the Commissioner, if he was lucky, he might be able to get access to more police files on the Terrordon than he could ever imagine and such official records would give his book the credibility it is currently lacking with only theories and no evidence to support who the man behind the Terrordon was. The next person he must find would be Amy Kennedy from San Francisco Chronicle where he used to work. She had been responsible for most of the paper’s coverage of the Terrordon since the time she joined.
"I must find an opportunity to talk to her but now, I must start getting ready," he thought. "First impressions count especially for such an important deal I have to negotiate, hopefully not to wrangle, my way though."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="0438DF97-68C4-4435-B743-C1A552A1F9EC">
            <Text>“Dr Lisa War…”
“We know who you are here to see. You know your crazy, right?” The orderly stared at Jacob like a teacher looking at the class idiot. “That man was in here for a reason. Leave this alone and let the po-po handle it.”
From over his right shoulder he heard the heels on the floor. Click-tap, click-tap, click-top. The slight rustling of the white coat over her hips as she walked, barely audible over the sound of the facilities noisey air handler. When smell of jasmine reached him he knew she was close.
“Hello Dr. Warne. Thank you for seeing me.”
Her laugh seemed less like bells this time and more like ice tinkling into a heavy high ball glass. “You always seem to know I’m here.”
“And you’re not happy to see me.”
“You are still trying to ‘be’ Terrrordon, aren’t you?”
“If I say yes, will you talk with me? Try to cure me of my ‘affliction’ and remind me who I really am?”
Her sigh reminded him of the sound his mother made when Jacob was in high school and brought home low grades. “First, you know I can’t tell you too many details about ‘Sleepwalker’, he’s my patient which makes nearly all the information privileged. Second, you aren’t sick, just … annoying. Third, I’d rather convince you how dangerous this man is so you STAY HOME and let law enforcement deal with the subject.”
“That’s just what I was saying Dr L. Just like you requested.” Jacob couldn’t tell if the orderly was trying to excuse his comments to Jacob or get the approval of Lisa. 
“Thank you B. I’ll take Mr. Heath into the offices. If you’ve completed the log…”
“Yes ma’am, he’s all set. Here’s the visitor badge.”
“Thanks.” Jacob smiled. Figuring that having B on his side would be good in the long run Jacob extended his hand. The orderly looked at him oddly and shook it. 
Lisa started to walk down the hall. As Jacob caught up with her she asked, “was that to ensure access to information on Sleepwalker or me?”
Jacob was startled. “Ummm … I uh…”
“I’m not sure exactly how you know when I’m coning up behind you, but you’ve clearly observed something about me that tips you off.”
“You wear heals, in a prison. Look at all the other feet here… soft flats.”
“That ruins it for me.”
“How so?”
“What woman wouldn’t be flattered to hear ‘I remember the scent of your soap’?”
Jacob was suddenly angry with himself. 
“Is that a blush I see?” Lisa laughed.
“Jasmine.”
“What?!”
“Jasmine. You use a jasmine scented soap or shampoo. The other female doctors use… gasoline.”
“I… I’m… I didn’t mean to… I’m truly flattered.”
The silence that accompanied them to her office could have been named Sleepwalker. She left the door open as they entered her office. As she turned the corner of her desk Jacob sat in the chair immediately opposite her leather wingback. The cold directness of her question was startling compared to her warm flirting in the hallway.
“Why are you really here?”
“I’m writing a book …”
“Stop. We have a problem,” she said. ”Either we are on the same page about … my soap… or we aren’t. I don’t want to hear about complications or books or gay men or serial killers. Let’s get it over with. You’re either gay or you aren’t. If you aren’t then you have a girl or you don’t. If you have a girl, why do you know I use jasmine soap and blush when I mention it?”
“I’m not gay. There’s no girl. Complications… just one book with a serial killer in it sits between me and you making it hard to answer about the … blush.”
“I can live with that. And I could get used to seeing you more often. Let’s make this book go away. Shall we?”
“What about your statement about ‘privilege’?”
“You ask your questions. I’ll tell you when we’ve crossed the line.”
“Where is the Sleepwalker?”
“If I knew that, it would be privileged information. But since I don’t know …” She smiled.
“When he was here, did he tell you about how he was caught?”
“That’s public record so I can say that he did.”
“Did he tell you of more hideouts, or bases, or anything like that?”
“Privileged.”
“Ok… Did he tell you his favorite places to eat?”
“Privileged.”
Jacob was surprised by that. “Hmmm… Did he tell you …”
“Privileged” she cut him off.
“I didn’t finish!”
“You need to think of what I can and can’t tell you. If the Sleepwalker ‘tells me’ then it is privileged. I’ll help you a little bit, but I want to you look behind you…”
Jacob turned and looked though the open door.
“Nothing we say in this room is privileged. You are not my patient. I’ll not lose my job for you. Yet.” The flirtatiousness was back in her voice for the last word. 
“So I need to not ask you about what he said?”
“I would not be able to answer if you did.”
“Can I ask your opinion about what he said?”
Lisa stopped for a moment. “My opinion is not privileged unless it requires me to disclose privileged information.”
“Does law enforcement have this same … I don’t want to call it difficulty…”
“They have warrants. But yes. There are things I can not tell them. But you have it much worse.” 
Jacob stopped to think for a moment. 
“Dr. Warne, in your opinion, is it likely that the Sleepwalker has more than one hideout or base?”
“In my opinion, it is very possible. I would suggest that it is likely based on the number of personalities involved. And may I suggest that you phrased that well Mr. Heath.”
“Why thank you Dr. Warne.”
They both smiled at the sudden formality. Her smile. Suddenly his day was going too quickly.
“I have to rethink my questions.”
“I can wait. Can you?”
“It’s close to lunch. Do you want me to come back after I’ve reworked these?” He was stalling. 
“No. You can take me to lunch and work on it there. There’s a nice bistro around the corner. Ask me questions there. I’ll drive.” 
Jacob was surprised. “Wait, if you’re driving, how am I taking you to lunch?”
“Because you’ll be paying.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="26E0F995-50C9-4418-9E95-5F8D6866D9D8">
            <Title>Chapter fifteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch15-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E422249F-F338-44F8-82B3-82EFF2746519">
            <Text>Shredding a man alive was something that the Sleepwalker was looking forward to. He was a ruthless man, his life and success depended on it, but even he had a code; unlike the Jew.
The Sleepwalker was crouched outside an old barn scanning for heat signatures across the Sacramento Valley. His disposition and barbed-wire-hair blinked hurt in the moonlight with each passing cloud. Satisfied, he stood and yanked at the barn door with a purple gloved hand; its hinges groaned as wind raced inside the barn throwing straw and debris into his face. His thick arms wrestled it closed. He spat out a fragment of straw, brushed himself off, and inhaled the smell of a past summer.
Abel Rivkin, lay bound and naked in the jaws of a tractor shovel. He was surrounded by the Sleepmaker’s henchmen. The Jew's doughy body was shivering against the cold steel. The gag in his mouth bursting in and out as his dilated eyes darted from side-to-side. The Sleepwalker nodded his head and smiled.
“Boss, I don’t get it.”
“Get what Jimmy?” said the Sleepmaker.
“You said we’d be ruffing up rich, connected and healthy types. Not fat fucks like this. Bloody near crippled us carrying doughnut-boy across the field.” 
One of the henchmen sniggered, then went silent with the sudden twitch of the Sleepmaker’s head…the lead henchman piped up.
“What Jimmy meant was, Richards is booked at Saison in South Beach in a hour. He’s one of the last on our list and, as you know, a hard man to isolate alone. He dines for about an hour and a half and we’re two-hour drive from there.”
The Sleepmaker nodded continuously as he walked across to a work bench, swallowed and checked his watch. Eight minutes. He pulled on a set of abattoir-like-overalls and boots - taking his time to make sure his clothing and skin were not exposed.
“Pick him up and dangle him over the edge.” said the Sleepmaker pointing to the animal grinding machine.
The Sleepwalker made his way to the base of the machine and checked the two large buckets were still centred beneath the pipes at the base. He began pouring five litres of hydrochloric acid into the bucket designated for blood. The one for minced flesh and bone he’d leave untainted for the pigs he’d been starving for two days outside. He took a step back and thought through the remaining tasks. Then he pushed a large red button.
Rivkin began to thrash about as two dozen thick metals claws moiled about their axis. His sweaty body heaved with terror as his eyes hunted out and begged the Sleepwalker’s for mercy. The Sleepwalker climbed into the tractor and turned the ignition key - his eyes never leaving Rivkin’s. 
Plumes of blue smoke jettisoned from the upright tractor exhaust and began to meander about the cobwebs and wooden beams of the barn’s roof. He yanked leftward on a rusted leaver protruding beneath the steering wheel and the tractor’s arm lurched up. He pulled another lever and the tractor shovel slammed onto the floor.
“Put him back in the tractor shovel.”
The henchman did as they were told.
Rivkin rolled himself out of the shovel and towards a large bank of shelves filled with tools. The gag over his mouth came loose, he spat out the ball of cloth and he began to yell.
“Please. No!”
The Sleepwalker jumped from the tractor and moved purposely towards Rivkin and kicked him at the base of the spine, then dragged him back into the tractor shovel. Rivkin yelped in pain, vomited and began to weep.
“Please!”
The Sleepwalker scanned the dusty shelving for something more convincing. He had to be sure. He found what he was looking for. He grabbed an air compressor cable and plugged it into a power point. The compressor began to rattle and hiss as flakes of rust shook from its metal body. He connected the air hose and picked up a greasy nail gun and cocked it with the remaining four-inch nails in the magazine. He turned and stood over Rivkin.
“Shut up!”
Rivkin soiled himself and let out another groan. The Sleepwalker considered Rivkin’s knee, but he needed him conscious. He pressed the cold muzzle against Rivkin’s thigh, just above his femoral artery, and pulled the trigger.
Rivkin’s pupils went to pinpricks before his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Saliva drooled from cracked lips as he gulped the diesel filled air. The Sleepwalker pushed a finger to Rivkin’s lips.
“Another sound and I’ll pin the head of your cock to your stomach.”
The Sleepwalker glanced at his watch. Less than five minutes. He waited another thirty seconds for Rivkin to catch his breath.
“I’m only going to ask once. Lie to me, and… “ the Sleepwalker waved the nail gun toward the grinding machine.
“Who is the Terrordon?”
Rivkin’s forehead creased as the rest of his face contorted in agony. He went to open his mouth then closed it.
“I don’t…”
The Sleepwalker fired the last rusty nail into Rivkin’s groin then strode back to the tractor as Rivkin writhed. When Rivkin came back to his senses he was aloft the grinding machine.
“Karma’s a bitch!” said the Sleepwalker in Hebrew as he tilted the tray and dropped Rivkin into the jaws of the machine. 
Seventy-eight seconds later, the Sleepwalker poured the blood bucket into a foetid drain, then hauled the other bucket outside. On his return, he emptied acid into the machine then saturated it with gasoline. He stripped off his protective gear and watched the claws devour them too. He brushed a hand across his hair then heard the distant sound of a helicopter. Next, he tossed a match.
“Jimmy, you drive the car back to the safe-house. The rest come with me in the chopper.”
Outside, the commercial Sikorsky S-76B helicopter was coming in low and fast. the Sleepwalker squinted and pulled his collar tight to his neck in preparation for the onslaught of air. His lips pulled upwards on the left side of his face - piles of pig shit in a field seemed a befitting tombstone. He took a deep breath and moved towards the aircraft door. He’d barely pulled himself inside before he and his crew were airborne staring down at the burning barn in the distance. He checked his watch: three, two, one; the barn exploded.
Four pairs of eyes starred transfixed at the Sleepmaker, all knew better to speak when the man was in the zone.
“Strewth! Life can be such a grind,” said the Sleepmaker beaming behind an Aussie twang and opening his palms in a peaceful gesture.
“Been thinking about that fuck-wit Rivkin at Rampworth. Did my nut in. A personal matter from way back finally nailed down. Had his hands in many pies: - drugs, child-prostitution and paedophilia provisioning mostly, but connected like fuck. It was worth a shot!”
The Sleepmaker stared out the window expectantly. A small ball of flame in the distance billowed silently as the car Jimmy was driving exploded. Never trust a loose mouth he thought, he had liked the kid, to his better judgement even given him a couple of warnings. Then he let it go.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="874EDE44-DBAF-4C8B-9456-75562EFE83EE">
            <Text>The driver hit the brakes just in time, making a gesture at Jacob, as he was crossing the street, deeply immersed in his thoughts. The sudden rain was slowing down the traffic and people were hurrying to find repair in stores and cafes. Jacob entered the shop and took off his baseball cap. “Hey Emmy, wonderful weather!” he grinned.
Emmy was stacking new souvenirs and gadgets while at the same time greeting the people looking for a shelter from the rain. “Good morning Jacob, perfect timing!” she said, smiling, “Do you mind answering the phone while I help the customers?” As a part of his morning routine Jacob used to stop by the gift shop at least twice a week , have a coffee with her sister and get the latest news on Pacey and Tom. “Teal and Taupe may I help you? Oh hey Tom, yes Emmy’s busy at the moment but I confirm you it’s on for tonight, meet you at Osvaldo’s at seven.”
Jacob had organised a dinner for Pete’s birthday at his favourite Italian restaurant for that night and was looking for something funny to give to Pete as a present. A sudden blast and the loud sound of sirens interrupted the conversation. “What the… talk to you later, Tom”, Jacob hung up the phone immediately.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="32257C2C-EBB6-41C2-B3B4-3190EDB4BB93">
            <Title>Sleepwalker (2017)</Title>
            <Text>Name:
Unknown / “The Sleepwalker”

Job:
Super-villain

Gender:
Male

Age: Unknown - appears to be late 30’s / early 40s

Appearance:
6’0” - average build, caucasian, short dark hair, green eyes.

Family:
unknown

Background:
The Sleepwalker was a super-villain active in the years 1998 - 2005 in the San Francisco area, and considered to be the arch-enemy of the Terrordon — a masked vigilante. 

In 2005 he was diagnosed as suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder and was declared insane and unfit to stand trial for his crimes. He was committed to Rampworth State Hospital — a secure mental hospital. 


His doctors have identified 7 core personalities other than the ‘Sleepwalker’ personality itself. They suspect there may be more buried away that just haven’t revealed themselves in public yet. They have no idea which, if any, of the identified personalities are the ‘original’ personality. They suspect not - since none have ever shared a surname.

Doug - a tough New Jersey builder. Great with his hands, and quick to temper. 
Rog - very quiet Californian. Just wants to be left alone to read
Tim - Australian - Out going personality - quite the showman and actor. 
Charlotte - perpetually 6 years old. The only known female personality. Loves to draw and is very good at it.
James - Californian, perpetually 18 years old. Gay and camp.
Billy - A farmer from Alabama - like photography
Joe - a British ‘gent’ - often appears after conflict, and is the most remorseful personality. Loves tea.

None of the above personalities seem to have any memories of the other personalities, and they all have very different accents, voices, body language, etc.

The only personality that seems to have any memories of what’s happened while the other personalities are ‘in the chair’ to control the body is the Sleepwalker - the villainous personality that enjoys making others suffer. He has total recall of what all the others have done. He likes to wear purple.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="BCBEF6EC-6812-4897-A2A1-BB580DD41E65">
            <Title>Chapter 20</Title>
            <Synopsis>terrordon, fisherman and Sleepwalker square off at the Westin;.</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
The SLEEPWALKER has broken out of Rampworth State Hospital and the TERRORDON is back on the streets of San Francisco after being away since 2005. 
Things that have already happened
JACOB HEATH is writing a biography on the Terrordon.
The Sleepwalker has just taken over the Westin hotel in Union Square and told Jacob that he (the Sleepwalker) is going to kill him (Jacob).
Starts with
Jacob and the Sleepwalker in the Clock Bar of the Westin on Union Square, with assorted henchmen and members of the public.
Chapter details
The Terrordon enters the hotel, and either avoids or disables the Sleepwalkers henchmen. Hunting down the Sleepwalker, the end up squaring off against each other. 
It's up to you how eveything plays out but please include:
Jacob should at some point get hold of a some sort of projectile weapon.
The Terrordon should get the upper hand and have the Sleepwalker subdued.
The Sleepwalker, knowing that Jacob has a burning to know who the Terrordon is for his book (Jacob is very obssessive), tells Jacob to shoot the Terrordon -- it's the only way he'll ever know who he really is.
Jacob should shoot the Terrordon who collapses wounded, letting the Sleepwalker escape. 
The police storm in an come to arrest Jacob
Ends with
Jacob should turn back to quickly check who the Terrordon is under the mask, but he's already disappeared.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3C07F7A2-DAA8-47BE-8E78-EF4426A67DAE">
            <Text>“When you said ‘around the corner’ I was expecting a few blocks, not 30minutes of high speed curves.”
“Why? You’re entering a world, this world of the Sleepwalker, where every statement means something different than the surface of the statement suggests. Right about now you should be wondering ‘is she serious about me?’ And I’d answer ‘yes I am.’ And then it will hit you ‘it doesn’t matter what Lisa answers because I can never know what is true and what is false.’ And then you begin to understand how much danger you are walking into.”
Jacob realized that there was more to what Lisa was saying then he really understood.
“Please. Please stop this. He is dangerous beyond anything a sane person should approach outside a prison. Do not do this.”
“How did Terrordon find him? How did he catch him? Where do I look? What will I find?”
Lisa looked up from her meal. “Terrordon used a profiler, someone that looked at the crimes and drew some circles on a map, provided some clues where to look and even suggested how to bait an irresistible trap. Terrodon used that information in 2005. I think I might have been the profiler.”
“Wait. What?” Jacob was struggling to comprehend exactly who this woman sitting across from him was. “You know who Terrordon is?”
“No. I was contacted in 2004 and met with 5 different men. Each said that he was not Terrordon. I was paid well and told that I would get the opportunity to understand the Sleepwalker once he was caught. That’s how I made my way to the US and to Rampworth.”
Jacob suddenly felt small. Whoever Terrordon was, he had a large reach and the ability to direct the “machinery of the state” to get one very pretty woman a job and then to get a specific convict into that woman’s care. 
“Do you understand just how dangerous this man is?”
“Which man?”
“Exactly.”
“Tell me what I need to know to find the Sleepwalker.”
“Men. You never learn.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7AB469DD-1FE7-44AF-993D-D3525B71872B">
            <Title>Chapter nine</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch09-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="095B1403-F8CF-44ED-8075-0993E206764E">
            <Text>The radio was blasting out Ability Ghana OFM when the neighbour knocked on the door. 
The Sleepwalker was running his Doug personality, doing a little renovation, and the music covered the noise of the drilling. When the neighbour knocked, though, Doug was taking a refreshing break, shouting along with the lyrics of Sarkodie's azonto anthem  U Go Kill Me as remixed by Wizkid, EL, Ice Prince and Navio, jerking his hips left and right and pumping the air. 
He stopped in mid fist-bump, swivelled his head round to look at the door. Sleepwalker came back on the scene with a crash. He thought about switching in another personality — no time; normally, it took time for each of the boys to mould the body's features and voice. He sent Doug to the door.
Doug clicked and dragged all the locks and pulled the door open a crack. The neighbour from below his penthouse suite, that irritating woman he sometimes met — not met, saw — in the lift, stood smiling, a cake on a plate in her hands and a bag of stuff on her feet.
How the fuck had she got up here? He'd fixed the lift so it responded only to his code: 666 and a six-second pause, then HH88. 
Sleepwalker pasted a kindly smile to Doug's face, and the woman stepped back a pace and responded with a nervous grin. 
"Mr Doug, isn't it?"
Doug's smile widened and his green eyes crinkled. He was wearing a check shirt in a matching green, and deep green chinos. 
"Oh, you've done the place all in purple?" she babbled. "That's… special!" 
"Yeah." Sleepwalker Doug waited. 
"Can I come in? No? It's just… I'm going away for a few weeks and I wondered if you would be so kind…" — clearly a rehearsed speech — "as to take care of my place? I've brought you up my…" she waved at the bag, backing.
"Yeah." Doug reached out and took the cake, pulled the bag in and shut the door. Faintly from outside he heard her squeaks of thanks. 
He thought about the cake. Sure smelled good. He put out his tongue to lick it. Could be poison. He left it there. Then he went back and looked at it. Very fancy. Cut a slice. Eggy yellow inside, dark chocolate outside. No. 
He opened the black plastic bag. A television. What the… Her most precious possession? He opened his mouth and laughed. 
She was knocking again. He hurled the door open, and the bitch marched straight in. "You can plug it in, use it for the few days — here, I'll show you — the cable is here" — and she plugged in the TV, connected it to the cable — 
"Cable?" His eyes were standing in their sockets. He didn't know there was cable here. They could be using cable to watch him.
"Oh yes, cable was installed for every apartment before you moved in, Doug." 
He got her out of there — "I'll just take a teeny bite of your cake, mmm, good" — and she went, licking her fingers, and he slammed the door, locked all the locks, sat down and calmed himself for a few minutes by planning to take the drill, drill out all her teeth one by one. He found he was eating a slice of the cake. 
He jumped: the TV had come to life. But as he went to turn it off, he saw the face on the screen. He knew that face.
He kicked the radio to turn it off. Grabbed the remote, turned the TV up full. 
"…the noted biographer Jacob Heath," the TV shouted. 
That was him all right. 
The Sleepwalker kicked Doug out, dragged over a chair and watched the interview. So that was his real name. He was really a writer. When he was with the Sleepwalker in Rampworth State Hospital, he said he was a writer. Everyone said they were writers in the hospital. Gave him the nostalgias for the old days when everyone was God or Napoleon. Now they were — 
Wait, what?
"I'm writing a biography of a supervillain," said Heath from the TV, with his shit-eating grin. That suit must have cost… stop, listen, listen. "The Fisherman. Ace opponent of the Terrordon." 
"Say what?" said the interviewer, "You say these are real?" 
"The Fisherman is real, yes."
"But getting back to your biography of Harvey Milk…" 
The Sleepwalker saw a twitch of irritation cross Heath's face at the mention of his first book. Yeah, he was a writer all right. The Sleepwalker would like to talk to him. He'd like that a lot. In fact, he was going to make it happen. He sat down and listened to the interview all the way through. Then he played it back. 
People say a lot more than they mean. They give clues. 
The Sleepwalker never took notes. His mind was a steel razor. He needed no notes. He opened his mouth wide and laughed and laughed.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="27A1DF6A-12ED-4F19-81E9-9EA78DE83D3F">
            <Title>Final Note of Advice</Title>
            <Text>1) THE “CHAPTER DETAILS” SHOULD BE CONSIDERED THE MINIMUM YOU CAN PUT IN.

You can add whatever additional colour you like. For example, the following was Keith Blount’s brief in the 2012 NiaD “Lunar520”:

BLATANT STATEMENT OF THE OBVIOUS: THIS IS NOT YOUR BRIEF. THIS IS JUST AN ILLUSTRATION FROM A PREVIOUS YEAR.

Starts with
JACOB RHODES, the commander, going to the communication console.
Chapter details
JACOB RHODES, the commander, tries to contact Mission Control (which they refer to as either "CAPCOM" or "Houston") to report incident and rectification.  No response from control.  HENRY PAGE, the engineer, investigates all the systems onboard but the equipment looks fine.  Decides to do a spacewalk to check external transmitter, but can find no signs of damage. 
Ends with
Page reporting to Rhodes (can be still outside or back in the ship as you prefer) that there is no sign of damage outside - maybe the problem is on their end.

BLATANT STATEMENT OF THE OBVIOUS: THAT WAS NOT YOUR BRIEF. THAT WAS JUST AN ILLUSTRATION FROM A PREVIOUS YEAR.

If you were to try to reverse engineer a brief from Keith’s 4,980 word chapter, you’ll find it’s much longer than the above synopsis. It contains all sorts of extra elements, including Nicola Haven’s exercise regime and aspirations of scientific recognition, Michael Gordon’s reprogramming of Morris to act as a swear jar, and Henry Page’s near suffocation in the airlock.


2) “THINGS THAT HAVE ALREADY HAPPENED” HAVE ALREADY HAPPENED.

This information has been included for two reasons. The first is to provide you with some background that you probably need to know to complete your section. The second reason is to let you know what you shouldn’t cover, because someone already has. Any detail you put on these facts are at risk of conflicting with something someone else has already written about.

As a general rule, if something has already happened in the timeline, don’t have a character start providing a large amount of exposition on it. Showing is usually better than telling, so the chances are an earlier brief has already gotten someone else to show it. If in doubt, you can always ask ( rog@pigfender.com ).


3) THE “STARTS WITH” AND “END WITH” ARE LOOSE, BUT NECESSARY.

In order to give ourselves a fighting chance of having a smooth transition between different writers’ sections, you are given where your chapter is set to start and finish. These are effectively here to tell you ‘when’ but not ‘how’ to start / end your section. By ‘when’, I mean that if you start or end your section beyond these points there is a chance you might find your final chapter has been topped and / or tailed in order to give your neighbours a free run at their own brief. 

To explain what I mean by ‘not how’, I’ll give you another example from Keith’s brief in 2012. His “Starts with” has Rhodes heading to the Communication console. That should not be taken to mean that the chapter *has* to be told from Rhodes’ perspective, or that the very first line has to deal with this very issue.

Again, check out Keith’s chapter from 2012’s Lunar520 if you need an example of what I mean.

4) NEED MORE INFO?

Information on your chapter has been kept deliberately light. I’d rather it was a fun exercise for all and have a few continuity errors than have it be overly prescribed and just “painting by numbers”. 

That said, if you need or want more info:
	■	Email me on rog@pigfender.com
	■	Send me a Private Message on the LitNLat forum 
	■	Ask publicly on the LitNLat forum

In fact, there will be several of us hanging around on the forum all day, so it’s definitely worth visiting regularly while you’re writing.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="5FF40B93-D30D-40B6-B3D4-5F715EDAB948">
            <Text>Jacob sank to his knees. There was a lot of blood where Terrordon had fallen. Red. Blood red. His ears were ringing from the gun's loud report. He should feel something but he didn't.
Sleepwalker was up, towering over him. Jacob looked up. He could hardly hear what Sleepwalker was saying to him.
"Oh, that's bloody awful. That looks awful. You shouldn't have done that, mate. Really shoot him, I mean. God, he's bleeding out."
Jacob _looked down. The pistol was in his hand. _Why did he shoot him? The gun felt warm. He didn't expect that.
Sleepwalker was still talking. "Listen, I'll find some towels or something. Because that's terrible. I feel bad about this. And what is the matter with you? Bollocksed it up now, right enough."
Jacob closed his eyes. Soon after that, he let the gun slip to the floor.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="BE59F7A1-FAA8-4167-BF24-66F073692AD6">
            <Title>Chapter fifteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch15-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="0B508C68-C540-4D72-A5E6-98C1DF29B31C">
            <Text>	•	Dissociative Identity Disorder: in extreme cases it presents as multiple separate ‘people’ ‘sharing’ the same body, with those personalities exhibiting substantially different behavior, emotional reactions, and a lack of shared memories 
	•	Dr Lisa Appleton Warne: Clinical psychiatrist; Rampworth State Hospital; maximum-security; mentally ill convicts committed to psychiatric facilities by California’s courts
	•	Sleepwalker: sadist; diagnosed with DID; under care of DrLAW; nemesis of Terrordon; ESCAPED</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="798D4A56-5424-44C3-BEA2-42700A920AE9">
            <Text>He had managed to make up enough biography questions to take them way past the appetiser and into the main course. But finally, it was time for him to get around to his real reason for the dinner with Amy. He closed his notebook and set his pen down and picked up his wine glass again. “But enough about my work. Thank you so much. I guess they’ve got you working really hard on that recent attack,” he said, looking over the glass, and watching Amy sip from hers.
“Well, it’s all sort of drying up….” she shrugged.
“Police without any ideas?”
“Exactly,” she said, “no real trace of forensics, and the detective in charge…”
“Browning,” he supplied the name and she nodded.
“...he’s just scratching his head.”
“So… organised terrorism?”
“For lack of a better explanation…”
He stopped himself from asking Hasn’t anyone claimed responsibility? … Too direct. Instead he hinted: “I guess there are all kinds of nut-cases out there, wanting to cause random damage just to show themselves that they can have some impact in the world.”
She paused, staring down at what was left of her fettuccini, and he knew she was thinking of the claim of responsibility that she didn’t know came from Jacob, and not from The Fisherman.
He put down his knife and fork. He made as if to change the subject, but … “How’s the pasta? My fish was….”
She said, “There is a possibility. We had a claim for responsibility come to the paper.”
“Oh?” He tried not to let her hear the relief flooding his body.
She nodded, “One that would be up your street.”
“My street? I’m not sure I want to live on a street with terrorists!”
“No, no,” she said, smiling, “I mean, given your interest in Terrordon — vigilantes and villains.”
“What? Terrordon has claimed responsibility? Turned terrorist?”
“Sorry, no, that’s not what I mean. There’s no direct connection to Terrordon. It’s just that someone calling himself The Fisherman has claimed responsibility for the attack.”
“Fisherman,” he repeated, to keep the sound of the name in the air.
“Yeah. That doesn’t sound so deadly, does it?”
“Strikes terror into the heart of every turbot,” he joked, looking at his plate, while also second-guessing his name choice.
She chuckled softly, “Well, the name might be a little lacklustre but it’s like he sees himself as a villain of the sort that Terrordon used to tackle.”
“I see. So the police do have a lead?” he asked.
“Not really. They’re not actively following that up; they’ve dismissed the claim.”
“But…?”
“Browning and his partner have only been on the force a few years. Super-villains are off his radar, outside of his experience. And no one’s ever heard of The Fisherman.”
Jacob nodded sympathetically, “New guys on the force who weren’t around back in the day —  they don’t remember Terrordon or his opponents like we do. Twelve years is a long time. To people without our history, it’ll all seem like fantasy and comic books. But maybe they’re right.”
And to his great satisfaction, Amy Kennedy’s normally bright, inquisitive eyes were focussed on the middle distance over his shoulder as she parroted distractedly, “Yeah, maybe they’re right.” The tone in her voice clearly betrayed to her dining companion — a fellow writer, a former journalist himself — that she was thinking precisely the opposite to what she was saying. He knew that she was already composing lead sentences of an article about the possibility of The Fisherman.
His work here was done. “Dessert?” he asked casually, signalling the waiter over.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="38CD6D20-A22F-4EE1-BC24-D98BF4E02DCF">
            <Title>Title Page</Title>
            <Text>Start Wearing Purple

</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="40F0574C-08D2-47D0-BF48-5A1D3831B297">
            <Title>Introduction</Title>
            <Text>Time is no substitute for talent
There is a well-known saying that if you give a monkey a typewriter and an infinite amount of time then it will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. In 2003, the staff at Paignton Zoo gave a computer to six crested macaques and categorically proved that what you actually get is five pages of the letter ‘S’ and a broken keyboard. Time, it seems, is no substitute for talent. But can talent substitute for time…?
The book you are about to read was written over the course of a single day in October 2017. For those unfamiliar with the concept of Novel-in-a-Day, it’s simple: - A skeleton of a plot is worked out in advance of the day - That plot is broken into sections, which are divided amongst the participants randomly - The writers have most of the rest of the day to write and return their chapters, working with no knowledge of the wider story or their place in it. 
I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as we loved putting it together.

Tim
October 28, 2017
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="8D4AC086-0ADD-4A10-9F00-979105F6AFD6">
            <Text>It was bleak and drizzling as Jacob pulled up a hundred yards from the gatehouse of Rampworth State hospital. Except for his hire car the road had been deserted for the last few miles as it exited a thickly forested area and crossed an open plain. Now Jacob saw why. The road terminated here. As if in a Hollywood movie, a tall razor wire topped fence stretched from both sides of the armoured gatehouse as far as his eyes could see. Rather than reassuring, it was dark, ominous, depressing, and didn’t give Jacob a good feeling.
He put the car into drive, pulled up to the gatehouse, and lowered his window. He waited while a camera on top of the fence panned around until he could see his face in its lens. After a minute the gatehouse door opened and an armed, uniformed man with a PDA, came out.
“Jacob Heath to see Doctor Warne,” Jacob said.
“Yes, Mr. Heath,” the guard replied, handing him an encapsulated badge with his Name and photo on it. He tapped his PDA. “Please wear this I.D. at all times. You wouldn’t want us to mistake you for an inmate.” The guard smiled. “Doctor Warne is waiting for you at the main building. The route is programmed into the car’s Sat-Nav. Good day, sir.” The guard retired into the gatehouse and shut the door as the gates slid smoothly open. Jacob pursed his lips, then tapped ‘start’ on the Sat-Nav’s new screen.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="933607B2-1452-4B3C-8DEC-FEB6FD4D965C">
            <Title>Introduction</Title>
            <Text>Time is no substitute for talent
There is a well-known saying that if you give a monkey a typewriter and an infinite amount of time then it will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. In 2003, the staff at Paignton Zoo gave a computer to six crested macaques and categorically proved that what you actually get is five pages of the letter ‘S’ and a broken keyboard. Time, it seems, is no substitute for talent. But can talent substitute for time…?
The book you are about to read was written over the course of a single day in October 2017. For those unfamiliar with the concept of Novel-in-a-Day, it’s simple: - A skeleton of a plot is worked out in advance of the day - That plot is broken into sections, which are divided amongst the participants randomly - The writers have most of the rest of the day to write and return their chapters, working with no knowledge of the wider story or their place in it. 
I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as we loved putting it together.

Tim
October 28, 2017</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C29FCFFF-34BC-4677-BB74-A1DE8001A592">
            <Text>Jacob pinched the bridge of his nose. This was not going in the direction he had hoped. Most of the articles dealing with the bomb threat had been either dismissive or openly ridiculing the Chronicle's take and Amy herself. There was a short op-ed called 'This is not a story of heroes and villains' that directly cited Amy's article and called it 'silly' and 'childish', and a famous journalists had published a post in her Facebook account in which she called the Chronicle's coverage 'shameful'. The post had received more that 5,000 likes and upwards of a hundred comments, most of them supportive.
He felt a little bad for Amy; after all what she'd been doing was only what he had wanted her to do and now she was receiving quite a lot of heat for it. On the other hand, what if it had worked? He knew the pitfalls of journalism and he told himself that Amy would survive. Besides, he could always vindicate her, make the Fisherman real despite this setback. The question was, of course, how.  
Maybe he had rushed things a bit—or maybe not? This would be exactly how the Fisherman would act, and if answered with the same level of derision he would—what? 
Quit?
He, Jacob, would. What he'd been doing was dangerous enough, no matter how interesting or useful for his project. He was weaving through the red line, in and out, putting himself in some rather compromising situations for the sake of drawing out someone who most likely would not reappear. 
But the Fisherman wouldn't quit. He would feel enraged and insulted and he would definitely step up his game at this point. If a bomb threat would not set him up as the credible villain he needed to be for Terrordon to come back, then he'd have to do something else. Something more radical.
He opened a new browser window and fired up the VPN and the secure link he'd learned to set a few months ago. He'd been nervous about the Dark Net at the beginning, but after some intensive—and intense—research he found he could navigate it with some confidence. Most of it was surprisingly practical and very trade-oriented and he could skirt the places he really didn't want to go into. He valued the insight into this underside of the internet, and although his only aim at getting access had been research for his book (he thought Terrordon would use it even if he was retired), now he was finding he could really used it some other, hitherto unexpected ways.
He started looking for information on how to make a bomb. </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E771A4B1-725E-476E-ACBE-3B8E7C432D3A">
            <Title>Sleepwalker (2005)</Title>
            <Text>Name:
Unknown / “The Sleepwalker”

Job:
Super-villain

Gender:
Male

Age: Unknown - appears to be late 20’s / early 30s

Appearance:
6’0” - average build, caucasian, short dark hair, green eyes.

Family:
unknown

Background:
The Sleepwalker is a super-villain in the San Francisco area, and considered to be the arch-enemy of the Terrordon — a masked vigilante. 

He is a villainous type that enjoys making others suffer. He likes to wear purple.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="96E9FF74-EC91-4EF3-9454-F0297374F5C8">
            <Title>Also by</Title>
            <Text>Also by Novel-in-a-Day:

The Dark
Lunar520
Made Man
Section7
Marshal Law
3 Ghosts

www.novelinaday.com



sponsored by
Literature &amp; Latte, creators of Scrivener
￼
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FFD88F35-30DC-45AE-B72E-6FAFBF058951">
            <Title>Full Title Page</Title>
            <Text>Start Wearing Purple

written as a
Novel-in-a-Day

 #
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="B5F4B973-E3A1-425A-91A9-E4CA441ABCB2">
            <Title>Chapter one</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch01-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7AC6DC7F-B9B3-4C39-909B-DB5D2F3335AA">
            <Text>Babs H. Newton:
If this is the best that the Chronicle can produce in a matter as serious as terrorism I'm canceling my subscription. This frivolous take on the issue only helps terrorists and keep us from adopting the real and bold measures that we need to take as a country and as a society.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="53B055D9-8AE7-4CAC-9E55-4EC2E56E50F5">
            <Title>Chapter fifteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch15-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="8677C8FD-D5F4-42E5-85B3-5E6CA595143A">
            <Text>The Fisherman. It was maybe one of the most absurd names that she had the opportunity of discover. The Chronicle received about ten these letters every month, they finished generally in a big shoe box which acted as archives – just in case. She felt however a small push of adrenalin, her heart accelerated. This letter reminded her years Terrordon, when she walked across San Fran to collect testimonies and photos with his inhabitants. Unfortunately, this period was ended from now on and she had made the mourning of this exciting period of its life. Amy took the precaution to put down the letter on the office of her boss, because it was him who accommodated the shoe box, but she was convinced that the information would not be published. The fisherman will be alongside the wharf…
She decided anyway to highlight the information for her boss. She checked the clock. 11: 50 am, it was time to lunch.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="56E74CFA-59E5-4381-A7A4-9BE2E2F2C559">
            <Text>1,600 kilometres of sewer tunnels and pipes wend beneath the city of San Francisco. Unlike most sewer systems built in the modern era, it handles both the waste water output of its human inhabitants above, and the runoff of the storm sewers pocked throughout the hills and streets of the city. Later in the year, through the months of September and October, the larger networks of these brick-lined warrens would be crawling with technicians, tasked with scrubbing accumulated grit and slime from the walls and ensuring its fitness for the rainy season.
But in August? In August the unlit and stifling stretches of domed tunnel are untroubled by all but the ever present gurgle of a million kitchen sinks. That is, until this particular morning of August, when several hundred different stretches of sewer tunnel awoke—dimly lit by the activation of a network of peculiar devices fastened to walls, and the sudden flurry of activity as clustered roaches made haste into nearby cracks in the masonry.
For a moment it might have even been beautiful, if one could have seen them all together with their green lights blinking out the status of synchronisation attempts with the rest of the devices in the grid. But it would have only been for that moment. In the next they all synchronised, and then it was a roar of small detonations that laced the honeycombed hillside beneath the city. Gas lines were jolted, ruptured, ignited—and once that got started, far beneath all of anything civilisation had drilled into the soil, the interconnected Rodgers Creek and Hayward fault lines rumbled to life.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1E8D118F-50EC-4985-BE93-AC896D1787BF">
            <Title>Chapter twelve</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch12-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="52F053EF-D127-4DC4-A584-F86B6909CECC">
            <Title>Chapter 1</Title>
            <Synopsis>Terrordon and Sleepwalker square off - Sleepwalker caught</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2005 - SAN FRANCISCO
San Francisco is caught in a crime wave with a bunch of so-called "super-villains" controlling gangs of henchmen to commit robberies, murders and general comic book nastiness. The Terrordon is a masked vigilante who has been trying to tip the balance back in favour of law enforcement and serve as a beacon of hope to the people.
Things that have already happened
The TERRORDON's arch-villain, the SLEEPWALKER has taken over Alcatraz island with his henchmen and declared it off limits -- on pains of setting off a number of bombs around San Fran. A small number of staff and members of the public remain on the island.
Starts with
The Terrordon making the journey to Alcatraz (using whatever method you like) to intercept the Sleepwalker.
Chapter details
The Terrordon enters Alcatraz, and either avoids or disables the Sleepwalkers henchmen. Hunting down the Sleepwalker, thye end up squaring off against each other. 
It's up to you how eveything plays out but please include:
At some point the Terrordon should mention that the Sleepwalker needs professional help
At some point the Terrordon should notice that the Sleepwalker seems to have the briefest moment of genuine remorse
At some point the Sleepwalker should have the advantage over the Terrordon, but hesitate to finish him off.

Ends with
The Terrordon ties up (or otherwise immobilises) the Sleepwalker and leave him for the police for find.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="42CE20CD-E3F6-43BC-B74C-8DD57C471EFE">
            <Title>Cover</Title>
            <Text>#</Text>
            <Notes>Add a picture INSIDE the text document for the ordinary PDF version</Notes>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="53071B84-3F12-453A-A906-6D16F1CABC57">
            <Text>When he awoke, he saw that the squares of light were now tracing their path up one of the walls. He checked his watch. It was now three-thirty. He would have to leave by five. He could hear people arguing in the room next door, the sound of roadworks down in the street below and the voice of a girl out in the corridor, probably the same maid who had helped him up with his suitcase.
He found the remote for the small, battered portable TV and thumbed through the channels.    On NBC, he soon discovered that the Sleepwalker had been busy yet again.
Jacob listened and watched as the news reporter, standing in front of a shabby apartment block told everyone listening what had just happened.
"Police arrived here just after midday responding to a call from the building supervisor. Mark Harrison, made the discovery some time before eleven this morning in the pool that residents here use as part of their housing agreement."
Jacob watched as the camera panned left across grubby looking deck chairs to the pool and the tarpaulin that police were now using for the crime scene.
"The battered body of Alice Hall, a twenty-eight year old student has been removed and taken for forensic examination."
Now the camera pulled away and back to the reporter.
"Right now there is no solid information on the killer but people in the Bay Area will no doubt be forming their own opinions on who was responsible. I have with me Chief Harrison from the police."
The camera widened to show both there reporter and a uniformed individual who had clearly never been in front of the cameras before.
"Let me put it to you, Chief Harrison. Given the recent events at Rampworth, many people out there are going to conclude that this is the work of the Sleepwalker and with -"
"That's just rumour right now. And it's one that media outlets like the one you work for are very unhelpfully fuelling. Therefore we -"
"And with that in forefront of the minds of all the taxpayers here in San Francisco, they'd like to know just exactly where all those tax dollars go. With cuts to the police department in recent years and the Goldstein scandal last summer, many will conclude that your department just isn't up to the job of finding this man."
Jacob listened to the arguments back and forth while he packed his things. He left, leaving the television playing to an empty room. Down in the foyer, he had the receptionist ring for a taxi to take him to the Westin hotel.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="71E12AF7-0D4C-4BA5-8BA2-9648B6DECA59">
            <Title>Chapter six</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch06-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7D174B10-0D4C-4662-92BE-485A32C390DB">
            <Text>"Finally, some privacy!"
Jacob glanced round at the hostages all around the Clock Bar, not to mention Sleepwalker's henchmen.
Sleepwalker eyed him coyly. "Oh, ig-nore them, honey. Tonight is all about me and you," and he punctuated each syllable with a tap on Jacob's chest with his finger.
Sleepwalker tilted his head with a snap toward Jacob. He lowered his head and looked up under his brows at him. There was a mischievious glint in his green eyes. "How about a highball?" "Bartender," he called out, "one Sex on the Beach. What'll you have, Jay?" Sleepwalker nudged his shoulder.
Jacob didn't answer.
"Never mind. Make that two for Sex on Beach. And I like a real Beach, so it better be red. Really red." And he tapped Jacob's chest again. "Red red red red red! Because baby's in a mood." He spun around on his heels and stopped suddenly. Then he threw head back and laughed.
Sleepwalker swung his arms wide and surveyed the bar patrons. "Well, here we are! And I'm sure everybody here knows my boy, Jacob Heath."
Sleepwalker pounced over to one of the hostages. "What did I just say?"
The man was shaken by this assault. "I— I don't know."
Sleepwalker flipped up the man's tie. "Disappointing. Isn't it disappointing? Nobody listens to anybody anymore. What about you?" He pegged another hostage who tried to shrink away.
"Forget it." He turned back to Jacob. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself Jacob Heath? This is all your fault, isn't it? Everybody is waiting on your every word. Maybe you'd like to tell them what a vigilante lover you are."
Sleepwalker stopped in front of another patron. "What did I just say?"
"Vigilante lover."
"Who is?"
"Him. Mr. Heath."
"Excellent. Thank you, Miss Whateveryournameis. You are free to go. Because I think this party has gotten boring, don't you?"
One of Sleepwalker's men stepped forward and escorted the woman to the door and out.
Sleepwalker turned his head with a snap to one of the cocktail waitress. As if someone had just told him she was there.
He walked up to her and planted his feet apart.
"Hey, there darlin', ya'll got any real food around here." He leaned in closer and she leaned back. "Hostage takin' can really work up an appetite, you know. How about some of that bourbon steak?"
The cocktail waitress didn't know what she was supposed to do. The husky voice, the sudden Southern drawl made it sound like this was some kind of bad joke.
"Well, go on! That's right. Fetch me somethin'. Because I hate waiting."
The woman fairly ran for the door.
"And don't you forget my bourbon!" he shouted after she was already gone. He chuckled to himself. "She ain't comin' back, you know."
Things got quiet. Of course, the cocktail waitress really did not come back. Sleepwalker spent some time pacing around the room, occasionally hassling people that caught his attention for some reason. Clearly, the men you had taken over here were waiting for something.
Finally, one of the men posted at the door came over and said something to Sleepwalker. Sleepwalker moved swiftly over to Jacob.
"Why the long face? I know, I know, this is tedious. Fresh air? Yes, let's get some fresh air."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F541F632-42B8-48AB-8F87-AA434CA1414A">
            <Title>Cover</Title>
            <Text>#</Text>
            <Notes>Add a picture INSIDE the text document for the ordinary PDF version</Notes>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="830B90D9-4FE5-4E5D-B36A-FF21F1290B14">
            <Text>The letters of the “MOSCONE CENTER” sign glowed through the gloom. It was only noon, but the squally skies were already dusk-dark. Tourists in brightly-coloured anoraks and windbreakers milled around the entrances beneath the sign.
Guileless guppies.
A banner ran along the top of one of the entrances. It read: DINOSAURS OF AMERICA. Was there a more fitting way of teasing out the Terrordon than at a paleontology exhibition? The Fisherman allowed himself a satisfied smile.
He swung the binoculars to check that the explosives were still in place. Sitting on a low wall near the central entrance doors was a large plastic dinosaur (a pteranodon, of course). He had placed it there himself last night. It was the only way of planting anything near the entrances, but it had been a risk: he’d had to bet on everyone assuming it was part of the exhibition, even the staff. The risk had paid off. Explosive Number One was still in place. Right now a little blonde girl of about seven in a polka-dot parka and green leggings was pointing at it and gesticulating to her mother. The mother was young, also blonde, wearing a bright pink raincoat. The little girl stretched out her arms and ran around in a circle before head-butting her mother in the stomach. Her mother laughed, picked her up briefly, and then they disappeared inside, hand-in-hand, the girl hopping on one leg and apparently talking non-stop.
The sight of that little girl near the explosive would have given Jacob pause, but the Fisherman was unerring in his task.
Explosive Number Two was buried inside one of the black globular plant-pots that lined the pedestrian bridge directly opposite the Fisherman’s lookout.
Everything was in place.
All he had to do was wait for an opportunity—until he could be sure that no one would be hurt.
Press two buttons.
And hope.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="39FEF8F7-4335-4301-BACE-033A3F3971FA">
            <Title>Chapter eighteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch18-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F808BAFF-DD99-4ACC-AC12-59EDE612A9B0">
            <Text>Jacob said his goodbyes to Charlotte, then Lisa. 
He unlocked his car, got in and let out a deep breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. “Jesus Christ,” he said quietly, starting the engine. He stopped at the gatehouse, handed his security pass to the guard, then slowly drove away.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="41D372FA-4160-4C27-8592-B61324A1E361">
            <Text>After several more seconds the Sleepwalker stops, looks down at himself and says: "Ugh, this isn't purple."
The figure of the Sleepwalker slumps down on the floor, back against the wall, pulls his knees to his chest.
Video pauses</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1FE5B74A-932F-4D3D-85D0-8FFA1D7C1159">
            <Title>Title Page</Title>
            <Text>Start Wearing Purple

</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="012DB4B8-B54D-4A9D-8CA6-FEF268006620">
            <Title>Lisa Warne</Title>
            <Text>Name:
Dr Lisa Appleton Warne, D.Clin.Psych.

Born Lisa Jane Warne, Lisa changed her middle name to Appleton (her mother’s maiden name) when she was 23.

Job:
Clinical psychiatrist - Works at Rampworth State Hospital (a maximum-security facility that houses mentally ill convicts who have been committed to psychiatric facilities by California’s courts).

Gender:
Female

Age: 41

Appearance:
5’5”, caucasian. Slim brunette.

Family:
Father, Peter Warne, died in 2008 of a heart attack at age 58. Mother, Jane Warne (age 65) is retired and financially comfortable. No siblings. Lisa is single, never married and has no kids.

Background:
Is British - worked for many years in Cambridge’s Addenbrookes Hospital (as a clinical psychiatrist). Moved to the USA when she secured the Rampworth job.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="4622FDEF-8091-4126-A005-A0180BA3B74E">
            <Title>Chapter ten</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch10-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="163101CD-56E8-44FA-8D46-D8945EE67C6E">
            <Text>Jacob recognised the voice. It was unmistakable. A glance at Dr Warne's nodding head confirmed his suspicion, and sent shivers down his spine.
It was the Sleepwalker's voice. The actual Sleepwalker personality. Jacob recalled hearing the same voice during his research of the trial recordings.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="D95A12BE-D10D-4CB8-9CD8-495758C12AAD">
            <Title>Terrordon (2005)</Title>
            <Text>Name:
Unknown / “The Terrordon”

Job:
Super hero / vigilante

Gender:
Male

Age: Not known - probably around 30.

Appearance:
6’2”, caucasian, athletic build. Wears a dark costume with a “Terrordon” logo (based on a stylised Pteranodon) and has a cape that he can use as a hang glider.

Family:
Not known

Background:
Lots of cool gadgets - An armoured car, a utility belt, grappling hook guns, ninja style throwing weapons, etc, etc with the Terrordon logo. Probably stole most of his look / ideas from a Batman comic.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="0E8C9590-4884-401B-8AA1-C1109D5965E9">
            <Title>Chapter eleven</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch11-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="64A98F5B-626A-4652-B5AC-09C173A26102">
            <Text>Jacob had chosen his outfit carefully that morning and took extra effort to style his hair. While his hands worked quickly, his mind was deep in thought, playing out a mental game of the prospective exchange he would have with the Commissioner later. Things would go well if he played his cards right. He arrived at the Police Headquarters about 30 minutes early, sufficient time to allow him to mingle with the staff with a valid reason without arousing suspicions. The receptionist politely told him to have a seat while she informs the Commissioner of his arrival. He was just starting to make small talk with the receptionist, charming her into girly giggles when the Commissioner himself appeared at the hallway to receive him personally, much to his dismay. "Mr. Jacob Heath, I hope you did not have to wait long," the Commissioner said and extended his hand. "He seemed as eager to meet me as I am to meet him," Jacob wondered to himself as he took his hand into a firm handshake.
He followed several steps behind the Commissioner as he led him briskly into a room down the corridor. He hardly had any time to take a good look of his surroundings and lost his bearings after several turns. The room was small and had a clinical feel about it. He wondered if it was one of those rooms where they held their interviews and whether there was anyone watching them from behind the darkened glass windows.
"Please sit down Mr. Heath and make yourself comfortable. Would you like to have some coffee or tea?" The Commissioner gestured to the two pots of steaming beverages on the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. "I'll have some coffee please," Jacob stood up to help himself but the Commissioner was one step ahead of him, his left hand grabbing another mug and pouring him a share too. It did not take too long into their discussion before he realised that the Commissioner was in more ways than one already several steps in front of him. When he left the building moments later, Jacob felt frustrated. It seemed that the Commissioner had simply wanted to fish information from him regarding the Terrordon. The Commissioner was tactful with his words but his intention was clear to him - he had met enough people like him to know, especially the ones in positions like his. It was precisely for this reason that he had built up his network of liaisons from people in the lower rungs of the ladder, people who are perhaps more gullible and unreliable but less scheming and less selfish. It was not difficult to get people like them to talk. He could use money or invest some well-calculated time and emotions. It was people like the Commissioner that he had barely anything to offer up for a trade. The Commissioner had assumed Jacob would have some details that had not reached his ears yet. For the entire length of the exchange, Jacob maintained his composure, putting up an agreeable yet firm front but could not glean any new information from him as well. All that resulted as an impasse, a stalemate of information exchange. The meeting ended up as nothing more than a courtesy call. It was a lousy set of cards played on both their parts. However, the Commissioner did share that the Mayor may have some insights if he could get him to talk, a heavy emphasis on the word "if". 
"It is most certain the Commissioner must have tried and failed, so now he is expecting me to try and do it" Jacob muttered to himself, "and why not."
He stopped and took out the name card the Commissioner passed him earlier from his pocket. He flipped it to the back where the Commissioner's handwriting was strong and clear and dialled the number written behind.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="77BFC4A1-CBE9-40D4-BD62-6621B0D9D776">
            <Title>Cover</Title>
            <Text>#</Text>
            <Notes>Add a picture INSIDE the text document for the ordinary PDF version</Notes>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="AE4E1FEF-B329-4CCF-A5D9-DB86A98849D3">
            <Text>It was much later and Jacob was still at the computer. The reaction to his message had been rather quick and, to his mind, mixed. He was currently in Twitter, reading with a mixture of chagrin and fascinated horror:</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9D15B176-9C56-48CE-84DA-670A0C4A2C6F">
            <Text>The next morning, the Terrordon woke to more antique ringing from the Nokia. Fumbling for the phone on the nightstand, he cursed as he knocked it off the nightstand and under the bed. Finally coming up with the phone, he rolled on to his back and answered it.
“Up and at ‘em! We just got another tip on the Sleepwalker from the wanted spots they’re running on the local news. Seems he put in an all-nighter at a local library before the staff opened up this morning and found him in all his purple glory. He’s gone already, but I’ll text you the address.”
One greasy breakfast and a pot of coffee later, the Terrordon shuffled into the library and was promptly greeted by the head librarian, a queen bee-type who wasted no time in bringing him up to speed.
“Well, I’ll tell you it was the strangest thing! We came in this morning and were going about our business for about an hour when all of a sudden we heard some wild cackling from a study area near the back of the library.”
“Cackling?” The Terrordon shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs.
“Yes, and when we made our way over to find out what was going on, he was going on and on about something. Cryptocurrency is for fools, the Luddites will be proud of me, and I think he said something about the Gold Standard too? When he saw us, and we asked what he was doing there, the Purple Man freaked out and started going on about how he just wanted to be left alone to read his books in peace. When we said we were calling the police, that’s when he just ran right out with his arms flailing like a madman!”
Sounded like Rog, the Terrordon thought to himself. Rog the book lover, Rog the bookworm. “Any idea what he was doing here?”
“Oh yes, it’s clear he was very interested in bitcoin! He left a pile of books where he was sitting, about everything you can imagine on bitcoin and other cryptocurrencies. And he had a webpage open to a bitcoin conference that’s going on in town right now on the computer in the study area.” The librarian passed him a printed copy of the conference information page.
“Thanks,” said the Terrordon over his shoulder, already on the way out the door. The trail was warming up again.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1B2139E1-03E4-4DE3-8BB1-971D87DA7353">
            <Text>	Rog snapped awake, the monitor dimly lighting the dark room. The screen lock display was a brooding picture all flat green tones, a point of view between tracks on a lonely railroad bed that slashed a cut through an overgrown cliff on one side and trees on the other, curving away to disappear in a dark mist.  He was glad to see it partially because he liked the picture -- the lonely feel of the picture touched something in him — but mostly because it was a tripwire, a flag that told him that the hacker hadn't been into his machine today. 
	The hacker always changed the lock screen.  Infrequently, but still too often, Rog had dozed off in front of the computer only to find horrific things splayed and flayed across the screen on awaking. He'd never caught the screen changing — sometimes the hacker took advantage of his habit of dozing at the machine, sometimes he'd find the pictures lazily rotating through a slide-show display after a day or two of not using the computer at all.  The hacker took the time to edit and arrange these bloody displays before presenting them, often decorating them with garish purple highlights piping the borders of the pictures and tinging the occasional horror-show movie. 
	He'd done everything he knew to do — antivirus, antihacker, system reloads — some years ago, he'd actually thrown his computer into a landfill and bought another new. Yet still the hacker would periodically take control and leave these nauseating little gobbets for him to dispose of. He often recognized the pictures from descriptions he'd seen in online newspapers and the evening news. Missing people. Found people. Random crimes. 
The police, growing tired of the barrage of calls to their overworked detectives telling them that an unknown hacker was pushing evidence of his crimes to his desktop, sent an officer to see for himself. He brought a tech from the City's IT department. Of course, everything was gone by then. After a half hour, the tech declared he could find nothing. The machine appeared as interesting as Aunt Millie's venerable and rarely-used HP tower on which she kept family pictures and a constantly expanding collection of never-tried recipes. 
The officer mouthed platitudes about how to secure the machine, and how much they appreciated citizens keeping an eye out and calling in tips, and told him that they'd let him know if anything came of the investigation. He'd seen the slightly annoyed, condescending look on the officer's face before — on co-workers, on computer-repair techs — and it told him he was being mentally classified either as a harmless paranoid crank or as a con-man trying to cash in on Crime-Stoppers money. Mostly that he wasn't believed. 
He'd long since given up wondering why the hacker had picked him, chosen him, from the ocean of victims. Sometimes he wondered if he were the only one. He doubted that was possible — but he'd never heard even a rumor of another.  He shook himself free of the reverie, jiggled the mouse to wake the machine and carefully typed his 32-character password into the box it presented. 
He found he was still logged into his anonymous email account, and was pleasantly surprised to find that Lucy had accepted his invitation to meet for coffee.  They'd been "talking" online for weeks. He glanced at his watch.  He needed to be there in a little over an hour — he was going to have to get humping.  
Lucy DeGale was his favorite type of correspondent, in that she was endlessly interested in making sure she was understood, that all her complexities were aired and displayed. This essentially meant that she carried the bulk of the "conversations", and more importantly, that she spent very little time on any but the most basic information from Rog, which suited his essential shyness. In fact, his constant use of virtual networks, anonymous accounts, and various other arcane methods he'd been using for years to try to beat the hacker essentially made him invisible to her or, for that matter, anyone else. 
They disagreed on practically everything, but had become friends in spite of it, largely because she really was an excellent writer and in any discussion she would expand rapturously on her opinions and on how the subject under discussion made her feel. He loved arguing with her. 
Her life was an open book, as they say.  She was aggressively open in fact, viewing any conscious or subconscious attempt to not express her every thought online as "concealing the truth". She, curiously enough, either didn't notice or didn't care that on this point, as well as practically all others, Rog disagreed with her entirely.  He felt that some degree of intimacy should be established before one made a point of discussing bathroom habits, sexual proclivities, deeply-held religious beliefs or thorny moralities, never mind a running online internal monologue as to whether trimming or shaving pubic hair before an upcoming date was "caving in" to the "beauty norms" of a defective society with even one person, much less the entire world. 
He knew that she was single, being unable to establish a long-term relationship with men, not least because of her "take me as I am, I don't modify anything for anyone" attitude and her penchant for talking about them endlessly online, albeit in terms of her reactions to them.  
Rog chuckled to himself. She was pretty. She was smart. She was a pain in the ass. And as a child of the internet, she would tell everyone who would read her about her view of any given ex's failings.  "The Taylor Swift of Tumblr," someone once called her, although she probably wrote with less malicious intent than Taylor. 
She was an online social warrior who claimed to live in poverty among "her people" out in Oakland for all that her parents were very well-off. They lived in a top-floor Spanish/Mediterranean condo in Pacific Heights. She'd occasionally go "home" to borrow their pool and relax for a few days, or up-country to their primitive summer-home in the forest to play gardener. 
She'd married for a for a few years, living in a small town upstate, had a child, divorced, moved back to the Bay area and lived for a time in the Acorn Projects in Oakland, or "The Cornfield" as the locals called it. She was probably the only single white woman living within a couple of miles, and she picked it deliberately in order to raise her child in a more "diverse" environment than Lucy had come up in. After a particularly harrowing encounter with a couple of members of one of the vicious street gangs that infested the complex, she was mortified and distressed that she'd mentally called them "chimps" in the adrenaline-fueled aftermath of reaction. This was duly documented online as a personal failure, and in a fit of remorse she moved, and eventually settled into a four-plex in an area marginally less likely to get her killed, and still practically in sight of her parents' condo. 
Once Roj actually laughed at one of her more extravagant flights of what he called "kumbaya fantasy", and she got angry and stopped talking to him.  After a couple of tries to re-establish the contact, Rog moved on, assuming she was gone for good.  A full day later she re-appeared in his online feed.
"You shouldn't have laughed at me," she said without preamble.
"OK," he replied. There was silence for a few minutes.
"So, are you going to apologize?"
"No."  More silence.
"Why, did you mean to hurt my feelings? That's not acceptable."
"No, that's not it at all. I'm sorry you think it is, if that's what you mean."
There was nothing for over an hour.
"Why did you laugh at me?" she asked.
"Because what you said was funny," replied Rog.
"It wasn't supposed to be. I was serious."
"Yeah, I know.  Didn't keep it from being funny."
"Oh, fuck you," she said, and the "blocked" icon appeared.
And with that she was gone again.
Two days later, she was back, with a breezy "Hi! So how are you doing?" and they resumed, with it never being mentioned again.
She seemed intrigued with the fact that Rog was clearly interested in her in more than a platonic sense, but would not back down or modify his opinions to advance that interest. She'd had to come to him, or at least meet him halfway, which in her experience had never happened. Most of the men would suddenly have a conversion when it was clear there was no more "naughty talk" or risque pictures forthcoming without their mending fences with her. Roj simply wouldn't play the game — which she naturally assigned to being "more honest" which attracted her intensely.
So, when he mentioned he was going to be in downtown San Francisco that afternoon and was wondering if she was free to meet him for coffee somewhere, she readily agreed.
She didn't even know his real name, Roj thought bemusedly.
He was idly considering whether he ought to even mention that ordinary people, including himself, didn't have call on rich parents — that any "experience" she had out in the "real world" was in the full knowledge that she wasn't at real risk. Or whether he ought to just concentrate on the fact that she seemed interested in him in a rather more immediate sense.  She'd been clear that she hoped they'd have sex one day — just the idea that she'd say that was a shock on a lot of levels for Rog, although it was almost a defining point for her.
Still, he bet that her parents could come up with — what, $100,000 on a whim if the banks were open?  He snorted laughter at himself, and left for the coffee shop.
We'll see how she does after she inherits all that, he thought. It would be an interesting experiment — he hoped he'd be around to see it.
He drove carefully downtown, not speeding or doing anything else that would draw attention.  He was humming to himself.  He was actually going to enjoy meeting her, he thought, even aside from the fact that she really was a good-looking woman.
He parked two blocks away from the coffee shop, the first place he could find that wasn't surrounded by surveillance cameras. His experience with the hacker had convinced him that he — everyone really — had too much information out there, waiting to be plucked, used, misused… he had become a strong privacy advocate. He avoided showing up on "the grid" as he laughingly called it as much as possible.  It just wasn't anyone else's business what he was doing all day, every day.  It was becoming a matter of principle.
He walked into the coffee shop and instantly saw her at a table toward the back.  She glanced up and saw him, and a pleased smile broke across her like sunrise.
"Hi, I'm Rog," Rog said.
"And I'm Lucy," she replied.
"I hope you don't mind me saying so, but you look spectacular," Roj said, and it was true. Her dark hair hung to her shoulders, and she was wearing a light summer dress, and unexpected, shocking crimson high heels, which should have seemed too much but weren't, somehow. She was wearing no makeup, an affectation of hers, but with her wide brown eyes and ready smile, she didn't need any.
She blushed.
"Well, I was going to just wear sweatpants and a tshirt, to be honest. But this struck me as a special day for some reason." She smiled. "Truth is, these shoes are killing me — I can't believe I'm wearing them."
"It is a special day," said Rog. And that too was true. He could feel the immediate comfort, the congruence, and he could see she felt it, too. He knew that he could stand and say "Come with me," and she would. But not yet. First, coffee.
"It's a bit of a walk to my car," Rog said, "If I'd known you were going to wear heels, I'd have parked right here in the room for you."
She laughed.
"Who said I'm going to your car?"
"Yours then."
"Nope, I Uber-ed."  She considered him seriously for a moment, and he could see the decision click into place. "But, honestly, I'll be perfectly OK. Your car will do just fine."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CDF3C7F8-811C-4EE7-81C3-C431C24AB501">
            <Text>"The thing you have to realise," she said, "is that everyone here is crazy, including most of the staff and the UPS guy, but this sweetie-pie is  simply a world-class bugshit crazy lunatic asshole whose disorder, excuse me if I laugh because I have read every edition of the DSM and you have not, is just a convenient resource for a one-man clusterfuck whose sexual, social and financial mores make Weinstein look like a... a..."
"Producer?"
"Almost, yes."
"You say 'sweetie-pie'. Which sweetie-pie?"
"You don't know much about Dissociative Identity Disorder."
"No."
"Do you want to?"
"What? Here?" he said. "Do you want to?"
She blushed. "Were we the only people who--"
"--really enjoyed the 9/11 aftermath?"
"No," she said. "Threat of imminent... dissolution, it's a natural thing. You look for the first feasible mate to pass on your genes. It's why people get horny at airports. Fear of obliteration is a great aphrodisiac."
"You weren't the first feasible mate, Lisa. You were..."
"I was twenty five years old. My first proper job and in a world-class hospital in a world-class university town. Then a world-class catastrophe. Boom."
"Boom. We met."
"Boom. Assholes flew aeroplanes into buildings, your story goes bung, we make out, end."
"Not end."
"End. You go back to the Chronicle, I go back to the booby hatch, life goes on."
"I always thought it would be great to be with a shrink. Somebody who whatever you say doesn't think you're peculiar."
"Somebody who doesn't need to think you're peculiar because they already decided you were, on account of you're a human being. You hack."
"Hack? You--"
"So don't call me a shrink. Hack."
He caught her eye. Laughed.
"Don't do that round here," she said. 
"What?"
"Laugh. Only the manic kind, which brings me to Dissociative Identity Disorder. The guy we are about to see sums up the pain-in-the-ass-ness of psychiatry, not because he is a batshit cackling headbanger, but because of what he has. See, it's my specialty that has Dissociative Identity Disorder , and has done since the very beginning. It keeps renaming itself. It keeps changing its mind. First psychoanalysis then analytic psychology. One moment we have neurotics, who wear fur coats and pay one time, and psychotics, who gibber in oubliettes at the state's expense. Then neurotics go out of style and psychoses get downgraded. You think we have sociopaths? We don't. Megalomaniacs? Nope. We have antisocial personality disorder and narcissistic personality disorders. Just when we've pinned something down -- as, back in the day, people used to point and shout "loony" and clap the poor sod in irons, we say "acute psychotic episode" and break out the haloperidol. In my first job, on emergency intake, we had triage, but not as you know it. Our triage was to walk down the line of those poor bastards whose cheese had slipped off their cracker and call out "Diazepam. Diazepam. Security. Big nurse. Security. Big nurse" and just... kept the lid on.  Little has changed.
"you want to see personality disorders, check out the staff room. We've got one guy, sits most of the day in his basement man-cave, singing Wagner to his collection of taxidermy animals. Doesn't stuff them himself but buys them in, already stuffed. Pre-stuffed. Don't know whether that's more or less disturbing than if he sat there with his funnel and his pestle and a sack of kapok, but either way it's disturbing. We've another guy who is psychiatric adviser to the Episcopalian Exorcism Consistory and in the next office is what you'd take to be a completely normal guy who in fact is completely normal, a position he maintains by simply not taking any notice of anything anyone says to him.
"Next to him is a guy who thinks C G Jung is still alive, in the Collective Unconscious of All Humanity, and another one who has invented a religion in which he is trying very hard to believe, because he thinks it will give him insight into his own speciality, Religious Mania, which isn't called that any more but is certainly not in short supply round these parts.
"And that's just the staff. The patients, you lose track of. But Mister Sleepwalker... he's lost track of himself. He's... Jesus, he's a sort of core, an actual operating, acting thing, the Sleepwalker, and then all these backup things. Cowboys. Construction workers. Police Officers. He's like the fucking Village People and then there's the others. They're his alters, his alter egos. They don't know of each others' existence. It's like a sort of amnesia, except most of the time whichever one you're talking to has not only forgotten the last time he was 'onstage', but he's forgotten he's forgotten. And of course DSM doesn't help. They used to be schizophrenics but even schizophrenics aren't schizophrenics any more. Then these guys, our guy, had Multiple Personality Disorder but that was no good and now they're... look, you don't want to sit here listening to me all day."
"Believe me, I would like nothing more than--"
"Come on. Come and see the beast in the cage. A bad guy. Bring a banana."
"A banana?"
"A joke. Come on."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="406E24B3-4207-4A5B-83CD-8D8051571E47">
            <Text>BOMB THREAT.  NEXT TUESDAY. 1 pm (this was crossed over) 3PM. LOCATION? MAKE SURE ALL PAPERS GET IT, BE PUBLIC. DIRECT CALL (crossed over). EMAIL? RECORDED MESSAGE BETTER.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="79548188-AC9A-445C-BB78-49C900DF04C6">
            <Text>Jacob realized he didn’t really know anything about Sleepwalker for the umpteenth time that morning. He needed to think like Terrordon if he was going to provide his readers the ‘inside thoughts’ of his current subject. To think like Terrordon he would need to know as much as he could about his quarry. He’d read the books, but now he needed to know the details. The details that only the Dr would have. Dr. Lisa. She was a distraction. A “too easy on the eyes” kind of distraction. Those men had nothing on her. Except for jasmine. Pete and Jon must use the same soap as Dr. Lisa Appleton Warne.
“F… this is going to be a long day.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="73C2E575-815D-48B7-979E-B56BFD57C020">
            <Text>It was obvious to Sleepwalker that The Fisherman was a fraud. He could tell without even considering any of the oh-so-obvious leads. The name itself gave it away. The Fisherman. It was offensive. Insulting. Demeaning. No serious villain would name themselves after a tradesman. 
“Better be careful, The Baker might get you! Ooh, look out, The Plumber’s on site,” he muttered. Trades were for honest people, which is probably why Jesus was a carpenter. Smart people worked hard too, but only for the fun of getting what they wanted from the honest people. 
The Fisherman. The phrase was intrinsically honest: no mystery, no menace, no style. It was amateur. 
It was like someone acting at being a villain, playing the part to get something. But it was the act of someone honest trying to be dishonest. It was predictable. 
And what did they get for it? 
Riches? Maybe, but that wasn’t enough to give oneself a Title. A good cardshark could probably earn more than what the Fisherman was going to end up with. 
Fame? Maybe. He was high profile to bring Terrordon out of retirement, but he wasn’t revelling in it. He’d barely scratched the surface of what was possible with social media. No, fame was not his motivation.
Delight in the suffering of others? No. At most there was possibly some schadenfreude in the inconvenience caused. Maybe. But it wasn’t fun. To be fun, suffering should be inevitable and it should be witnessed. Like pulling the legs off a caterpillar and watching it writhe uselessly until it dies. Or telling people that only one of the levers will trigger the death trap—they want to believe you—and watching them frantically argue about which to choose until they pull one in desperation. It was as inevitable as the cartoons on Saturday morning TV, but so much more fun! 
But not for The Fisherman. He didn’t seem to want to hurt others. 
So The Fisherman had all the traits of an honest man pretending to be dishonest, and he clearly wanted something other than fortune, fame or fun. 
“Why call yourself The Fisherman?” he asked aloud. 
Because he’s fishing. Fortune and fame weren’t pleasurable, they were bait. The Fisherman was so honest, he used the name to announce what he was doing. He truly was an amateur!
But what what was he catching? Nothing had changed except… the Terrordon had returned. But who would be stupid enough to bait a vigilante? Who would even want to bait a vigilante?
Sleepwalker smiled at a sudden memory, “My dear Terrordon, Someone came to see me during my holiday at Rampworth. Despite all that I’ve done and how interesting I am, he came just to ask about you. A visitor, wanting to ask me, about you. An honest, stupid, and very amateur, visitor. 
“Oh, this is going to be so much fun.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9F0997DD-146D-4851-9DF1-61D70CD5A1EE">
            <Text>Out in the street, Pete saw Jacob striding away, and ran after him. When he finally caught him up, he was out of breath and could hardly speak. “Stop, Jacob,” he said, “that’s not the way.” He turned him to lead him back down to walk the two blocks to where Eureka Books was located.
“Anyway, now look what you’ve done. Your bad temper has got us, got me, banned from one of the best coffee shops in this area!”
“What I’ve done! What you did! If you hadn’t started ogling that freak, he wouldn’t have come across and started trying to hit on me!”
“But he knew you! You had had a relationship!”
“Did you not hear what I said. We never had a relationship; I just egged him on to get information about the LGBT community! You know how I work, my “method writing” of getting involved in the subject, the circumstances, the society of the people I’m writing about. It’s the same with fucking Lance Armstrong and the competitive cycling community. I only took up cycling to get in with them to see what makes them tick, what drives them and what drove Lance Armstrong. No more than that. I did not have a relationship with that creature; I am never going to have a relationship with him. And I want no more of cycling and cyclists. Got it!”
“How was I to know you two knew each other! It was just an ordinary encounter in that part of town as far as I was concerned. It was you who over-reacted.”
“Oh yeah? Shall I tell Jon …?”
“Now you’ve gone too far! But we’re here at the bookstore, so calm your temper and try to put on a smile for the people.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="D96B132A-433D-4245-81F0-DFA322E8BA2C">
            <Text>Jacob walked into the reception area of the San Francisco Chronicle and looked around before walking over to the reception desk.  The young girl sitting behind a computer screen seemed to be in another world, totally absorbed in the screen she was looking at.  Jacob coughed, no reaction, impatient to get on with his meeting he brought his fist down hard on the desk.  The girl jumped, and Jacob felt guilty, but time was short, so he smiled and said, “Amy Kennedy, is expecting me.”
The girl checked her screen, looked up scowling, “take lift, or stairs up to the fourth floor and her office is second on right.” She then looked back at her screen dismissing him.
Jacob walked across to the lifts, saw all were in use so he took the stairs two at time until he reached the fourth floor, and following instructions found Amy's office.  Looking through the glass door Jacob could see Amy sitting behind her desk, and also Pete Schlamme, pacing in front of her, they both turned as he opened the door and walked in.
“Great,” Jacob smiled at them both, and walking across the room sat down on the empty chair.  Pete looked at him, muttered and perched on the edge of the desk.  While Amy looking irritated said, “Yes make yourselves at home, and please can someone explain what this is about.” She looked from one to the other of them and before anyone could speak says, “You do realise how busy I am, especially with the headlines today, the Sleepwalker is getting a lot of interest.”
Jacob smiled.  “That is why I am here, I know you have background knowledge Amy concerning the Terrordon, and we are all aware of the current problem with the Sleepwalker.”
Amy spoke up. “Yes not only is the Fisherman on the loose, we now have the Sleepwalker loose, and where is Terrordon when we need him?
“Well, about the Fisherman,” Jacob coughed. Both Amy and Mike turned to stare at him. 
“Yes?” Mike asked.
Jacob cleared his throat.  “Okay guys just bare with me, and let me speak.  Firstly there is no Fisherman, he is a myth, I made him up to try and get Terrordon to show himself.”  He held up his hands to quiet them as they both started to both talk at once.
  “Just listen please, this could be good for all of our careers, just listen.”
Jacob stood up and started pacing, and Mike slid onto the seat he had vacated, making himself more comfortable.
“The Fisherman, I made him up because I needed Terrordon to think there was a real risk to life, and to encourage him to come out of retirement to hunt him down. It worked before you say anything, it worked, we have Terrordon, don’t we?”
“You bastard.” Amy screamed at him. “I spent hours and days and weeks researching and getting to understand the Fisherman.  You think its funny? Creating a monster and letting him loose on the world?”
Amy was standing, she stormed around the desk and stood in front of Jacob. “Do you?”
Jacob shrugged. “I did what I felt was needed to try and bring Terrordon out of retirement.” 
Looking at both Amy and Mike he shrugged again. 
 “Neither of you can deny you benefitted from the Fisherman, in terms of getting publicity?”
Mike stood and walked over to Jacob and Amy.  “So tell me is that why we are here so you can confess? Or is there more to this you have not told us?”
Jacob could see this was not going to be as easy as he thought.
“I need your help guys, I think we could all benefit from the Sleepwalker being caught”.  He paused hoping for a reaction, but nothing just a coldness was settling over the office.
“I was thinking that maybe we, as in the three of us could catch the Sleepwalker, we would all benefit from this.” He stopped as both Mike and Amy burst out laughing, and waited until they stopped, and were just staring at him incredulously. 
“Your serious?” Mike said.
“Well yes I am actually, we could be our own super hero league, it would give us an opportunity to get into the mindset of how Terrordon works, and we would be doing the world a favour, well San Francisco a favour.”
He stopped and looked at Amy and Mike, and knew that it was not going to happen, he could see the look in their eyes, that he was mad, had lost it, and he could see something else too, a distrust that made him feel uncomfortable.
Amy turned and walked over to the phone.  “I am phoning the police you are mad, for all we know you helped the Sleepwalker to escape?” Mike rushed over put his hand over the phone, Don’t do that Amy, we all become guilty, whats to stop them from thinking we were involved as well?”
“We can’t let him just walk away, he’s bloody mad.”  Amy was fuming.
Mike turned and walked back over to the door,  turning he looked at Jacob with pity.
 “Mate you have lost it totally, not only have you lied to us all, you now think you have super hero abilities and can take on the Sleepwalker. You really think you can catch him don’t you?”  he sighed. 
“I feel for you I do but I am not getting involved in this, and I think you seriously need to go talk to someone professional. I agree with Amy, you are unstable, not sure why I never noticed it before.”
“Well all the signs were there.” Amy screamed.  “You have totally lost it Jacob, you need locking up with Sleepwalker.”
Opening the door he beckoned Amy over.  “Lets go get a drink and leave Jacob to think over what we have said.”  Amy joined him and without even looking at Jacob walked out.  
Mike followed turning to Jacob again to say,  “Get help Jacob, you bloody well need it.”  
He followed Amy closing the door, leaving Jacob alone with his thoughts.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F855B54D-E414-45DD-9F0B-64B2157D3641">
            <Text>There are at least 8 personalities inhabiting one body. We don’t know who that body was before these other personalities emerged. Normally, in a case of D. I. D. there are clues; a common last name, one that has a cohesive past life that can be confirmed, something. With this case, nothing. We have no place of origin. No family. No age. No missing person report. Nothing. 
Of the identified personalities the following information has been compiled:
	•	Doug : New Jersey native. Contractor or other role in construction of homes and offices. Excellent mechanical dexterity. When added to experience in industry, results in finely crafted and detailed objects. Extreme and rapid hostility as a result of perceived or actual slights. 
	•	Rog : California native. Solitary and introspective by nature. Primary interests are philosophy, theology, and psychology. Will read voraciously with extreme recall.
	•	Tim : Australian extrovert. Seeks attention via planned performances or reactions to events. Claims to have performed professionally on stage and television. 
	•	Charlotte : 6 year old female for entirety of observation. The only known female personality. Loves to draw and is very good at it. Manual dexterity shows similarity to Doug. Does not know/recall origin or home.
	•	James : California native. 18 year old homosexual male for entirety of observation. Transition into this personality is clear from the exaggerated stereotype behavior. Behavior is NOT affect but genuine (homosexual intercourse is welcomed by “James” and has been confirmed as consensual). 
	•	Billy : Alabama native and commercial farmer. Extensive knowledge of Alabama, the area of the claimed farm, farm equipment, techniques, and agricultural methods. Prefers photography as a hobby with several critics praising “his eye for accentuating detail via textural contrasts”.
	•	Joe : British national. Claims elevated status. Frequently appears after conflict showing remorse without full knowledge of the actions preceding the feelings of remorse. Prefers tea over other beverages. Often compares teas to previous samplings from various hotels. 
It is important to note that NONE of the above personalities share memories of events. 
The other clearly identified personality is unique for the following reasons:
	•	The Sleepwalker does not have a proper name. It refers to itself as the Sleepwalker.
	•	There is no origin for the Sleepwalker. Unlike the other mature and time aware personalities, the Sleepwalker has no backstory, time of origin, or other historical context for analysis. It claims to have “always existed”.
	•	The Sleepwalker is fully aware of the actions and memories of ALL other personalities. No other personality has any awareness of other personalities.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="EA30470D-2984-4CF7-AC5A-E0E98C833ED8">
            <Title>Chapter two</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch02-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CE4B9B72-F9D0-418E-97B6-B0C2763BC6F3">
            <Text>The Westin stood above Union Square like the last giant’s step down from the clouds. It was a strange architectural choice that Jacob filed away for later research. He paid the ride-share guy, who had chatted amiably at Jacob the whole way without requiring any real conversation, and headed through the front entrance.
The two story, green marble columns, dwarfing the hug grandfather clock in one corner, were just a blur as Jacob rushed to… where, exactly? The hotel was huge, and poking about on their website had revealed a bar and two restaurants, but it had failed to convey the scale of the place. 
The front desk had an unoccupied staffer, so he slid up to meet the polite smile of rather attractive young woman with wavy blonde hair in a short bob, artful yet subtle makeup, full lips… 
Jacob mentally slapped himself. “Down tiger,” he muttered to himself. She’s practically toddler, you dirty old man.
“How can I help you, sir,” the clerk asked. Something about her air spoke to being accustomed to this kind of reaction, and also told him that she had noticed.
“Tea?” he replied. “I’m looking for a friend who comes here for tea on occasion, but I just realized that I don’t know where to go for that.”
A nod. “You can get tea and coffee from a number of our restaurants, as well as a few small kiosks tucked away…”
“No, I mean tea-tea. Like with crumpets and manners and all that. English tea.”
The clerk’s smile almost cracked her polite demeanor, but she refrained from laughing out loud at him. A consummate professional. “Caruso’s is probably where your friend is.” 
She produced a small pamphlet and flipped to a simplified map of the building. “You’re here,” she tapped the spot labeled “Lobby”. “If you go down that hall,” she pointed, “take a left, and you’ll see signs leading you the rest of the way. If he’s not there, he may also be in the Clock bar, here, or maybe the Oak Room, here,” she said, tapping on the other two locations within the sprawling hotel complex. Then she folded the pamphlet backward so that the relevant portions of the map were on the outside and handed it to him. “Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”
“No, I think this is all I need. Thanks!” Jacob said, wondering if he should ask for a phone number, and then remembering that he was chasing a story.
“Enjoy your tea, and please come again,” the clerk said. 
Jacob waved the pamphlet in farewell. He didn’t remember to even look at the woman’s nametag until he rounded the first corner. Maybe after the interview with “Joe.”
The hostess at Caruso’s was helpful and friendly, but even after he showed her a strategically cropped close-up of The Sleepwalker/Joe’s face, she told him that he hadn’t been there in the last two hours, since she started her shift. 
Not surprising. It could be hours before Joe made an appearance. At least it wouldn’t be days—Dr. Warne had let slip that the English personality tended to surface the same day that the dominant personality committed some terrible crime that Joe “woke up” in the middle of. 
“I think I’ll check out the other establishments first. He may not be here for a while yet,” he told the hostess. Jacob wasn’t hungry, and this wasn’t a bar where he could nurse a drink or two over the course of an evening. There were plenty of chairs and small tables in various nooks, and those might give him a better vantage for spotting The Sleepwalker. 
Wandering the building gave him a better sense of the layout of the first floor, where most of the shops, conference rooms, gym, and so-forth were located. He found the famous Clock Bar, and made a mental note to invite his next date there. Unless she worked here, of course.
After an hour, he did start to get a little hungry, and decided to head back to Caruso’s for a bit of coffee and maybe some hummus with veggies. This place seemed the most likely place for “Joe” to take his tea.
It wasn’t a long wait.
The waiter had just poured his first cup of coffee when The Sleepwalker walked in. Even from across the room, his tall frame and green eyes made him stand out. Jacob leapt from his seat just as the hostess pointed him out to the confused man standing in front of her.
“Joe! I’m so glad you could make it,” Jacob said, pouring on his best schmooze. Before the other man could muster an objection, Jacob wrapped an arm around his shoulders and steered him to the table. “Join me for tea, won’t you Joe?” he said, holding out a chair and blocking the most direct escape route between the tables.
“Do I know you?” Joe said, the English accent laid on a little too thick. He seemed drawn in on himself, the very picture of a proper, educated Brit faced with a rude American. 
“I’m Jacob Heath,” he said with a tone calculated to imply that he was reminding Joe of a previous introduction. “I just wanted to talk with you about The Sleepwalker.” Jacob realized that the direct approach had been a terrible mistake just as that moniker had left his lips.
Joe recoiled as if Jacob had just slapped him. “Oh, no. That won’t do. Won’t do at all,” he tried to side-step Jacob, but the tables were a little too close.
Jacob dodged to intercept. “Joe, I just want to talk. Surely, you’d like to unburden yourself over a nice tea.”
“I don’t know you, I’m sure of that now. Let me pass,” Joe whispered, glancing around as if embarrassed to draw attention with a loud declaration. 
“Let’s not make a scene,” Jacob said, inching closer into the other man’s personal space. “Have a seat, and we can have a nice chat. I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not a cop. Cops can’t lie about that. It’s entrapment, right? So what’s the harm it a friendly chat?”
“I’m not here for a chat. Especially not with the likes of you. Good day, sir!” The last, Joe said with enough volume for nearby tables to hear. He turned to go the long way around the table and escape the rude stranger.
Jacob chased the other way around the table, and grabbed the man’s arm. This wasn’t going according to plan. Should have been more subtle, but fuck subtle! He pulled in close and whispered, “I know you’re The Sleepwalker. I know what you’ve done. If you talk with me, I won’t turn you in.”
Joe’s perplexed expression melted into fear and horror at the mention of his super-personallity, and he wrenched himself out of Jacob’s grasp. “Leave me alone,” he shouted, drawing stares of alarm from nearby patrons. The hostess was already hunched over a courtesy phone, trying desperately not to draw attention to herself as she called her manager, or maybe even hotel security. 
Jacob still blocked the way to the front of the restaurant, flailing about mentally for some way to salvage the situation.
“I just wanted to find a little quiet time for myself,” Joe said, beginning to lose focus on Jacob, his gaze turning inward. “Quiet. Too many people talking. Talking-talking-talking all the time!” he grabbed a fistful of his own hair and began to sway. His accent melted away with each word he spoke.
“Look, Joe. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” Jacob said, all the time a stream of panicked obscenities bouncing around inside his own skull. “Just calm down. We can have a nice, quiet tea. No talking. On me. The tea is on me, with all the biscuits and crumpets you can eat. Wouldn’t that be nice?” This was pear-est of pear shaped that anything could possibly go, and he felt the urge to run, just from the embarrassment, let alone from the danger of confronting a known killer. 
A stocky man with a walrus moustache planted his hand the table he was sitting at and began to lever himself out of his chair, “You two gentlemen need to take this outside…”
As quick as a striking cobra, The Sleepwalker grabbed a knife off the table and drove it through the walrus-man’s hand and deep into the table. 
The restaurant erupted in screams, chairs and tables being knocked over in everyone’s haste to get away.
Even knowing that it could happen, the transformation in personalities took Jacob by surprise, so that his feet were rooted to the floor for a heartbeat—or an hour—it was hard to tell in his panic. It was just long enough for The Sleepwalker to grab a pot of hot tea and smash it over the head of a grandmotherly old woman who unwisely leapt to the walrus-man’s defense.
Jacob used the distraction to push his way into the crowd struggling past overturned chairs and tables as they all pressed toward the exit at the same time. He shoved the shamefulness of his retreat, and the reason it was needed, deep down for later. Now was the time for survival.
Another scream from behind them spurred the crowd, and Jacob with it, into the hallway. Everyone was headed toward the lobby. It was the familiar exit, but it was also packed with people. The squawk of hand-held radios heralded the security guards who had to fight their way upstream to the disturbance. 
“God help them,” Jacob’s words were swallowed by the din of the crowd. 
Avoiding the throng, Jacob pealed off, headed deeper into the hotel proper. At the first hallway intersection, he glanced back at the mass of people pushing to get away from the restaurant’s entrance and locked eyes with the infamous Sleepwalker. 
The tang of copper pennies flooded his mouth and he ran faster than he had ever moved in his life. His surroundings were a blur as he slammed his body into a wall rather than slow enough to round a corner and kept going. Running and turning at random, he knocked a housekeeping cart over, but it barely slowed him down.
Jacob ran and turned through the the long halls, passing guest offices with printers and fax machines, a workout room, a cleaning supply closet, but never stopping. Somewhere, there had to be an entrance to a parking garage. Did the Westin have one of those below it? He couldn’t remember, so he zig-zagged through the hotel, losing track of direction and time, until his lungs burned.
He stopped and caught his breath in a quiet alcove with two leather chairs. Heart-beats thudded in his ears for a minute or two, until finally, he began to hear murmurs from down the hall. Voices, low and relatively calm. Safety comes with numbers, or so his lizard brain was telling him, so he headed in that direction.
Somehow, he had ended up near to a hotel bar. “I could really use a drink, or five,” he said to no one. He slipped into the rather crowded room.
This was the “Clock Bar”, according to the sign at the entrance, though it lacked the kitchy clocks that the name implied. Instead, subdued lighting bathed the space in a warm glow. Brown leather chairs and a few tables in conversational groupings made the space seem cozy.
He stepped up to the bar and ordered a drink. He milled around for a bit, too enervated to sit, while catching snippets of conversation about the events that had just transpired. 
“I don’t feel safe leaving here until they’ve caught that lunatic…”
“… seven feet tall and flame red hair…”
“… giving a presentation. The company Chair was going to hear my proposal…”
He tipped an empty glass to his lips without remembering taking a second sip, so he ordered anoter. The adrenaline was beginning to fade, and with the help of alcohol, a wave of fatigue washed over him.
Off to the side of the room, there was an empty couch just short enough to make putting an arm around your date for the evening necessary. He sank into the worn leather with a huge sigh of relief. The earlier exercise, coupled with a mad dash from certain death or dismembership, had taken its toll. 
What an idiot! he thought. It was like I’d never interviewed someone who didn’t want to be interviewed. What a disaster. Jacob took another sip, trying to savor it, but his mind drifted to the problem at hand.
There are still at least five other personalities. If I’m not as ham-fisted about it next time, maybe I could meet one of them. But which one?
Doug didn’t seem promising, unless he wanted to insinuate himself into the local construction industry. But what were the chances that The Sleepwalker was gainfully employed in one of his personalities supposed occupations.
Rog was too quiet, Charlotte… That wasn’t going to help. Not many gradeschools allowed six year old personalities in grown men’s bodies to attend. Where the Hell would Billy hang out, assuming he even surfaced? There might be some vintage camera shops around that might attract the Southern farmer/photography enthusiast. How did an alternate personality end up with a former occupation, anyway?
Jacob shook his head, smiling at his pointless woolgathering. Focus, man. Focus. What about Billy?
Billy was a real possibility. Jacob already knew the LGBT scene pretty well, especially where someone new to it tended to turn up. Running into Travis might get a bit awkward, but no moreso than running into any of his real exes. It wasn’t a terrible plan, now that talking to “Joe” was right out. Billy wasn’t supposed to remember what Joe had experienced. 
Suddenly, a hand grabbed him by the nape of the neck, and a sharp object poked him in the ribs as The Sleep Walker slid in beside him. “Don’t struggle, or I’ll slip this blade straight into your heart.” He had a new brown suit jacket and a purple-checkered shirt, swapped out with another victim that hadn’t been drenched with blood, no doubt. 
“You shouldn’t have ambushed Joe like that,” he continued, “very improper, not sporting at all,” he said, mimicking the other personality’s accent. “Now let’s stay quiet for just a moment. I want to savor this place before I drench it in blood. Probably your blood.”
Jacob let his drink slip from insensate hand, but it landed on the rug at his feet, and nobody seemed to notice. Nor did they notice the madman sitting close like a lover, the blade between them hiding in the folds of The Sleepwalker’s borrowed jacket. “I just wanted to talk. I’m… I’m writing a book…”
“Do you know how varied the shades of blood are? I’ve noticed that if I stab someone through a major artery, it’s really bright red. A really festive color really. Reminds me of the holidays.”
“I’m sorry. Really, really sorry,” Jacob said, cold sweat trickling down his back.
“I once sliced up a man, nice and slow, finding all the blue veins to see the difference. It wasn’t blue though. That surprised me the first time. It was just a deep, deep red. Lovely in its own way, I suppose, but it would have been pretty nifty if it came out blue. Hey, maybe I need to kill an upper-crusty type. Maybe that’s where ‘blue-blood’ comes from.”
Jacob turned to his captor, looking into those spooky green eyes, “Look, there’s no need for anybody to get hurt. It’s all just a misunderstanding…”
“No need? Are you insane?” The Sleepwalker chuckled. “There’s a need to hurt… what’s your name? I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”
Jacob didn’t want to answer, but he felt the knife begin to work its way through his shirt and pierce his skin skin, wiggling a little in place. The pain made it hard to think, so he blurted out, “Jacob. Jacob Heath. I’m just a writer. That’s all I am, please don’t kill me.”
“Hush now. There, there. No need to beg. It won’t do you any good anyway,” the Sleepwalker said, his tone soothing. “I’m going to kill you for what you did. And because I just want to—it’s not like I need a reason, of all people. Right? Right. I just haven’t decided how.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="16DF66FF-7C20-4E4F-9B82-E2396015A11C">
            <Text>He had also seen a number of quick-fire articles on his bomb threat; the reaction and tone was generally right, but the analysis was—disappointing. They'd all gone with the international terrorism angle, some even going so far as to dedicate some time pointing out how the terrorists seemed to be 'changing their tactics'. He googled 'Fisherman' again and the relevant articles had dropped to page 4. Also, the Kennedy piece in the Chronicle had suffered a rash of comments, all of which were basically laughing at her angle:</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="18124C4F-B467-4A58-822D-A2CEE20456ED">
            <Title>Chapter seven</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch07-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2CDA10D8-FEFF-46DE-A6C5-A09A69AFC2D1">
            <Text>Lisa checked the kit, as always. Thank heavens for the transcripts. Used to be a shorthand writer, apparently, which must have been the job from hell -- writing down the ventilations of mental patients and the often clueless and increasingly irritable questioning of the psychiatrists and the raft of ancillaries -- but which didn't touch them, perhaps because, like an experienced psych or a priest in the confessional, they didn't actually listen.
Now it was different. They had the Transcription Lady.
The Transcription Lady was of unknown age and unknown address. She drove an unknown car, lived in an unknown house, with (allegedly; someone had once heard call out "Oh, honey...?" in the background of a telephone call) an unknown husband.
But the files, the DSS files and the video files and the annotation records and everything, flew to her down the secure end-to-end high speed federal broadband, and came back tabulate, commented, time-codes extracted, text transcribed and tagged and logged, down to every *coughs* and [nervous laugh] and Qualitative Analysis coding to the nth level {{sleep\disturbed\nightmare\physical_crushing\succubus\waking\second_level_waking}} of detail.
The Transcription Lady knew all this.
The Transcription Lady knew everything.
She listened with more attention than most human beings would ever receive in their lives.
But the people she listened to never asked what she knew.
They never would.
She was just the Transcription Lady.
Which was a pity, because she was the only one who was in the picture.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="ADA52679-EB26-4E22-AE2E-8753A76B7C54">
            <Text>No one had been paying any attention to Jacob, but he had not run. How could he? This was Terrordon bringing his arch-enemy down. Jacob was rooted to the spot. But now he was faced with a question he had not considered. Was Terrordon just going to kill Sleepwalker like that? And was Jacob going to watch him do it?
Sleepwalker sputtered under the weight of Terrordon's foot.
Jacob didn't want to see it, but he couldn't just walk away either.
"You're not going to just kill him, are you? He's sick. He needs help."
Terrordon didn't take his eyes off Sleepwalker. "You should go. Alert the policet to come up here."
"But you're not going to kill him, right?"
"This nasty piece of work? Of course not. Why ever would I do that?" Terrordon ground his boot harder into Sleepwalker's neck, making him writhe in agony and grope silently for air.
 Sleepwalker sputtered and beat Terrordon's boot with his fists. Terrordon relented.
Sleepwalker gasped for air. "Don't do it, Jacob. He'll kill me. Don't leave."
Jacob took a step back toward the door.
"You know he'll kill me. And he'll be gone. You won't find him. And who is he? You're never gonna know. Never."
Jacob took another step back, put his hands in his pockets. The gun was there.
Terrordon was unwrapping another length of cord from his belt. The absurdity of his outfit was made more absurd in this gilded room. How do you become someone like that — who stands out and stands up against all odds?
Sleepwalker was staring intently at him. "I know you can do it, Jacob. You have to."
Terrordon stopped what he was doing, dropped the cord. His caped shoulders rose as he turned toward to Jacob with new intensity.
But it was too late. Jacob's unsteady hands held the gun trained on him.
"Shoot him!" Sleepwalker shouted, "Just shoot him!"
"Jacob." Terrordon's voice was calm, steady.
Jacob was immobilized. Sleepwalker thrashed at his captor's feet, just babbling now "Red red red—"
"Jacob!"
"Red red red red red red."
Terrordon's hand seemed to move at his utility belt.
The shot rang out. Terrordon reeled back and crumpled to the floor.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CE9BCA42-03E3-4DBD-8DAC-629C7707B5C5">
            <Title>Chapter briefs</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="608296F7-7512-4241-A3F0-DF2A5AE828AF">
            <Text>"And those three personalities haven't appeared since." said Dr Warne as she let several moments pass to recover. "The Sleepwalker personality actually hurt them."
"I thought they were not aware of each other." replied Jacob confused.
"True, the 'core' seven do not recall any actions of the others. The Sleepwalker is the only one who knows what all the others have done."
"Which suggests that he is the true personality?" asked Jacob.
"I do not think so." replied Dr Warne. "I think that these three personalities were an emergent new personality, that may have been independent, and could have provided new insights and answers to the Sleepwalker's psyche. But it seems that the Sleepwalker punished them for their independence."
"Or in this case outright killed them." added Jacob.
Silence as Dr Warne and Jacob looked at each other, letting the finality of what he had said sink in. No wonder the Sleepwalker is Terrordon's arch-enemy, he is ruthless even in his madness, thought Jacob.
"But, do you know why exactly he did that?" pressed Jacob.
Dr Warne hesitated a moment before answering.
"I believe that if any of the other personalities gets out of line or appears to be a threat to him, I mean, if he thinks that his dominant control is threatened, he kills them before they can establish themselves."
"But why not the 'core' group?" wondered Jacob. The other personalities that he knew of, such as the child Charlotte, Tim the actor or Doug the builder were more expressive. And theoretically more independent, thought Jacob, since they didn't share anything between each other.
"I believe the Sleepwalker either does not see them as a threat," continued Dr Warne Jacob's thought, "or he thinks they have some use for him."
"Such us getting him out of trial," suggested Jacob, "or perhaps they have some control over him?"
"I doubt it…" said Dr Warne hesitantly.
"Maybe not exactly control," revised Jacob, "but some sort of leverage of which they are not aware of."
Dr Warne thought for moment, then said: "That might explain this."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="764B752B-E47A-4AE3-8EA1-991F175E86F4">
            <Text>K. Johnson:
YEAH RIGHT! So we now have what, a supervillain in our midst? Call Spiderman! Or whatever fourteen-year-old power fantasy the writer thinks should save us from this threat. With this kind of journalism is no wonder the country's in the dumps.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2C7A6D78-1159-4C0C-9084-5EF3D015E3FF">
            <Text>“Damn it Pete! You know how this works.”
“Just because I know doesn’t mean I like it. This isn’t Milk you’re talking about.”
Pete Schlamme was talking about Jacob Heath’s biography of Harvey Milk. Jacob went to the extreme of dating other men to understand what Milk and others endured as homosexuals living openly in America.
“Knock that shit off. You know I never f…ed any of those men.”
“Exactly!” Pete saw a chance to make his point. “You were safe. You could say ‘no’ and retreat. This bastard ’s a psychopath.”
“Terrordon is the good guy…” Jacob sounded confused. 
“Yeah, but Sleepwalker is the one you will be dating.” Pete really hoped Jacob understood the real likelihood of physical harm. “You know how Jon and I love you, not for the Milk thing, but because you’re like a brother to us.”
“And a paycheck.” Jacob chuckled as he said it.
“There is that.” Pete realized he’d lost the argument.
“Listen, I’m gong to the nut house… Rampworth… again to chat with that Dr and figure out where this guy could be hiding. I’ll check in once I’m done there.”
“If she’s good looking, maybe you should chase her and not the loon…” Pete tried to make a joke.
“I’ve seen you and Jon dressed for a Friday night out, the ladies will have to work hard to beat that.” Jacob hoped the compliment would score him some points with Pete. “I’ve got the best looking gay men working on my team. Right?”
“Shut it and save the compliments for the Dr. Maybe she can talk some sense into you.”
Jacob put his phone in his pants pocket. He grabbed his “working bag” and gave it a shake to make sure his keys were in it. Looking up at his cork-board he reviewed a few notes.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="53940A8D-13C4-43F5-96EC-589E534B6907">
            <Title>Chapter eighteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch18-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2960D224-7E97-4FCA-BAAB-EC3774CEE2CE">
            <Title>Chapter nine</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch09-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="4324D9BC-5790-464A-B3B5-69611A1CFDB7">
            <Text>It could have been an art installation – a dark sphere atop City Hall, a spray of scarlet thread, five hundred people frozen in place, eyes wide with pain and disbelief. That hadn’t been the start, of course. Only moments earlier, there’d been bustling, cheery chaos – marchers, vendors, dancers, celebrants of all kinds, from babes in papooses to nonagenarians in gaily decorated wheelchairs. And a bright sparkly ball on City Hall’s short spire. He’d noticed it himself, and made his way up the front steps to ask someone what it was all about. A cheerful representation of the Earth, maybe – marking the promise of San Francisco’s new ban on human-driven cars.
And then it had burst. He’d had his back to it, hadn’t seen it. But he’d heard the surprise and anguish of a hundred throats crying as one. By the time he’d turned, those who would fall had fallen, and the soft billow of scarlet had begun to reel in, turning a fairy dance of crimson into a wireframe of hell.
He hadn’t grasped it at first. No one had. They’d felt the pain, those out in the open, had felt the stab in their back, or their thigh, or their cheek, had swatted at it, had turned to a friend or neighbour to complain. Only then, perhaps, had they seen it – felt the horror sink in. They’d looked for horseflies or errant children. They’d found a thin steel needle, its barbs sunk deep in their flesh, its strand of bright coral nylon already starting to tighten.
They’d pulled them out, some of them, ripping through skin and muscle to reveal jagged spines that caught at flesh with the tenacity of a hookworm. The rest had stared in horror, at themselves, at their friends, their children, their parents, at the bodies on the ground – the ones who hadn’t been so lucky, who’d been pinned in the eye, the throat, the heart. The ones who’d already died.
And then the announcement in the friendly, bubbly tone of an automated prompt: “One move and… boom!” The sphere atop City hall, once so bright and shiny, had erupted in red, drawing all eyes as the last lines tightened and they all saw that the threads converged on the sphere like the ribbons of some sick maypole.
Five hundred people frozen in place, just then realizing that they’d been made the triggers for their own destruction, that the hooks and lines that tugged their bodies at one end tugged a bomb on the other. Wide eyed and terrified, they’d watched as those who hadn’t been hooked, who’d been somehow sheltered, searched desperately for knives or scissors or nail files, or just mumbled apologies and scuttled away to hide behind cars or food carts or just ran.
It was a scene that haunted his sleep every night, and possibly always would. He’d just started down the steps, thinking of the edge on his house key that always caught on everything, wondering whether it would cut the blood-red lines as well as it had cut his finger that one time. There was a little girl just out in the square, her father lying beside her with his head in a pool of blood. The spine was in her calf, and she was just starting to cry, and he was sure he get her loose, get her away.
Inevitably, someone had moved.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="4916955D-C472-4F11-8945-1A19D15E6A47">
            <Title>Chapter thirteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch13-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="0BE39435-8B7E-4C66-A758-BC3ECFB52D8D">
            <Title>Also by</Title>
            <Text>Also by Novel-in-a-Day:

The Dark
Lunar520
Made Man
Section7
Marshal Law
3 Ghosts

www.novelinaday.com



sponsored by
Literature &amp; Latte, creators of Scrivener
￼
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="605C6FDC-2549-4422-98D5-19B6E0CFFE42">
            <Title>Chapter 19</Title>
            <Synopsis>Jacob goes to the Westin Hotel on Union Square - finds "Geoff". Quickly turns into Sleepwaler -- and he's got henchmen.</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
The SLEEPWALKER has broken out of Rampworth State Hospital and the TERRORDON is back on the streets of San Francisco after being away since 2005. 
Things that have already happened
JACOB HEATH is writing a biography on the Terrordon and interviewed the Sleepwalker in Rampworth prior to his escape. He's now trying to get into  the mind of a hero by trying to catch the Sleepwalker himself.
LISA WARNE, the Sleepwalkers doctor at Rampworth has told Jacob that the 'Joe' personality is the one that tends to feel guilty -- and calms himself by wanting tea -- and tlaked a bit about the Westin on Union Square as doing the best.
Starts with
Jacob is working on his writing.
Chapter details
Jacob's plan is to wait until the Sleepwalker does something attrocious and then he (Jacob) will head to the Westin Hotel on Union Square to see if 'Joe' (one of the Sleepwalker's personalities) shows up.  just hide up at the Westin hotel until 'Joe' -- one of the Sleepwalker's personalities visits.
There is a  breaking news story on the TV of the Sleepwalker doing something (up to you!) so Jacob rushes to the Westin.
He eventually sees "Joe" walk in. 
Jacob joins him and confronts him. Joe very quickly turns into the Sleepwalker who is furious that Jacob has upset Joe. 
Sleepwalker goes manic and starts to terrorise the hotel guests and -- despite his best efforts to escape -- keeps Jacob there and tells him (Jacob) that he (Sleepwalker) is going to kill him (Jacob)
Ends with
In the Clock Bar, the Sleepwalker telling Jacob that he's about to kill him.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="26831901-43CD-4156-AEDA-06CFFA9ABD01">
            <Title>Cheery Welcome</Title>
            <Text>Welcome to NOVEL IN A DAY 2017

There is a well known saying that if you give a monkey a typewriter and an infinite amount of time then it will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. In 2003, the staff at Paignton Zoo gave a computer to six crested macaques and categorically proved that what you actually get is five pages of the letter ‘S’ and a broken keyboard. 

Time, it seems, is no substitute for talent. But can talent substitute for time…?

Please do take the time to read through the pack contents carefully, even if you’re one of those who have taken part in all six previous events… a ten minute reminder won’t hurt!

Thanks for taking part. I can’t wait to read what we write together!</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3EC87B78-04B3-4FFB-B665-2EED9B0E67DB">
            <Text>The Fisherman.
In his head, it had sounded predatory, malevolent. The sobriquet of a serial killer. Something Stan Lee himself might have come up with.
It had sounded clever, too: the irony of the fisherman being the bait.
But now? Now it just sounded stupid.
The doubts had begun to rain down on Jacob as soon as he had creaked and squeaked into his costume at the top of the stairwell. By the time he had shuffled out onto the rooftop overlooking the Moscone Center, the doubts had become torrential.
He had prepared meticulously: all those days spent scouring sites on the dark web, researching explosives, hiding his trail; being careful to buy ingredients—each seemingly harmless on its own—at different shops in different parts of town. (Even now, after scrubbing his kitchen clean, his fingers still smelled of potassium nitrate and baking powder.) But what he hadn’t been able to prepare for was this feeling of utter ridiculousness.
Because there was no getting around the fact that he was a 40-year old man dressed up as a comic-book supervillain.
A long-suppressed memory rose to the surface of his consciousness like a bloated cadaver rising to the surface of the sea: the look of confusion and concern on his mother’s face that time she had found him dressed in her leotard. She had looked relieved—if not entirely convinced—when he had explained that he was pretending to be a superhero. His cheeks burned at the memory. At least then he’d had the excuse of being in third grade.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="892B3793-128A-452F-A77B-2416727EE3E5">
            <Text>The bus was packed with people of the city.  Jacob bumped and pressed against a man who exhibited all the hallmarks of homelessness, most notably a pungent smell of stale urine.  The man got off at the next stop.  Jacob noticed several of the patrons began breathing as if they had been underwater for several minutes.
He left the bus on Fulton street two blocks away from Emmy's house.  His sister lived around the corner of the so-called Jefferson Airplane house, famous to no one now except Jacob, who habitually stopped for a moment outside its gated entrance, pausing to sing quietly the first few bars of "Volunteers".  He always looked up at the window from which he believed Marty Balin viewed the inspiration for the song, a lorry that hauled charitable donations.
He remembered the time he saw Grace Slick in person at an art exhibition in Sausalito in early 2001.  He had been shocked by her mane of white hair.  "We all get old," he thought, and he moved past the house at 2400 Fulton Street. 
Rounding the corning, he saw his sister driving into the garage level of her Victorian.  The car disappeared just as Jacob reached the concrete steps to her front door.  Before he could knock, the door swung open and she appeared before him, looking a bit tired from a day's work at her gift shop in Noe Valley. Locks of her auburn hair fell over her eyes.
She narrowed her eyes at him.  "Why didn't you call me?"
He moved past her into the house.  "Ah, ah, ah!  We agreed last week I would come over tonight.  Right?  And dinner?"
Emmy shut the door and huffed.  “Tom will not be too happy.  Something big going is going on at the firm, and he's under a lot of stress."
"Okay, no dinner," said Jacob.  "Maybe I will just raid your fridge."
Emmy laughed.  "Good luck.  I haven't gone shopping this week.  Maybe a stalk of leeks..."
"I'll take 'em," said Jacob.
He stopped his sister and hugged her as she moved to pass him. 
"How is your novel?"  she asked, still in his arms.
"It's not a novel."
"Biography.  Whatever." She broke his embrace and continued to the kitchen.  "Pacey will be home from basketball soon.  I have to get dinner started, at least."
"But I cannot stay?"
"No, not tonight. Sorry."  She opened the refrigerator, bent down and pivoted to face Jacob holding a plastic bag.  "Here are your leeks."
He surveyed the bag as he took it from her.  "One leek.  Singular."  He pinched off a leaf and began chewing.  "Did you close the shop?"
"No, I left it to Harold. Summertime hours.  I need him to stay longer."
"Oh."
"I have a family and he doesn't.  Kind of like..."
"Me."  Jacob tore off another leaf of leek.
Emmy cocked her head, then lowered it in dismay.  She opened a cabinet.  "Tea?"
"Yeah.  It will help me shake off the two martinis I just had."
"Top of the Mark again?"
"You bet.  And the sunset through the clouds was glorious." Jacob sat down at the kitchenette table.  He ran his gaze around to the top of the high cabinets, cataloguing the knick-knacks Emmy had fastidiously arranged.  "So let's talk about me."
Emmy laughed dryly.  "Of course.  So, your novel."
"Biography.  I can't seem to find any leads.  I'm starting to believe I should pick another subject."
"Is this your John Muir book?"
"No," said Jacob.  "Wow, you really pulled that one out of your hat.  I haven't thought about the Muir book in ages."
"So what is it?  Willie Brown?  Jerry Brown?"
Jacob rapped his fingers on the polished wooden tabletop and looked out the window at the street below.  He thought better of telling Emmy he was taking up the subject of a street fighter.  "Just an anonymous local hero." 
"Anonymous?"
"A do-gooder who tried to help the...uh, homeless and the oppressed here in the City."
"Soup kitchen type?"
"I guess you could say that." 
Emmy started a kettle of water on the stove, and took out two Chinese takeout boxes from the fridge.  "These aren't for you, by the way.  So, how are you going to write a book about an anonymous welfare worker?  Why is he anonymous?"
"He sort of helped people without their knowing it.  Surreptitiously."
Emmy tore the metal handles off the boxes and put each box in the microwave.  "Are you writing about that guy who used to play trumpet at Fisherman's Wharf?"
"What?"
"Don't you remember?  The human juke box."
Jacob laughed.  "Grimes Poznikov?  No, but thanks for reminding me. Suffice to say, I am running into a dead end on my research."
Emmy pulled out the boxes from the microwave and stirred their contents with a fork. "Do you remember what you did the last time you hit a serious dead end?"
"Yes, of course.  During the Milk article for the Chronicle."
"What did you call it?  Method acting?"
"Method writing," said Jacob, standing up and moving toward the stove.  "The concept was that if I ran out of data, I would create it."
"By immersing yourself in the environment," said Emmy.  She dumped the contents of the boxes out onto one plate.  She picked the plate up and shoved it at Jacob.  "Here."
He smiled at her and said, "Chopsticks?"  She produced a pair out of a drawer next to the stove.
As he ate, Emmy poured green tea and sat down across from him.  "You know, I am still a little...I still don't understand your willingness to dive into the Milk book so - "
"Go ahead and say it.  You suspect me of being gay."  He shoved a shrimp into his mouth.  Between chews, he said, "Would you say the same of Sean Penn?"
Emmy frowned.  "You have used that argument before."
"He used method acting," said Jacob. "It got him an Oscar.  And he is still the same guy afterward."  He gulped down some tea.  "I used method writing.  I did my research and got out.  And I got published."
Emmy sighed.  "You dated that guy Troy for over a month."
Jacob put down his chopsticks.  "No.  Just a month.  Not a day over.  His name was Travis.  And I kept my...well, distance."
Emmy looked askance.  "Okay.  Sure.  But Mom and Dad - "
"Still don't look at it as just research.  Harvey Milk's was a life that was very interesting to me, and his impact on this city, on this country, is still being felt.  I thought it was worth a closer look."
Emmy reached across the table and held his hand.  "Jacob. You are forty years old, single.  You are in good shape.  You are neat.  A little too neat.  And you live in San Francisco.  Mom and Dad are a little...suspicious.  Who was the last girl you dated?"
Jacob nodded.  "Okay, it's been a while, but I've been busy."
"Busy with leads for some anonymous helper of the homeless.  And freelancing for little or no money.  And bumming off your big sister - "
"Come on," said Jacob.  "I hold my own.  I pay my bills.  And," he said, holding up his empty plate and smiling, "I take leftovers."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="12351546-6D81-4036-8CDE-B1D7FB807858">
            <Text>PINECREST DINER, 11:30 AM — J.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="AFA6A765-CF5B-4B5A-A0E6-2633BCF7BF53">
            <Title>Chapter five</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch05-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="191A1D75-E8D8-4B88-BCB5-BC91EE35C4B1">
            <Text>Whirrr. People looking up; helicopters weren’t unusual here, but they usually stayed higher up. WHIRRR! Getting closer. Nearly on the ground! WHIIIPPP. Three ropes trailing down from the chopper. ZIP! Thee men sliding down the ropes.
EEEKKK! People running. HHEEELLLLP! Cries from the crowd. Open space below the chopper. Three men in that space, facing toward the entrance and the few people clustered there. One man stands out from the cluster as the others cower in fear. Jason Richards, sharply dressed in his thousand-dollar suit, knows that this is the moment his martial-arts training has prepared him for. EEEYAAH! He strikes a pose, knees slightly bent, elbows at his sides, forearms horizontal, fists clenched. “Come and get me, you cowards!”
And they do.
THWAACK! His foot hits the chest of one of the attackers. OOOF. The man collapses in pain. WHOOSH. Jason’s roundhouse kick misses the next man. He quickly recovers and takes a step back from the two men still standing. They split up, to come at him from opposite sides. He smiles. “Now we’ll see who’s the better man.”
The two men move in simultaneously. THUNK. His kick bounces off the forearm of one of the men. WHIZZ. The other man’s nunchucks spin through the air. CRACK. On his head. CRUMPLE! Jason hits the ground, bleeding.
One of the attackers puts his knee on Jason’s neck. The other roughly pulls Jason’s arms behind his back and whisks out a pair of handcuffs. Properly subdued, Jason glances toward the helicopter, which has landed about ten yards away from him.
The Sleepwalker is in the copilot’s seat. He’s not looking at the result of the brief combat. Instead, he’s making WHIRR, WHIRR, WHIRR noises while shoving the helicopter’s control stick back and forth with one hand and jerking the collective up and down. Fortunately, the pilot has shut the helicopter’s engine down. He’s flown for The Sleepwalker before.
It doesn’t take long for The Sleepwalker to get bored with flying. He lets go of the controls and turns toward Jason. “So, Terrordon, I have you at last.”
Jason looks up at The Sleepwalker, resplendent in his purple outfit. “Nice suit.”
The pressure on his neck increases. “Treat the boss with respect.” Jason is silent. The man removes his knee from Jason’s neck, and the two thugs lift him painfully by the arms so that he is more or less standing. They drag him to the helicopter, and throw him into the back. They climb in as the pilot restarts the engine. The helicopter lifts off. Jason is a prisoner.
The Sleepwalker slumps in his seat and scowls. “Why am I wearing this hideous color? I would surely love a spot of tea.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F90FB8F3-6FF1-4A1D-9180-7C01818BFC9A">
            <Title>Terrordon (2017)</Title>
            <Text>Name:
Unknown / “The Terrordon”

Job:
Super hero / vigilante

Gender:
Male

Age: Not known - probably mid-40s

Appearance:
6’2”, caucasian, athletic build. Wears a dark costume with a “Terrordon” logo (based on a stylised Pteranodon) and has a cape that he can use as a hang glider.

Family:
Not known

Background:
Lots of cool gadgets - An armoured car, a utility belt, grappling hook guns, ninja style throwing weapons, etc, etc with the Terrordon logo. Probably stole most of his look / ideas from a Batman comic.

Disappeared completely from public awareness in 2005.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="5778FB87-55F6-4ED3-A504-08BC0219D800">
            <Text>“Chronicle. This is Amy.”
“Hi - it’s Jacob. Jacob Heath, the writer… I was wondering, Would you like some dinner tonight?” Ugh - it sounded like an invitation to a date, and he didn’t have time for anything like that, not now there was a villain to be caught. He needed a third wheel; an extra member for the team. Someone good with people, and who would turn up when required. Of course - the man whose wages he paid, albeit a few cents at a time presently.
“Its… it’s with my agent, too - Pete Schlamme. I don’t think you’ve met. Anyway - I’ve got a proposal for you both - something that’s going to tie together what we do and give us a a great story at the end. You’ll love it. Maybe… well, it should be interesting at least. How about 7pm at Ardiana on Church Street? I haven’t totally confirmed with Pete yet but I’ll call if I need to make a change.”
“Sure - sounds fine.” Amy’s voice gave nothing away. He hoped she’d be more enthusiastic when he saw her face to face.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="AB5E1EBF-5241-417B-8FE8-4C32C2902468">
            <Title>Chapter sixteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch16-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3A014015-EA3F-4221-BC12-E765F94C2856">
            <Title>Submission Details</Title>
            <Text>SUBMISSION REQUIREMENTS

In a minute you’ll find out what you need to write (assuming you’ve not skipped ahead). Before we get there, though, I just want to remind you a little about the “rules”:

The “minimum” word count is 1,500 words. There is no upper limit. On the previous events, chapters have ranged anywhere from the minimum up to about 5,000 words.  If it comes to it, though, I’d rather receive a 1,000 word response than no response at all. 

Please remember that quality and not volume is our goal (this isn’t NaNoWriMo). What’s more important than the quantity of words written is that you produce something you are proud of. 1,500 well written and edited words that invoke genuine emotion are far better than 10,000 ones that a reader would skim over. This said, the chapter information you have been given is just the minimum amount of information you must convey. Add as much extra sub-plot and colour as you like, as long as it falls within the stated start and end point for your chapter. 

I’m not overly fussy about what format you send me your chapter in (but see the “Style Guide”, in a bit), as long as I can easily get that text imported into a Scrivener project. An RTF file is probably about as easy as it gets, but you can just copy the text into the main body of an email if that’s what works for you.


SUBMISSION DEADLINES

Please make every effort to submit your completed chapter by 8PM on Saturday 28th October 2017 (LONDON UK time). You should send your text via email to rog@pigfender.com (ie the email address that sent you this briefing pack).

I’ll be doing minor editing from then (basically just topping and tailing if people have gone outside the start and end points of the briefs a little, but only to the extent that it causes major clashes or stepping on the toes of others.
The earlier you send your submission, the more likely it is that I’ll have chance to read through your section properly and give some friendly editorial feedback. One or two continuity quirks have been avoided in the past this way!

The absolute hard deadline is 11:59 PM (LONDON UK time) on 28th October 2017, but obviously anything submitted that late will delay the processing and release of the final books.

You can find out the equivalent of the 8PM London deadline in your corner of the world by visiting this link: http://bit.ly/NiaD7-deadline

Or if you prefer, you can have your web-browser countdown to the 8PM submission with this link: http://bit.ly/NiaD7-deadlinecount </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="44D915C4-E71F-4141-9987-8DBA50A985DB">
            <Text>Saturday morning couldn’t come fast enough. Outside, the sun shone down through the late morning haze. That was the thing about San Francisco - no matter what the weather, the promise of fog always lingered. Jacob wished it would roll in now - the brightness only served to highlight the layers of filth that coated his car. 
He’d spent the last evening trying to work through his thoughts about the Fisherman and whether he was on the right track with this, taking a trip up to Point Reyes, but torrential rain had seen his back wheels sink into the soft soil of a woodland stop, and relaxation had swiftly deteriorated into a battle with the filth and clinging earth that seemed to want to suck his vehicle into the bowels of the forest. Another glance at the car; he didn’t do mess and disorder - it made him agitated.
A noise coming from the rear of the house interrupted his irritation.
“Come back. Belinda… Belinda… come on…” That would be Reyes, his neighbour, having a little pet trouble. Belinda was a giant rabbit - a Flemish Giant, to be precise. Reyes was training her up to be a therapy animal in his wife’s psychology clinic - though now that she was around two foot long, Jacob thought she was more likely to encourage the patients to have nightmares. Better not leave the monster roaming the neighbourhood.
“Hey Reyes - need a little help?” 
“Yeah - just need an extra pair of hands to herd her back into her pen. Flemishes are meant to be docile, but I’m thinking that I might have picked the odd one out.”
Jacob lunged at the rabbit and grabbed it about the middle, wrestling its massive body into his arms.
“Woah - you’re a ninja,” said Reyes. “My reactions are shot today. I got called in to S.F. General at 2am to embolize an uncontrolled liver bleed in an 18 year old from Oakland who was "mindin my biz-ness" in a dive on Broadway Street when some dudes shot him eight times with an Uzi. I got back, like, a half hour ago.”
“Sounds like a heavy night.”
“Yeah. Though I would have been brought in, even without our good and blameless citizen. There was a breakout at Rampworth. A few casualties - we caught the overflow.”
Jacob froze, gripping the rabbit tighter. It struggled, and he thrust it into its cage, hoping Reyes hadn’t noticed the excitement building in him.
“Rampworth Hospital? Really? The mental unit?”
“Sure. They lost one - some guy who calls himself the Sleepwalker. Seemed pretty damn wide awake to me, judging on the damage he caused. Fought his way through seven guards. We got three of them at General - two were rammed into a sandwich between a wall and a truck. Crush injuries. Because what I really needed was another couple of hours working on a hepatic rupture…”
“Hey Reyes, I… need to go do something - I just remembered… um… get some sleep, yeah?” 
Jacob shot back into his house, and made for his computer and the local news. It looked like the next chapter of his book was going to write itself, near enough - and with the Sleepwalker in the wind, Reyes was going to have his work cut out, along with every other surgeon in the Bay Area.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="01B1DF23-93FC-42A4-B71D-C8D85F70554A">
            <Text>Jacob shifted in his sleep, trying to avoid the sliver of light that fell across his face. Unable to move in just the right direction, he slowly opened one eye, in hopes of determining the source. Of course, he thought. The blackout curtains on the southern-facing window had gapped, allowing the sunshine to blaze through. He grabbed his phone and looked at the time… 8:02. Great. The universe was telling him to get moving.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, simultaneously scrolling through news and social media notifications to see if he had missed anything the few hours he’d been asleep. Not finding anything of interest, he tossed the phone aside. He felt drained. The lack of sleep was really starting to get to him. He rubbed his hand across his jaw noting the tension residing there. He felt certain he’d been grinding his teeth during his brief night of sleep. Jacob made his way to the bathroom and plucked the bottle of tension-headache relief Tylenol out of the medicine cabinet. He popped three tablets into his hand and tossed them into his mouth. Running the tap, he drank cool water from his cupped palm. He slid out of his boxers and turned on the shower, planning to rid himself of the mental haze. 
“Alexa, shuffle dance music,” he commanded as he slipped into the pulsing water. 
Thirty minutes later, Jacob felt as good as new. Dressed and ready for the day, he twirled his favorite pen between his fingers as he mapped out the plan from his shower-thinking and revelations. A J-Lo song, Villain, triggered the idea. He realized if he couldn’t get a normal source, he’d go toward the abnormal and interview villains who’d been taken down by Terrordon. A bit of internet research took place as he ate a couple of pieces of buttered toast and a Granny Smith apple. Then he started making calls. 
By late afternoon, Jacob had half a pad of notes scribbled and several calls crossed off his original list that had been modified multiple times. He was so deep in thought that, when his phone rang it startled him, and he dropped it into his lap. Seeing Em’s face on the screen, he snatched it up and answered the call.
“How’s my favorite brother?” Emily asked.
“Uh… I’m your only brother,” he stood up to stretch his legs.
“Details, schmetails. Your pickiness ruins the compliment.”
“Whatever. How are you doing? How’s Pacey?”
“He’s great. I’m fine. And Tom is as well… not that you asked about him,” she answered; a small hint of sarcasm at the end.
“Don’t start on me, Em. I’m not in the mood for it today,” Jacob sighed.
Emmy, hearing her brother’s tone, let it go and shifted gears. Concerned, she asked, “What’s going on?”
“I told you that I was working on the story about Terrordon. It felt like I’d reached a sticking point, and that things had stalled.”
“You always feel that way,” she started.
“BUT,” he interrupted, “I had a breakthrough this morning and ran down some new leads.”
“That’s great,” she finished, ignoring his brusqueness.
“Yes, and no,” he stated. “It is great because I think I have a fabulous source that I’m meeting with tomorrow. But on the other hand, he’s a mental case… AND talking with him means that I have to go inside Rampworth State Hospital.”
“Oh god,” Emmy’s words rushed out in a gasp.
“Yeah.”
Silence hung between them for a few moments.
“How are you going to…?” she started.
“I don’t know.” 
More silence.
“Well, if anyone can overcome this, you can,” she offered.
“Overcome my greatest fear… virtually overnight?” he challenged.
“Yes.” She sounded more certain now. “When you put your mind to it, you can do anything. Just look at what you did with the Milk bio. You went so far into that world that you had a relationship you would have never considered in a million years before that.” 
Jacob considered it for a second. Memories of Travis flooded him at once. He hated to admit that he missed him. Shaking those thoughts from his mind, he refocused. “Yes, but this is completely different. I’ve been afraid of mental hospitals and the mentally ill for as long as I can remember. You know how bad it is.” 
“I know. I remember. But that is the past, and you have to let it go. This won’t be the same. It is a new scenario, and one where you will be safe the entire time.” 
Of course he knew that, but the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach did not dissolve.
“Thanks, sis.” 
“You can do this. I have faith in you,” she replied. “Call me when you’re done.” 
“Will do.”
“Love you,” she said.
“Love you, too.”
He set the phone down on the desk and re-read his notes. Rampworth State Hospital for the criminally mentally ill. Dr. Lisa Warne. He circled the name on the paper in front of him. The Sleepwalker. Dissociative Identity Disorder. He shuddered.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F31AA3CC-D3BE-47AA-8B47-4796D206D018">
            <Title>Spacer</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="0EB3409D-A119-4314-9444-CCCCE5CC55DE">
            <Text>Jacob pinched the bridge of his nose. This was not going in the direction he had hoped. Most of the articles dealing with the bomb threat had been either dismissive or openly ridiculing the Chronicle's take and Amy herself. There was a short op-ed called 'This is not a story of heroes and villains' that directly cited Amy's article and called it 'silly' and 'childish', and a famous journalists had published a post in her Facebook account in which she called the Chronicle's coverage 'shameful'. The post had received more that 5,000 likes and upwards of a hundred comments, most of them supportive.
He felt a little bad for Amy; after all what she'd been doing was only what he had wanted her to do and now she was receiving quite a lot of heat for it. On the other hand, what if it had worked? He knew the pitfalls of journalism and he told himself that Amy would survive. Besides, he could always vindicate her, make the Fisherman real despite this setback. The question was, of course, how.  
Maybe he had rushed things a bit—or maybe not? This would be exactly how the Fisherman would act, and if answered with the same level of derision he would—what? 
Quit?
He, Jacob, would. What he'd been doing was dangerous enough, no matter how interesting or useful for his project. He was weaving through the red line, in and out, putting himself in some rather compromising situations for the sake of drawing out someone who most likely would not reappear. 
But the Fisherman wouldn't quit. He would feel enraged and insulted and he would definitely step up his game at this point. If a bomb threat would not set him up as the credible villain he needed to be for Terrordon to come back, then he'd have to do something else. Something more radical.
He opened a new browser window and fired up the VPN and the secure link he'd learned to set a few months ago. He'd been nervous about the Dark Net at the beginning, but after some intensive—and intense—research he found he could navigate it with some confidence. Most of it was surprisingly practical and very trade-oriented and he could skirt the places he really didn't want to go into. He valued the insight into this underside of the internet, and although his only aim at getting access had been research for his book (he thought Terrordon would use it even if he was retired), now he was finding he could really used it some other, hitherto unexpected ways.
He started looking for information on how to make a bomb. </Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="EF130F98-D1BD-488E-8368-4F4FDA0A6D0B">
            <Text>"Hands in the air! Hands in the air! Do it now!"
A swarm of armed policemen in tactical gear advanced on Jacob, shouting orders. He was quickly hoisted up and pulled to one side, cuffed. Someone was reading him his rights.
"Sleepwalker is the one you want," he said. But no one was listening, no one was asking any questions. They had their man. Time to clear the area, bustle him off and book him.
Jacob was dazed, crestfallen.
"Wait. Terrordon." He strove to catch a glimpse. Would he see his face? "Who."
But Terrordon wasn't there where he had fallen. He was gone. Just gone.
As Jacob stood with his escort waiting for an elevator, the chill draft crossed the back of his neck. Somewhere a window stood open thirty-two floors up and a dark prehistoric shadow soared against the San Francisco night.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="82F49763-26A8-45EC-AFB3-4C57FCB0FB85">
            <Title>Chapter nineteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch19-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2D1B8C4E-3778-4918-B2AD-B6CCD62A2903">
            <Title>Title Page</Title>
            <Text>








Start Wearing Purple

</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FD756A70-77AD-4D92-AF55-E0ECB732D3C0">
            <Text>"This is 'Joe'." explained Dr Warne casually. "He is the more remorseful of the 'core' personalities. He usually emerges after strong periods of disruption or stress."
"I see." said Jacob. He noted that Joe was a strong contrast to the other personalities.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="30AF67DF-B782-4219-ACAD-66B0824E4633">
            <Title>Copyright</Title>
            <Text>START WEARING PURPLE

Originally published: 2017

Copyright © 2017 Various Authors
$$Ch01-Grey$$, $$Ch02-Grey$$, $$Ch03-Grey$$
$$Ch04-Grey$$, $$Ch05-Grey$$, $$Ch06-Grey$$
$$Ch07-Grey$$, $$Ch08-Grey$$, $$Ch09-Grey$$
$$Ch10-Grey$$, $$Ch11-Grey$$, $$Ch12-Grey$$
$$Ch13-Grey$$, $$Ch14-Grey$$, $$Ch15-Grey$$
$$Ch16-Grey$$, $$Ch17-Grey$$, $$Ch18-Grey$$
$$Ch19-Grey$$, $$Ch20-Grey$$
Story by: Tim Rogers

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental, and more than just a little bit scary.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons 
Attribution - NonCommercial - NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. 
You are free to share (to copy, distribute and transmit the work) 
under the following conditions:
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified 
by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that 
they endorse you or your use of the work). 
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes. 
No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work. 
For more details, visit:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/

Original cover photograph by Tim Rogers

www.novelinaday.com</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="266D0D5A-B5EC-4D2D-84F9-D40D832EA441">
            <Text>TRANSCRIPT 111.A.LW.26

CONVERSATION B/T PT ID #446 "SLEEPWALKER" (S)
DR LISA WARNE
MR JACOB HEATH

Dx MID
NON-RESOLVING
INPT STATUS: UNLIMITED

PERS. CYCLE (ALTERS)

LW: How are you today?
S: Charlotte is good. Look! New drawing. [laughs]. It's you! Am I good? Am I the bet at drawing?
LW: You are very good. You are an artist.
S: The best! I am the best!
[changes voice]
Dahling oh look at you that FROCK. [titters, v exagg. camp diction] and oh my GOD your HAIR who HAVE you COME as? Poor dear Judy dependent on the kindness of strangers
[changes voice] [English, exagg.]
If there were to be by any chance possibly a cup of what what tea, China tea---
JH: I'm sure that could be arranged Mr er...
S: Joe, my deah fellow, call me Joe, a cup of pu-erh tea, washed twice, that would be extraordinarily--
JH: May I ask a question?
S: Ask away my dear chap.
JH: Does the term "Terrordon" mean anything?
S: Some sort of blasted lizard? They had a huge one at the Natural History Museum, apsley vast buggah
[changes voice]
Charlotte drawed in Museum! They said it was the BEST! Who was that man?
JH: Which man, Charlotte?
S: I forget. I try to be good but sometimes...
[changes voice]
Hey listen buddy who the hell are you? I mean coming in here y'know? You're talking to Doug now, not some idiot, they may have ruined Jersey but Newark still a fine place to, to, y'know [laughs] say, you got a cigarette huh?
LW: You know you can't smoke in here, Doug.
S: Who the fuck d'you think... oh, sorry, hi Doc, yeah, the old cough's still there but
[changes voice]
Jeez, mate, I'm as dry as a dingo's arsehole here and twice as flamin' nasty, Y'know what they say about Tim, the bastard could murder a cold stubby, a nice VB, pop the cap, you've no idea, [laughs] gotcha there! Barry Humphries! Spot it? Nah, course ya didn't, great Australian, d'ye ever see his Edna Everage, Jeez that was
[changes voice]
I though I heard that Australian, am I imagining him? Just leave me be. The ocean...
JH: Who--?
LW: Rog. Californian
S: I am. Probably the last native. [laughs quietly] I have seen such things...
JH: Rog, does the name "Terrordon" mean anything?
S: Sounds like some mobster. Terry Don. Don Terry. I keep away from such things.
[changes voice]
Y'all ever git to Alabam', look me up, show you my Leica collection. Photograph everything.
JH: You ever photograph the Terrordon?
S: Don't think I heard o' that fella.  Nope. Clinton, yup. Terrordon, nope. Sorry.

[INTERVIEW CONTINUES]</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FCC276D3-9234-468C-97E4-50FA89DF1E05">
            <Text>Once the initial thrill had passed, a fresh problem sparked to life in Jacob’s mind. Now that the Sleepwalker was free, the Fisherman was redundant. Compared to a man with multiple personality disorder - and each personality with a shared propensity for pure evil - the Fisherman was decidedly second-rate. That would be unless Jacob took his actions to places where he really didn’t want to go. No, if he were the Terrordon, he wouldn’t even notice this minor minnow of a villain. 
There had to be something better he could do, in order to keep himself at the centre of the story - something that would make him more useful to the situation at hand, and that would reveal more about the Terrordon and his motivations. If the Terrordon was here and had just heard that news, what would he think… what would he do? His mind raced. Okay, could he turn this on its head - could he be the hero? Would that work? What better way to get into a hero’s head than if you were acting like the hero yourself, re-enacting one of his most notorious fights, or even fighting alongside him, rather than trying to provoke him. Yes, he’d been going about this all wrong. 
Now that taking on a notorious super villain was now part of the plan, Jacob considered the practicalities. Strength, skill - well, he definitely had the fitness and the discipline for the role. Just one last problem remained - but whether he had the stomach to face someone like the Sleepwalker head on and survive to write the tale was something that he’d only find out when it came to it. That would be the true test. His mind ran on feverishly. He wanted the book to be good; definitive, no less. But that depended on him being around to write it, and the odds were not good. The Sleepwalker was a formidable enemy - even the Terrordon had taken beating after beating from him before finally enlisting the help of the State in getting him put behind bars. Help. Yes - that was it. Now he could see a way forward. But it had to be someone who knew almost as much as he did about the events of the past, and who could think clearly from a vantage point outside of his struggle. He picked up the phone.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="887A9FB2-A6E3-484E-B82F-CF995FD74F81">
            <Text>"Lisa?"
"This is Dr Warne, yes."
"It's Jacob."
"I'm sorry?"
"Jacob Warne. You remember? From the Chronicle? We met in Cambridge in--"
"My God. Jacob. It must be--"
"Yes. I've thought about you often. But listen..."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9E796D48-DB0E-40CD-8F1E-C61090BD09C1">
            <Title>Spacer</Title>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="B0DDAB40-BD1D-4281-9664-D198FE853BA3">
            <Text>Jacob knew he should be feeling something — pain from his own wounds, horror at the bloody scene before him — but he didn't feel anything. No, that wasn't true. He felt numb. He looked down. He had sunk to the floor on this knees, but he was not bleeding. In his hand was a gun. Why did he have a gun?</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="FA452B01-EE98-45B7-ADD5-67ACEB961920">
            <Text>The tapping continued.  An attractive brunette in a smart grey business suit peered past her male companion and furrowed her brow.
The glint of her earring caught Jacob's attention.  He looked up to see her glaring at him.  She looked down at his metal-tipped mechanical pencil which still impacted his black marble table.
Jacob mouthed a silent, "Sorry." The tapping ceased.  The woman turned her attention back to her companion.
He put the pencil into his shirt pocket, clipping it in one smooth motion, its sharp tip appearing below a ragged hole poked into creation several years before.
The late afternoon sun peeked through incoming banks of fog.  The light hit his notebook, dividing the exposed pages into light and dark sections. 
Jacob stared at his notes from his perch in the northwest corner of the Top of the Mark, a lone seat he preferred over all other locations in San Francisco.  It had become his own, except for some occasions when tourists forced him to seek other venues.  Even then, he went across the street to the Tonga Room, or to the lounge on the floor above it at the Fairmont Hotel.  He could think more clearly at any of these places on Nob Hill, generally.
But not on this day.
His research into the Terrordon project had yet to produce any new leads or evidence as to the mysterious vigilante's identity, or why he suddenly disappeared twelve years before.  The scribbles of his notebook included names scratched through in frustration.  The SFPD was seemingly ignorant of the existence of the man. Jacob had done little to form a working relationship with the office, and was ineffective in working sources there during his tenure at the Chronicle.
Nor were contacts at City Hall of any help.  Many of his old friends from the Milk biography days were gone...that was back in the days of Gavin Newsom, now the Lieutenant Governor for the state.
"Should I drive to Sacramento?" Jacob thought, before dismissing it.  "Gavin won't remember me.  I was just a pest to him.”
The waitress, a short blonde woman of middle age in the standard pseudo-tuxedo uniform of the staff, stopped by his table.
"Are you good, Mr. Heath?"
Jacob picked up his martini glass, a lemon peel curled in the bottom.  "Another," he said, handing her the glass.  He drank straight vodka with the lemon peel for no other reason than it was the preferred beverage of his favorite journalist.
"I am still no Herb Caen," he thought, twisting to observe the setting sun behind him.  "But then again, Herb didn't try to write whole biographies.  A few short sentences, three dots, and that was it."  
The waitress returned with his martini.  He took a long sip and contemplated the  final meeting of the day.  "I should get dinner out of it...."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="859296CC-4166-4DF9-BF20-84BE3FF55C83">
            <Text>“But he was just so kind and friendly,” sobbed the girl at the bitcoin farm, as banks and banks of humming machines toiled in the background. The bitcoin miners of the farm, hard at work hashing data. “I did it exactly how my boss told me. I made him leave his phone with me while he was here, and kept an eye on him the whole time! All he did was take pictures, and with an old-fashioned film camera too! The only time I left his side was when he asked me to stand at the end of the racks for a photo to show the scale of the farm. How could we have been so stupid!”
The Terrordon patted her on the shoulder sympathetically. “It’s okay,” he offered lamely, despite the fact it certainly was not. “Did you figure out how he did it?”
The girl collected her thoughts for a moment, then began. “We didn’t realize anything was wrong until just over an hour after he left. Then I got a panicked call from my boss asking why he just got a bunch of email confirmations about bitcoin transfers from our farm’s local wallet. I can’t believe we were so stupid!” Her story cut off into more sobs.
“I don’t understand,” the Terrordon said with confusion. He knew old Nokia phones, not cryptocurrencies. “How’d he do it?”
“It’s so simple. Stupid simple,” the girl moaned. “I figured it out right away as soon as my boss called and told me the bitcoin was gone!” She sniffled into a tissue, collected herself and continued to explain, “you see, the only way to transfer bitcoin is for the owner to generate a QR code from the local wallet where the bitcoin is stored. Then, the recipient has to scan the QR code using a smartphone to accept and authenticate the transfer. Hence why I made sure I had his phone while he was in the farm!” Just the thought of what had transpired was clearly distressing to her. “And when I realized how long he had been gone before the bitcoin was stolen, I knew right away. One-hour photo. Photos in one hour! While I was walking to the back of the farm for him to take a picture, he was taking pictures! Pictures of the QR codes on the monitor attached to the server hosting the farm’s local bitcoin wallet! I must have still been logged in to the desktop, and all he had to do was open the wallet up and generate the QR codes. And one hour to develop the pictures and then scan the QR codes on them with his smartphone!”
The Terrordon stood, stunned, as everything soaked in. The Nokia went off again, its flat chirping awkwardly resonating against the girl’s sobs and the mechanical hum of the farm’s cooling systems. Surrounded by the hundreds of thousands of dollars in cutting-edge, high-powered miners in the bitcoin farm, the Terrordon looked painfully at the antiquated monochrome screen but accepted the call anyway.
“Yeah,” he said
“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
“Is there ever any good news in this story?” The Terrordon was getting grumpy. “Well, if there is let me hear it.”
“We found the stolen bitcoin.”
“And the bad news?”
“We also found two dead bodies.” There was a pause on the other end of the line as the caller waited for an emotional sort of reaction that never came. The Terrordon was just too tired.
“That’s too bad,” the Terrordon said with flat effect. “What happened?”
“Seems someone setup a sale and the bitcoin buyers changed their mind after the deal was done. Looks like the seller wasn’t having any of that. This all went down near the Mission Dolores, and the priest there reported he saw the whole thing. He said to stop by so he could fill you in. Name is Father Joe”
“Alright, I’m on my way,” Terrordon sighed.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="5D51DD64-9A3A-43F2-903E-F8A623B0A036">
            <Title>Chapter seventeen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch17-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CCF57036-A9F6-4136-A9FD-9C8CC8770F4A">
            <Title>Introduction</Title>
            <Text>Time is no substitute for talent
There is a well-known saying that if you give a monkey a typewriter and an infinite amount of time then it will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. In 2003, the staff at Paignton Zoo gave a computer to six crested macaques and categorically proved that what you actually get is five pages of the letter ‘S’ and a broken keyboard. Time, it seems, is no substitute for talent. But can talent substitute for time…?
The book you are about to read was written over the course of a single day in October 2017. For those unfamiliar with the concept of Novel-in-a-Day, it’s simple: - A skeleton of a plot is worked out in advance of the day - That plot is broken into sections, which are divided amongst the participants randomly - The writers have most of the rest of the day to write and return their chapters, working with no knowledge of the wider story or their place in it. 
I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as we loved putting it together.

Tim
October 28, 2017</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="57F29B7C-A263-41DD-9FB0-44DED2B29405">
            <Text>@AryyaStarrk
That someone would believe this is actually the work of a lone wolf is SO ridiculous is laughable! #BombThreat #AmericaUnderSiege</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CF0311A6-3CE2-4712-B27A-98B60A1A28CA">
            <Text>He stood in front of the bathroom sink staring at himself in the mirror. He had a ferocious headache, and was having trouble concentrating. 
He turned the hot water up high and soaped his hands and arms, scrubbing hard, the lather turning maroon-inflected pink. 
He'd just been out back finishing that porch swing he'd sanded to bare wood the other day, and the stain got into everything. He hoped this wasn't going to be the color it dried to. His clothes were covered and already in plastic bags.  He wasn't even going to be able to wash them. He'd probably just throw them into an incinerator later. He hated waste like that, but there was no helping it. It was a messy job. But today? He stopped and thought. Hadn't he done it last week? No, that makes no sense. It was today. The headache was just making it hard to think. 
He glanced at the briefcase standing open next to the sink. He should have closed it before he started brushing the stain across the wooden slats — why had he had it out there at all? Stupid. There were sticky spots and globs all over the money. He could take a little of that and replace his shirt and pants at least…? No. It wasn't his. He'd found it, and lucky as that was for whoever owned it, it didn't mean any belonged to him, and tomorrow he was going to take it to the police. Someone would be looking for it. He figured there was about $100,000 in there. 
No, he thought, less. 
But not much less. He was mildly curious about what kind of story they'd concoct to explain how their briefcase full of money wound up sitting there next to that dumpster for all the world like it was waiting for him. Behind him, the TV news-droids were droning on, war, and politics, and local disasters, a kidnapping, a ransom paid, and a body found in a gang-infested neighborhood across the Bay. 
Rog wasn't listening. He had a brush and was washing the money, getting as much of the staining out as he could. 
In the mirror, his computer flickered in the darkness of the bedroom, unnoticed, cycling through the purple-framed slide show of bloody legs and a summer dress and crimson high-heels in a small drainpipe under the seagulls of the bay.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="43659D0C-8C55-41AD-90DE-4F417CB07827">
            <Text>Not entirely unexpected, the six-year-old girl showed up a few minutes later. By herself. As she stood in front of the mirror, contemplating how to clean up the mess she made with the maple syrup all over her shirt, the Sleepwalker stepped behind her. Their mirror images looked at one another for a moment, and as she was about to scream, a soft suede hand slid over her mouth. He smiled and nodded at her: It's alright. Not to worry, not to worry.
An infuriating eight minutes later, her father appeared at the door. He didn't look inside at first, only called out to her. "Sarah? Are you still in there?" No response. Then the father opened the door some more and glanced inside. "Sarah?" He left again and went over to the men's restroom where he was immediately greeted by Sarah sitting on the floor next to the urinals, and by a knife to his throat. 
Ten minutes later the purple man left the restroom. Without looking at anyone he exited onto the intersection. His hands were hidden deep in the jacket's pockets. Sweat had begun to discolor the already sweat-stained collar again. He crossed the street and approached the reflection of the purple man on the glass facade of the SF Fire Credit Union. He immediately walked past the windows to the right of the bank and towards an intimidating cave of an entrance. He pressed the button for wheelchair access and the doors opened automatically. Then he disappeared inside.
On the other side of the street, Sarah and Hannah sat on her seats inside the restaurant. Both had a large bowl of ice cream in front of them, but only Hannah was eating. Sarah held the long spoon with both of her hands. She stared out the window.
"Now, now, Sarah. Don't you worry yourself sick," the man next to her was saying, taking a scoop from the nougat ice-cream in Sarah's bowl. "Worrying never got anyone anywhere. Also, it spoils the dessert."
He looked over to the bar where the police officers had stood not long ago. They were gone, and so was the waiter they had talked to, probably now attending to some of the other customers. The large family were just being served their drinks. 
Service is a bit on the slow side, the man thought, as he patted Sarah on her head.
"Here, try the nougat. It's marvelous," he said with a grin. 
Inside the bank, the purple man was trembling. He rubbed his right shoulder, feeling the sticky blood seeping through the purple jacket from where the knife had attempted to explain to him the gravity of the situation. Drops of sweat fell onto the marble floors. There were surprisingly few people around, yet all the employees were busily fussing over something or someone. 
He walked slowly to the tellers, and got in line behind two other customers. Nobody seemed to take much notice of him. A young man filled out a form with the help of the bank clerk. Time was moving slower than usual. 
The purple man wondered whether he would pass out before it was his turn. It felt like a very high probability. His sides ached and he noticed he was having trouble breathing. He pulled his hand out of the right pocket to wipe the sweat from his brows. Then he closed his eyes.
"How may I help you, Sir?"
The girl at the desk looked enquiringly at him.
The purple man moved towards her and pulled out a light yellow piece of thick paper from his left pocket and handed it to her. The sweaty hands left moist fingerprints on the paper.
The girl read the not carefully, eyes widening as she read. She looked back at him, then   turned around, trying to find her super. She was scared and insecure. 
"Please," the purple man pleaded.
Then he unbuttoned his shirt and revealed a device that somewhat looked like a remote control without buttons, strapped to his chest. A single purple light blinked once, twice, counting down the seconds.
The girl stood up, walked to the back of the room and talked to a tall man. Together they returned to the desk and without speaking surveyed the situation. 
Underneath the purple man a small puddle was accruing from the sweat. It was coming down hard past the nose, down the chin. 
Drip.
Wait. 
"Please."
Everyone turned out to be quite professional and fast. The purple man carried a nondescript black bag and was walked through the lobby by the tall man. The desk girl had disappeared.
When they reached the exit, the purple man pulled out a second note, this time from his right pocket. He handed it to the tall man. 
Silently, the man read the note.
"Are you aware of what it says here?"
The purple man nodded. 
"And are you sure this is what you want me to do?"
The purple man nodded again. "Please, or he will kill my daughter."
His daughter, meanwhile, had finished half of her ice cream, every spoonful a torture that was likely to spoil her appetite for ice cream for a very long time. Her face was covered in dried tears. The man next to her patted her shoulders. Silently the three of them looked out the windows and watched the bank, the traffic, a UPS van stopping in front of the Jewish Community Center on the other side of the street. A bus drove past and people got out at the stop, business was going on as always. 
Then two things happened in short order: A purple man appeared in front of the large semicircular building across from them, his hands once again in his pockets. He walked towards the middle of the intersection and stopped. Cars honked, people yelled. But he just stood. And then, in the distance, police sirens began to be heard.
"Sarah, I must ask you to please stay here with your sister until your father comes back."
The man stood up, pulled a twenty-dollar bill out from his faded jeans and placed it on the table, wiped his ice-cream fingers on his plaid shirt and smiled one more time at the girls.
"That is, if he comes back."
Barely two minutes later, seven police cars had stopped in front of the bank. Officers jumped out, guns drawn and pointing them at the purple man in the street. Loud sirens filled the streets, flickering lights told every one to go away, go home. Threat was once again in the air. 
In a small restaurant, two girls were crying as a young waitress came to ask what was wrong.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="57C3B151-915D-4714-8874-5B7BFAEAEEAB">
            <Text>“Bitch!”
“Faggot, don’t you dare call me that!”
Jacob’s head pivoted to hopefully triangulate on the Sound of Trouble.  He’d built up himself enough to consider the words worthy of capitalization.  The book may even take it as a title - lord knows that everything else about writing a novel was hard, the title coming so quickly must be a sign he was finally in the groove.
The Castro district may have mellowed in recent years, but violence against the gays, well, anyone not straight, was rising.  America was not given permission to be made great again, it’s people had been simply given approval to act out the festering hate of anything not “normal”.  The Others were the bad guys.  And that was unfortunate, since most of the people here simply wanted to find love just like any other straight citizen.
His dalliance with Travis allowed him to realize firstly that he was only interested in women, and more importantly, that this area was a prime spot to try to understand what made The ’Don start helping those under attack.  
The Sound of garbage cans being upended as weapons and defensive objects led him to an alley next to Aunt Charlie’s bar.  He’d only been here once before, but the memory of the dark grungy interior and the older grizzled clients made a lasting impression.  Slow death lurking in their cups and veins.  These people remembered the mid-80s intimately.
Muffled words and meaty thuds welcomed Jacob into the alley where it looked to be a couple of larger men terrorizing a very thin asian.
“Nigger!”  a white man in lumberjack flannel - in this heat? - spit the word towards the thin man.
“That’s bullshit!”  yelled back the asian.  “We’re above that kind of talk!”
“Johnny, man, he’s right?”  The second attacker chimed in.
Jacob slowed his approach, this didn’t seem like normal shit-talking.
Lumberjack Johnny turned towards his partner in crime, “Are you fucking him too, Bruce?”
“Fuck you fag, Cory has a point!  I don’t fuck where have the neighborhood has been - no offense man, Cory’s beautiful, of course, but it’s not right what you said.  You know I was a civil rights lawyer.”
Johnny whipped around and threw the trashcan at the asian that Jacob took to be named Cory.  The man easily dodged it.
Jacob took the distraction to run up to Cory, he’d waited long enough, it was time to help save the day…or at least diffuse the situation enough for no one to get hurt.
“You need some help, man?”
Cory reacted in disgust, “The fuck you calling me a man?  Bitch, who are you?” 
He turned to Johnny, “This asshole called me a man!”
Johnny turned towards Jacob, lumbering forward, “You go balls deep in him, too?”  
Jacob became confused - Cory rushed to hide behind Johnny.
“Wha-?”  Jacob started before a trashcan lid hit him mid-pelvis.
“How many you doing at once, Cory?”  Johnny cried in anguish, but his face was in a rage as his fist swung out to Jacob, missing him completely which made the bigger man stumble.
Cory caught his partner, and Bruce picked up another lid, winding up to throw it with as much force as his inebriated mind could muster.
“I may be a twink, but I sure as shit can play some disc golf!”  the lid flew from his hands and grazed Jacob’s shoulder.
“You needed help!” Jacob yelled.
“I didn’t need anything from you!  Johnny, take his head off!”  Cory gave his possibly not-ex-boyfriend a little push towards Jacob.
Bruce rushed up and kicked at Jacob’s crotch.  The hit wasn’t powerful, but they never need to be in that area.  Jacob crumpled, and he heard Cory laugh.
“Fight!”  The little man yelled, rushing into the bar, “It’s a fight!”
Men and women started streaming out as Jacob took a heavy foot to his ribs.
The hits weren’t doing much damage, bodily that is, but his ego was simply hanging by a thread.  To add to the psyche of insults, the smell of rotting fruit and stale beer was making him gag.
“Who the fuck dumped my trash?”  A dark man in a smock yelled in outrage.
“That ass right there, Dean.”  Cory pointed to Jacob.
Jacob swung his head side to side, mouthing the word “no”, but bile was in his throat.
Johnny foot connected with Jacob’s sternum and acidic food remnants spewed out, splashing the shoes of a half-dozen on-lookers.
A chorus of swearing aimed at Jacob rose and swelled as others started gagging themselves.  These weak stomached patrons rushed back into the bar, while those with more fortitude started gathering around Jacob’s retching form.
The Sound of Trouble rose again, and Jacob’s fear rose with it.  He’d be lucky to get away with only the minor bruises he’d already taken.
“No one dumps my shit in my alley!”  Dean the bartender said as he loosened his tight shirt, “Or fucks up my shoes!”
He pulled back with a fist that had dished out it’s allotment of punishment in its day.
But the strike never struck.
“Dean, stop.”  Jacob’s teary eyes saw a form slip between him and the bartender.  Between himself and the mob of drunks.  “Stop, he’ll pick this shit up, let it be.”
“No, I-“
“The fucking cops are on their way.  Hear them?”
The siren was faint, but the sound was growing.
“I’ll make sure he takes care of it.  Go back in, serve some drinks, make some cash.  You know your yoga teacher would be disappointed if you hit him.”
The bartender deflated, and took a deep breath.  
“Yeah.  Yeah, I know.  Okay.”  Dean, turned around and silently strode back to the bar.
Jacob hoped that he’d call the crowd with him, but it seemed that his generosity ended with him not taking Jacob’s head off.
“All you, too!  Unless you want trash duty.”
“Only trash I see is puke-boy there, Travis.”  One of them men said with a disgusted look.
“Get the fuck back inside.”
“Travis?”  Jacob whispered.
He was able to stand and wiped the tears and puke from his face.
“Hey Jacob, how you doing?”  Travis turned, “You asshole, what is this all about?  Decide you were going to play gay again?  I should beat you myself for this stunt!”
“What’re you doing here?”
“I this is my neighborhood, dummy!”
“But - “ 
The siren turned out to be an ambulance passing by.  Travis used that to drive home his point.
“And it seems I’m saving you from a horrible ass-beating.  These guys don’t fuck around.”
“But - “
“You need to stay to yourself, keep out of other people’s business, dumb-ass.”
“They were going to kill that guy.”
“Who?  John and Bruce?  Those two couldn’t lay a hand on Cory if he fucked their mother!”
“But - “
“It’s a domestic dispute, Jacob.  A little case of Cory being a bit too loose with his affections, and Johnny getting more upset than normal.  Bruce would have talked him down.”
“They were getting ready to beat him down with the trash cans, Travis!”
“This happens almost every couple of weeks.  If you went inside - which you won’t! - you’ll see them at a table, probably on the same chair, as Cory cuddles into Johnny.”
“That’s not a healthy relationship.”  Jacob replied, helping Travis pick up the trash.
“Said the guy that faked gay for a month.”
“It was an experiment.”
“You were method acting, and it’s stupid.  What’re you doing down here?  Need a reminder - “
“I’m sorry!”  Jacob interrupted, and sighed.  “I’m sorry.  I know I probably insulted you, your way of life.  I didn’t mean to do that.  And…I, I don’t know why I’m here.”  He wasn’t about to bring up the fact that he was trying to understand why someone would be come a vigilante.  It would bring up his “homo-month” as Travis had originally put it, and Jacob really wanted to deflect away from that part of his methods.
“Get that can over here.”  Travis said, “We’re almost done.  I don’t believe I’m actually picking up trash for you.  Me and my big mouth!”
Travis looked critically at Jacob, “Are you hurt?”
“My balls ache, and my ego is crushed, but other than that I’m okay.  Maybe some bruising tomorrow.”
“And count yourself lucky at that!  They’d have broken some bones, the way Cory was getting them whipped up.  The puke didn’t really help, either.”
“I know.  I know.”  Jacob met Travis’s gaze, “Thank you.  I definitely needed you tonight.”
“Don’t you forget it.”  Travis smiled.  “I’d let you buy me a drink, but you should probably head out.  These guys don’t give up a grudge easy, and you did puke on their shoes.”
Jacob reached his hand over.
Travis shook it.
Jacob knew he was going to have the shakes when he got home.  Hopefully a shower and a whiskey would put him right, but at the moment, the adrenaline rush was ebbing and the fright was growing.  He’d narrowly missed being seriously hurt, and that experience wouldn’t soon leave his memories.
How had The Terrordon dealt with this fear?  Did he grow accustomed to it?  Did it eat him up, and that was why he disappeared?  
The fear added aspects to this that Jacob wasn’t quite prepared for yet.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CC9DF5C9-52B9-4EBB-8CAE-1A1D635CAAE8">
            <Text>Doug was irritated. He just couldn't make up his mind. Walking down California Street from the Presidio and heading downtown, he kept looking over his shoulder, anxious. It was like something in the back of his mind kept urging him on, but he couldn't put a finger on what it was. Like when you forgot a book on the train, one you'd already read, one that didn't hold much value to you anyway, but it just bothered you that you forgot it. It keeps nagging you and you don't really understand why. Screw the book! You keep telling yourself that it's okay. It's just a goddamn book. But the thought wouldn't go away.
Just like that, thoughts kept returning to his mind. He wanted to scratch them away, slap himself, hit himself so hard his mind would focus again.
He stopped in front of an ATM. Bank of America. Something inside him wanted to scream. 
He kept walking, annoyed. He began to sweat. 
He stopped in front of the First Republic Bank, the golden eagle teasing him from its dark mint-green sign. He forced himself to move on. A step at a time. Another headache began to form on his clammy forehead.
An old woman with what must have been her granddaughter walked past him. The little girl, sporting braces and a red ponytail, locked eyes with him for just a moment, then pulled herself away to her grandma. Did he scare her? Did his appearance scare her? What did he do?
Pain. Incredible pain just above the eyebrows. He knelt on the sidewalk, winced and rubbed his temples. Finally he slapped himself.
"Everything alright, young man?" the grandmother asked. "Should I call an ambulance?"
The little girl pulled at her grandma's hand. "Gramma, let's go."
Doug looked up, tears in his eyes. "Leave me alone, you old crone!"
The woman and the girl were suddenly gone. He was standing in front of yet another bank, Union Bank. The pain had subsided, but only for a little bit.  
"What do you want from me?" he yelled at no one. 
He leaned on the beige walls next to an ATM, rested his forehead to the cold plaster. He was able to get it together. For now.
He had had days like these before, the headache, the insecurity, the irritation, but never quite so intense. He took a deep breath, that always worked.
He straightened up, still holding onto the walls of the bank. 
He looked through the windows, at the line in front of the teller's desk. A flickering light above asking the employees to be replaced. He wondered whether he should go inside and talk to them.
His feet decided against it as they walked on until they finally reached Wells Fargo. He should have known. The large golden slab serif letters invited him in exactly the way that the flickering lights of the Union did not. The headache was now gone.
Doug smiled for the first time that day. Only, he did not know why.
Then the pain slapped him against an invisible wall and he found himself walking onward again. He screamed in frustration. Passers-by stopped their shopping spree and looked over to him. He wept, asking for help and asking them to mind their business. 
He walked further down the street, his head throbbing. The stores and banks were replaced by trees and a long red brick wall, surrounding a large University park—or something. He didn't care. 
He wished the nagging in his mind would return. He wished he just had lost a book somewhere, something that made sense to him, that made him feel like he knew what was going on. 
And then the red wall stopped, and so did the pain. As the wall was replaced by a tall cream-coloured building, and as the long street was replaced by a gigantic-looking intersection, Doug suddenly felt at ease again. No more headache, no more irritation. The soaked collar of his purple shirt felt cold and nice against his neck. He pulled his purple jacket tighter to warm himself and finally he stopped in front of the huge semicircular glass front of the building. It throned over the intersection. It took the whole place and made it its own. The building reflected everything back at the world.
It reflected Doug back at himself. He was wearing almost entirely purple. A purple suit, consisting of a shirt, tie, jacket and pants, and black socks in purple shoes. For the first time he became aware that he was wearing purple gloves, made of suede. 
"Thank you, Doug," he then said in a new voice. "I really appreciate you giving me this little tour through the neighborhood, but I'll take it from here."</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DCB766AC-23AD-4F82-BA47-8D0E32558333">
            <Title>Chapter seven</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch07-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="981A6A1E-AB48-4719-9071-B70E31C6D335">
            <Title>Chapter three</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch03-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="B0001CC6-BEC4-4B72-B3C3-7054B5E9B6D7">
            <Title>Amy Kennedy</Title>
            <Text>Name:
Amy Kennedy

Job:
Journalist at the San Francisco Chronicle

Gender:
Female

Age: 42

Appearance:
5’6”, slender caucasian. Shoulder length blond hair, kept neat. 

Family:
Single - never married - no kids. Parents Emily (64) and Richard (67) live in the area. Two siblings, Jason (40) and Alison (42, Amy’s non-identical twin). 

Background:
Amy has worked at the Chronicle since 2000, and was responsible for most of the paper’s coverage of the Terrordon between then and 2005. She was there while Jacob Heath worked there, and remembers him from that time, but they weren’t close.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="91FC70ED-2F50-4A7F-AAD0-069E68DA37C2">
            <Title>Chapter six</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch06-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="18984A79-B7E9-44BD-BD5E-756B6F7FC357">
            <Title>Title Page</Title>
            <Text>








Start Wearing Purple

</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="78966E5A-006E-4940-AA60-6F1751D05F01">
            <Title>Also by</Title>
            <Text>Also by Novel-in-a-Day:

The Dark
Lunar520
Made Man
Section7
Marshal Law
3 Ghosts

www.novelinaday.com



sponsored by
Literature &amp; Latte, creators of Scrivener
￼
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C9DDB3B7-4942-45A2-B0B8-23F0C6CCFDC6">
            <Text>Stalker99666:
You dumb b*tch you cant write to save you're life and your ugly as f*ck why dont you die and stop writing dumb sh*t theres no Fisherman its the illuminati
[EDITOR'S NOTE: please be advised that this user has been flagged by our readers and the comment is being reviewed for content and abusive language]</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="0268CAFF-D231-4926-A941-253F9605B208">
            <Title>Copyright</Title>
            <Text>START WEARING PURPLE

Originally published: 2017

Copyright © 2017 Various Authors
$$Ch01-Blue$$, $$Ch02-Blue$$, $$Ch03-Blue$$
$$Ch04-Blue$$, $$Ch05-Blue$$, $$Ch06-Blue$$
$$Ch07-Blue$$, $$Ch08-Blue$$, $$Ch09-Blue$$
$$Ch10-Blue$$, $$Ch11-Blue$$, $$Ch12-Blue$$
$$Ch13-Blue$$, $$Ch14-Blue$$, $$Ch15-Blue$$
$$Ch16-Blue$$, $$Ch17-Blue$$, $$Ch18-Blue$$
$$Ch19-Blue$$, $$Ch20-Blue$$
Story by: Tim Rogers

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental, and more than just a little bit scary.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons 
Attribution - NonCommercial - NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. 
You are free to share (to copy, distribute and transmit the work) 
under the following conditions:
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified 
by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that 
they endorse you or your use of the work). 
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes. 
No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work. 
For more details, visit:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/

Original cover photograph by Tim Rogers

www.novelinaday.com</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C4A6A263-F561-4431-99C8-D92DEC87B380">
            <Title>Chapter nine</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch09-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7ADB6374-1E0C-4CE0-B1F7-A3927A7DB8CE">
            <Title>Chapter two</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch02-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="C2EE12E7-B180-4F14-8D87-F91373517129">
            <Text>“Hey Billy, guess what? It’s time you return me the favour. Meet me at the spot, tonight, same time.”
Jacob felt a lot like a spy, one of the things he liked the most when writing for the San Francisco Chronicle was the relationship he had to establish with outcasts, pimps and generally dubious people that kept him in the loop in turn of small favours, like avoid pressing chargers for minor violations. One of them was Billy, a smart kid who was too good with computers for his own good. A hacker.
At the planned time, Jacob was nervously walking up and down, waiting for Billy to show up. Billy was already fifteen minutes late. Where are you, don’t bail on me, not tonight, Jacob gave voice to his internal fears.
“Hey man” a figure emerged from the shadows. 
“Billy! Damn it, I was already cursing in three languages! “
“I’m sorry I got caught up in stuff and with police patrolling every inch of the city, I had a hard time being on time.”
“I don’t even want to know, I’m already in deep with my shit. Now hear me out and tell me if it can be done.”
The air was still smelling of rain. Jacob was tense, his athletic shape towering Billy’s slender figure. At the end of the thirty-minute talk, Jacob let out a smile and gave Billy a pat on the shoulder. 
“Thanks Billy, I won’t forget this one, it’s a huge one. As usual, hit and forget. Deal?”
“Sure. Now we’re even, man. I hope your plan works out. Check the news tomorrow.”
Jacob watched the young man rushing away, as silently as he got there. He really knows how to be a ninja, he thought, smiling to himself, happy to have planned it all out. As soon as he got back to his flat, Jacob looked at himself in the mirror: I better get some sleep, I will read the police statement tomorrow morning, when Billy will have hacked into the systems forging an email crediting The Fisherman as the attacker. No one will trace it back to me. He kept talking to himself to calm his nerves, adrenaline still running high. He was tired but checked once again the news. No terror organisations took the credit yet but reading about the fatalities increased his anger and frustration. Terrordon, get back to work, he thought, clamping his fists.
‘Happy birthday, Pete. What a shitty day, we will reschedule. Hope Jon is back home sound and safe’, he texted Pete, switched the phone to buzz mode and lay down on the sofa. It was 8:13 in the morning when he suddenly woke up at the sound of yet another siren. Jacob instantly checked his phone, to find a text from Billy: ‘Pirate Blue rule ok!’ It was their code to confirm the correct output of a task, or secret mission, as Jacob used to joke. The hack was a success! Jacob left the sofa with a sudden move and rushed to the computer to check the news.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A2836E27-59E3-4518-AE03-3CF39EF0CCC3">
            <Title>Chapter twelve</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch12-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1DFFDA9F-96FF-45D5-95D6-F7380BA97419">
            <Text>He went to the store. Usually his shopping was hit and run: go to the corner convenience store, get what he wanted and a couple of impulse items, get out. But this time he took his time, trying to catch conversations among the patrons, or any hint that the Fisherman was starting to catch people's attention.
While he was there he browsed the newspapers. It was getting rarer for stores to carry them, but this one did. Jacob bought the San Francisco Chronicle, making sure there was an A. Kennedy byline there.
"Bad stuff, this attack, eh?," he tried on the store manager as he was paying. He received a blank stare as an answer.
"This guy, the Fisherman," he tried again, pointing at Amy's article in the paper he'd just bought. "Seems like a really crazy guy." He made a bit of a show of muttering some choice sentences written in the article, and shook his head sadly.
"It's all crazy guys out there lately, man," the manager shrugged. "Do you want anything else?"
"No, thank you."
Undaunted by this glimpse into the man-on-the-street mind, he went home with his purchases, got online, and googled 'Fisherman'. 79 million results. Yeah, maybe not the most distinctive name for his supervillain. Then he googled 'Fisherman attack'. Eleven million hits, mostly about fishermen attacked by sharks. Then he googled 'Fisherman terror attack'. Jackpot. There was the Kennedy article and also a smattering of articles, either op-eds and starkly informative, in a number of online media. There was also some chatter on social networks, not a lot, but satisfying enough.
He spent about an hour browsing through social media sites and comments sections. It was predictably depressing, and also failed to produce any hint that he had sparked Terrordon's interest. Maybe it was too son, maybe it was too unclear. What would draw him out?
He tried to think like the Fisherman: his fake villain would not really want to attract Terrordon's attention, of course, so he couldn't be too blatant. But he also would want to carry out his 'mission', and do so garnering better media attention than he was getting right now. Strike now, when the iron is hot, is what his gut told him. The Fisherman would need to feed his ego, his need for attention. 
A bomb threat would really hit the mark, he thought. These days there weren't enough of them to be fashionable as a kid's prank, it would be taken seriously, and it would get a lot of attention.
He jotted down the essentials:</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="E99B3870-B116-484F-B8DE-180E0CE68DAA">
            <Text>Another thing he hadn’t been prepared for: this feeling of power. One moment his thumb caressed smooth plastic. Applied a modicum of pressure. And then the air was rent as the toy pteranodon became a thunder clap that ricocheted off the walls of the surrounding buildings and changed everything.
For a moment it felt as though even the rain hung suspended in the air. In that split second of perfect still, the Fisherman could see individual shards of glass sparkling as the windows of the central entrance doors shattered.
It was beautiful.
And then everything sped up.
Car alarms went off.
People were screaming.
Smoke billowed out from the source of the blast, and it was everything the Fisherman could have hoped for. For such a tiny—harmless, really—device, the sound and smoke were something to behold. It was working.
Crowds surged from the other doors of the Moscone Center, pouring into the streets. Blind panic reined below. Prefrontal cortexes ceased their chatter as primal survival instincts kicked in and took over: escape death.
The Fisherman nervously glanced around him, double-checking his concealment. He was safe. He was out of his chair now, crouched beneath the wall, taking the occasional glance over the top at the mayhem below.
His every nerve-ending felt alive with electricity. His whole body thrummed like a tapped tuning fork.
This was it. It was happening. But it was the next part that was the real test. If he got the next part wrong, the Fisherman would no longer be a fake supervillain. No, if he got the next part wrong, Jacob Heath would be a very real murderer. He felt watery bile gather on his tongue, choked it back down.
It was all about the Method now.
He was the Fisherman. And the Fisherman would stop at nothing until the Terrordon was in his grasp.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1156E492-4D2A-4103-B8FF-1006C9EBC623">
            <Text>At first glance, The Sleepwalker’s secret headquarters looked like a poor person’s idea of how rich people lived: intricately patterned wall hangings, overstuffed uncomfortable chairs, gilt fixtures everywhere. But on closer examination, the years of disuse while The Sleepwalker was in Rampworth had taken a toll: the wall hangings were torn and faded; the chairs had become homes for moths and other, less respectable, insects; the gold-colored paint was cracked and chipped, exposing the brown and white beneath it, turning what had been smooth and bright into something mottled and flaking.
The Sleepwalker sat at the faux Louis XIV desk, eyes closed, elbows on the desk, fingers caressing his temples. The joints of the desk were dried out and loose; whenever he moved they squeaked, shooting a searing spasm of pain through his head. He tried not to move.
Kelly, a bald man with just a fringe of grey hair below his tonsure, stood beside a chair near the desk, waiting for his boss to settle down. Despite his demonstrated courage when he had been in the military, he did not dare sit in the chair: too many unknown creatures could be lurking beneath the layer of dust.
The Sleepwalker took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and lifted his head to look at Kelly. “Maybe we should just kill him. We could do it so that it would be fun, and the obituaries would give us a clue to his secret identity.”
“Yes, sir, that will probably work. We’ll find him and lure him out and kill him. But that could take a long time. And the obituaries might not give us enough information to figure it out.”
“It’s a great idea! One of the greatest ideas ever! Don’t forget, I’m smart. Smarter than you, smarter than all the rest of them. That’s what we should do. Kill him!”
“Okay, sir, we’ll do that. But while we’re trying to find and kill The Terrordon, should we try some other things, too? There’s always a chance that we might get the information without having to kill him.”
“I want to kill him. I spent all those years in Rampworth because of him. Besides, what else can we do?”
“Sir, you’ve always said that he must be very rich. How else could he afford all those expensive gadgets?”
“I’ve always said that.”
“So here’s what you were probably thinking: we make a list of all the richest people in the city and start kidnapping them. When we grab him, he’ll fight back, and we’ll know we’ve got our man. And the rest we’ll hold for ransom.”
“That’s what I’ve thought all along. We should kidnap them and hold them for ransom. More money!”
“More money, sir, and maybe we can figure out his secret identity.”
“That’s my plan. It’s the best idea I’ve ever had. Stop arguing with me. Just do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Sleepwalker closed his eyes and lowered his head, his expression taut with pain. Then he relaxed, pulled open the top drawer of his desk (which protested with an ear-splitting screech), and took out a book: “The Art of the Deal”. Pushing back his chair, he put his feet up on the desk, opened the book to the bookmarked page, and started to read.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2B8A7DB6-0285-4E2F-9C41-13AD5271809D">
            <Title>Copyright</Title>
            <Text>START WEARING PURPLE

Originally published: 2017

Copyright © 2017 Various Authors
$$Ch01-Blue$$, $$Ch02-Blue$$, $$Ch03-Blue$$
$$Ch04-Blue$$, $$Ch05-Blue$$, $$Ch06-Blue$$
$$Ch07-Blue$$, $$Ch08-Blue$$, $$Ch09-Blue$$
$$Ch10-Blue$$, $$Ch11-Blue$$, $$Ch12-Blue$$
$$Ch13-Blue$$, $$Ch14-Blue$$, $$Ch15-Blue$$
$$Ch16-Blue$$, $$Ch17-Blue$$, $$Ch18-Blue$$
$$Ch19-Blue$$, $$Ch20-Blue$$
Story by: Tim Rogers

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental, and more than just a little bit scary.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons 
Attribution - NonCommercial - NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. 
You are free to share (to copy, distribute and transmit the work) 
under the following conditions:
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified 
by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that 
they endorse you or your use of the work). 
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes. 
No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work. 
For more details, visit:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/

Original cover photograph by Tim Rogers

www.novelinaday.com</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="7969A944-97D5-4419-B98A-A8D1ADC72A07">
            <Text>_”Oh, this looks bad. Ugh, he's really bleeding out. You've bollocksed the whole thing up now, right enough. Why'd you have to shot him?"
_Jacob's ears still rang from the gun's loud report. Shots fired. A body crumpled to the floor right there in front of him, bleeding out. A spray of red on the curtain behind.
__Jacob didn't know what was happening. Had they been shot? Had he been shot? He looked down to see if he was bleeding.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DA09C9D8-F96B-4078-BE91-0A5B5857ABC1">
            <Title>Chapter six</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch06-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="40931E32-4B8F-4AE8-B03D-9A3E0F19B52D">
            <Title>Full Title Page</Title>
            <Text>








Start Wearing Purple

written as a
Novel-in-a-Day









 #
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2A8A92D3-867D-41A7-A9F6-0274D7FAB8AF">
            <Title>Chapter fourteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch14-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="6F885A5A-D0C1-4647-AC82-37A5AC648185">
            <Text>"What are you drawing, Charlotte?" ask Dr Warne's slightly distorted voice.
"Just a ship." replies a remarkably feminine voice with perfect child-like pitch. Charlotte's face remains focused on the drawing and her hair sways slightly when she cocks her head to examine a detail.
"What kind of ship is it?" asks Dr Warne. "It looks very big."
"Aye," grumbles the long haired figure in front of Dr Warne in a deep masculine bass, "t'is a poiret ship. We bein' poirets o'th sea 'n all."
The man with long dark hair looks up, the video clearly shows that he wears an expression as if being in a permanent dark mood, sternly judging any and all that he looks at. The jaw is held out front, presenting a nonexistent beard.
Although the image of Dr Warne does not betray any sudden movements she is, momentarily, visibly startled.
The video pauses.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1BEDCA27-B0AA-45B4-9B76-3044EA191671">
            <Text>Sitting in the Pinecrest Diner at what had become his usual time, 11:30 AM, and his usual booth, the one farthest from the door, Jacob scratched notes in his hidebound notebook.  The project on Terrordon was feeling more like a failure.  He was ready to shift over to something else.  Willie Brown.  Or Jerry Brown.  Or John Muir.  Maybe even Gavin Newsom.  
But the current project was not moving along.  It hurt him to assess the money expended thus far.  He had no advance from a publisher to cover his research.  The work was strictly on speculation.  Pete had not returned his most recent calls.  Maybe that was a message.
Jacob poured a third container of coffee creamer into his cup.  It was all the nutrition he expected to get that day.  A visit to his sister seemed to be in order.  He placed his head down on the unused paper placemat in front of him. 
He started to drift off to sleep, in spite of the four cups of coffee he had imbibed.  A pleasant image of Land’s End played in the cinematic screen of his mind.  He tried to recall the exact location of Seal Rocks in relation to the back wall of the Cliff House.  He listened for the pounding surf below him.  He noted the squawks of passing sea gulls.  
It had been a long time since he let his mind relax and forget about the current project.  He had placed too much emphasis on something that was insubstantial.  He saw the mistake clearly now.  
It’s simple, he thought.  I chose something that cannot be pursued to a conclusion, that I am not equipped to pursue, and that nobody cares about anymore.
Everybody cares about John Muir….
A sharp poke on his shoulder pulled him out of his near-slumber.  He lifted his head and through bleary eyes made out the face of a dark-skinned woman.  He caught the fragrance of her perfume, a loud announcement of tropical spices that stung his nose.
Pushing against the table and into an upright position, he saw her clearly.  It was the girl from in front of the Admiral.  She smiled and sat down opposite him.
It was only then that Jacob realized that she wore a wig during her nightly vigils.  She now wore a different wig, in the style of a China doll, slick, straight black hair which framed her face in rectangular lines. 
He thus saw her face for the first time in daylight.  In spite of his interest in her as a research subject, he saw a disturbing, uncanny beauty in front of him.  She had smooth dark skin, the color of dark chocolate.  Her white irises contrasts sharply with her hair and her face.  Her only blemish was a scar across her right cheek which she covered with makeup.  From her ears hung bright green hoops about two inches in diameter.
He smiled widely, surprised by her appearance, having written her off as a past acquaintance, and a minimal one, at that.  She smiled back at him and revealed a toothy blast of white enamel which again contrasted nicely with her face and hair.  
Then he walked his gaze downward.  She wore a catsuit, similar or the same as she wore on O’Farrell.  The plunging neckline revealed broad, smooth breasts the same darkness as her face. Her long fingers, tipped with metallic copper nails, wrapped around the table’s round glass candle holder.  She held it in front of her, feeling its warmth on her hands and face. Her eyes beamed a calmness he had not detected during his quick passes to and from the hotel.
He could not take his eyes off her.  
What is this, he thought, that has arrived from the vast universe to my front door?
“Breakfast?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.  “You did say you would buy me breakfast.”  
Again, the origin of the accent alluded Jacob. He motioned for the waitress, who brought over a menu for the girl.
“My name is Jake,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Sika,” she said, returning his grip lightly.  “You can call me Sika.  S - I - K - A.  Get that right for your newspaper.”
Jacob let go of her hand.  His jaw slackened and he froze.
Sika returned to hold her candle.  She smiled and looked into the flame.
Jacob said, “What makes you think I work for a newspaper?”
“You’re not a cop.  I know cops.  You are not a social worker.  I know them, too.  And you are not clergy.  I would know that as well.”  She continued to smile and gaze into the flame of the candle.
“Then what leads you to think - “
“Do you think I didn’t know when you moved in? Do you think I don’t see you staring at me from your window?  I even recall the night you watched me from the roof.  A cop would not be so obvious.  A social worker would actually try to talk to me.  A clergyman…well, let’s just say they are some of my best customers.”  She looked up from the flame and locked onto Jacob’s eyes.  “But I am not here for you.”  The smile left her lips.
“Okay,” said Jacob, “okay.  So, why are you here?”  
“The same as anybody trying to make it in this country.  Some of us don’t have the connections, the assistance, the…support.  We must do what we can to survive.”  She tapped his wrist with the sharp, copper nail of her index finger.  “And where I come from was much worse.”
“Which was?”
“Sierra Leone.”
Ah, Jacob thought.  Africa.  It makes sense, I suppose.
“So I will take your breakfast, and ask that you do not follow me, or say hello to me, or anything else.  Unless you want to be one of my customers.  If your intent is to write about me, I don’t need that.  You don’t need that either, mister newspaper reporter.  There is nothing creative about documenting the life of a hooker.”
Jacob gazed at her and nodded.  
She continued.  “And the next time you want to write about someone in my line of business, please realize that the exposure you give us only hurts us more. I just want to be left alone, to make the little money I can to survive here.”
Her eyes calmed slightly, and her shoulders drooped.  She pushed the candle to the side of the table next to a napkin container.  
She looked briefly at the menu.  “Order a number three for me.” 
“Okay,” said Jacob.
“And thank you,” said Sika.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="43CCEF91-4A2D-4238-8530-061EDDCF1A72">
            <Text>Babs H. Newton:
If this is the best that the Chronicle can produce in a matter as serious as terrorism I'm canceling my subscription. This frivolous take on the issue only helps terrorists and keep us from adopting the real and bold measures that we need to take as a country and as a society.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="51EA1B18-E2A3-475E-9E94-E97CFBD79C11">
            <Text>There are at least 8 personalities inhabiting one body. We don’t know who that body was before these other personalities emerged. Normally, in a case of D. I. D. there are clues; a common last name, one that has a cohesive past life that can be confirmed, something. With this case, nothing. We have no place of origin. No family. No age. No missing person report. Nothing. 
Of the identified personalities the following information has been compiled:
	•	Doug : New Jersey native. Contractor or other role in construction of homes and offices. Excellent mechanical dexterity. When added to experience in industry, results in finely crafted and detailed objects. Extreme and rapid hostility as a result of perceived or actual slights. 
	•	Rog : California native. Solitary and introspective by nature. Primary interests are philosophy, theology, and psychology. Will read voraciously with extreme recall.
	•	Tim : Australian extrovert. Seeks attention via planned performances or reactions to events. Claims to have performed professionally on stage and television. 
	•	Charlotte : 6 year old female for entirety of observation. The only known female personality. Loves to draw and is very good at it. Manual dexterity shows similarity to Doug. Does not know/recall origin or home.
	•	James : California native. 18 year old homosexual male for entirety of observation. Transition into this personality is clear from the exaggerated stereotype behavior. Behavior is NOT affect but genuine (homosexual intercourse is welcomed by “James” and has been confirmed as consensual). 
	•	Billy : Alabama native and commercial farmer. Extensive knowledge of Alabama, the area of the claimed farm, farm equipment, techniques, and agricultural methods. Prefers photography as a hobby with several critics praising “his eye for accentuating detail via textural contrasts”.
	•	Joe : British national. Claims elevated status. Frequently appears after conflict showing remorse without full knowledge of the actions preceding the feelings of remorse. Prefers tea over other beverages. Often compares teas to previous samplings from various hotels. 
It is important to note that NONE of the above personalities share memories of events. 
The other clearly identified personality is unique for the following reasons:
	•	The Sleepwalker does not have a proper name. It refers to itself as the Sleepwalker.
	•	There is no origin for the Sleepwalker. Unlike the other mature and time aware personalities, the Sleepwalker has no backstory, time of origin, or other historical context for analysis. It claims to have “always existed”.
	•	The Sleepwalker is fully aware of the actions and memories of ALL other personalities. No other personality has any awareness of other personalities.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="13240759-9446-45EF-B5E8-D905C826157F">
            <Text>K. Johnson:
YEAH RIGHT! So we now have what, a supervillain in our midst? Call Spiderman! Or whatever fourteen-year-old power fantasy the writer thinks should save us from this threat. With this kind of journalism is no wonder the country's in the dumps.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CD462847-C52C-48F0-B8E3-C4F0EEA22CA8">
            <Text>K. Johnson:
YEAH RIGHT! So we now have what, a supervillain in our midst? Call Spiderman! Or whatever fourteen-year-old power fantasy the writer thinks should save us from this threat. With this kind of journalism is no wonder the country's in the dumps.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9C2EBDD0-85C8-42A9-AAD8-930834631F9D">
            <Title>Scapple document</Title>
            <Notes>Note, this file is an imported Scapple map.

In order to view the file you will need to have a copy of Scapple installed. A 30-day free trial is available at:
http://www.literatureandlatte.com/scapple.php

Mac OS: 
If you do have Scapple installed then you will be able to see the file in the Editor, or use the “Open in External Editor” function to edit / play with the map.

Documents &gt; Open &gt; in External Editor
( or ⌃⌘O )

Windows / Linux:
If you do have Scapple installed, you can use the “Open in External Editor” function in Scrivener to view / edit / play with the map.

Documents &gt; Open &gt; Open in External Editor
( or Ctrl + F5 )</Notes>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="90CC34BC-BE5C-4F0A-923F-A7865C6D49F5">
            <Title>Chapter fourteen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch14-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="3B36D539-AB04-4842-8532-74FA4F59F929">
            <Title>Also by</Title>
            <Text>Also by Novel-in-a-Day:

The Dark
Lunar520
Made Man
Section7
Marshal Law
3 Ghosts

www.novelinaday.com



sponsored by
Literature &amp; Latte, creators of Scrivener
￼
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CA3D5CA6-8B10-43C9-9DBD-96C16F76CCCA">
            <Text>The next day, Jacob walked down the hill from his North Beach apartment to the favorite restaurant of his agent.  He found Pete grinning and waving at a window seat inside The Stinking Rose. The smell of basil, tomatoes and roasted garlic hit Jacob like a brick as he entered off Columbus Street.  
Pete sat at the usual table, on the side that gave him a good view of the TransAmerica Building.  He wiped his hand over his thinning hair as Jacob sat down. "So, how did the follow-up go?  Got anything?"
"Not a damn thing, Pete.  And I have decided to take matters into my own hands."
Pete dipped a piece of bread into a small pan of olive oil and garlic cloves.  After a big bite, he said, "You're not going to go native again?"
"Yes, I am," said Jacob.  
"This is not 'Milk'," said Pete.  "You're talking about a masked vigilante who used violent methods to fight crime on the streets."
"Milk was murdered, Pete.  That's violence, too."
"Why don't you stick to interviews? Do you think there are people on the street who can tell you more about Terrordon?"
"Maybe.  But I'll thinking of a different angle.  I want to know what was in Terrordon's head.  What made him tick.  What made him decide to confront criminals face to face."
Pete dabbed the last of the olive oil in the pan. "How would you do that?"
Jacob leaned back in his chair.  "Hands-on."
Pete pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes.
Jacob drew a circle in the air with his finger.  "Terrordon struck crime at its heart, where it happened, as it happened, or before it happened.  The police couldn't do that.  And Terrordon was watching for an opportunity, seemingly all the time.  We don't know who he was, or what he did during the daytime hours, but at night, he was a consistent menace to drug dealers, would-be murderers, pimps and all manner of thugs.  Since his departure, vice has come back to the night streets.  And we are back to square one."
"I don't like the way you sound, Jake.  You can't mix in with the underworld.  You have absolutely no experience - "
"Did I have experience in The Castro?"
"No," said Pete, "but I was there to guide you, and it wasn't dangerous.  Not like the world of Terrordon. Now you are talking about a different ballgame altogether."
"I'm talking about creating data," said Jacob.
"Making it up?"
"No, but...I believe I can learn more about Terrordon by living the way he might have lived, by practicing his techniques..."
"With ropes and blades and...guns?"
Jacob winced.  "I don't know.  Maybe."
Pete shook his head.  "You know nothing about any of that."
"I can learn. Isn't that what an investigative journalist does?"
Pete glowered at him.  He lifted his chin and looked down his nose at Jacob.  He tapped the menu on the table.  "I'm having the meatloaf.  How about you?"</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="450080D6-C690-4C5E-8AD2-62DE39A3EB90">
            <Text>“Name?”, said the barista. She was holding up a paper cup in one hand and jiggled a black Sharpie in the other. Her smile seemed genuine enough to him, but then so did Armstrong’s Tour de France victories, once upon a time.
“Pharmstrong,” said Jacob, making it sound like a suggestion. He was still viewing the world through the warped lens of the cheating cyclist, and the fact that it permeated his thoughts was beginning to grind his gears.
“I’m sorry?” said the barista.
“Tex,” said Jacob. “That’ll do.”
The barista turned away and scribbled on the cup. Jacob took a window seat and placed his phone on the table. The phone began to vibrate and Peter’s name appeared on its screen. Jacob flipped it over, and it fell silent.
The book, the tour, everything about the Armstrong project had gone to hell, yet he couldn’t shake himself free of it. Like a dark stain on a favourite t-shirt that wouldn’t wash out, it was a persistent reminder that things were once better.
At the outset he’d wanted to understand the man; to get deep inside his mind and find reasons for his behaviour. He’d applied his own “method writing” technique to his research, which he’d always had success with in the past. And succeed he did. What he found there, however, was greed and ego and a plethora of transgressions that, when placed on a balance scale, would comfortably outweigh the seven deadly sins.
Despite the disappointment and resulting unpleasantness, the experience sharpened his observational and analytical skills, and these were rewarding additions to method writing. Scratching the surface of a man’s life and mind were merely the launch pad from which he could now propel himself. Should he wish, he could go deep inside his subject’s motivations and heave apart any deeply buried cupboards then haul out the skeletons hidden therein and shake them loose of their secrets. In Armstrong’s case, the cupboards were uncountable and contained an army of skeletons alongside still putrefying flesh. The writer’s journey had been unpleasant, but now it was over. Or it would be, if only he could shake it from his every waking moment.
The barista called out the name he’d given her, and he pottered over to collect his coffee. As he turned to go back to his seat, he stopped to let a child run past. The child was wearing a black mask over its head and a black cape trailed in its wake.
“Batman!” the child, a boy, shouted.
After turning at the door, the child rushed over to Jacob’s table and picked up his phone.
“We’ve gotta get back to the Batcave, Robin,” the boy said into the phone. “The Riddler left us a riddle and we gotta put it in the Batputer.”
Jacob had hurried over, and as the child finished speaking he lifted the phone from the boy’s hand.
“Thank you, Batman.” said Jacob earnestly. “And good luck catching the Riddler.”
The boy stared up at him; his eyes dark and distant behind his mask. Then he shouted, “Batman!” and ran back to his mother who was seated a few tables along.
Jacob came here because it didn’t have the hubbub that polluted most cafes. It was small and friendly, and he could think and work without disturbance. And besides, the coffee was always excellent. He’d never understood, however, how the place stayed in business. It was not unusual for there to be only a handful of customers passing through its door for hours at a time. Today, besides himself and the barista, the only other people present were the boy and his mother.
Suddenly, a man burst through the door and began to yell.
“Okay. Everybody keep quiet, and no-one will get hurt.”
The barista let out a sharp yelp and raised her hands. Jacob turned slowly to face the man. He was standing beside the door waving a pistol in his outstretched arm. His loose-fitting clothing disguised his shape, though he appeared to be slight, and his face was covered by a balaclava. From the tone of his voice, Jacob guessed that the man was young. Perhaps not yet in his twenties.
The man brandished the pistol at Jacob.
“I said sit down! I won’t say it again.”
“You didn’t actually ask us to sit,” said Jacob. “But I’m happy to oblige.”
“Obli-what? What you saying? Just sit the fuck down.”
Jacob sat.
The gunman swung his gun around and pointed it at the barista.
“Now,” he said, “give me the takings.”
The barista opened the till and handed the gunman a tiny bundle of notes. He then leaned forward and look into the till and, as he did so, the Batman-clothed boy ran up and snatched the gun from his hand.
“Batman!” the boy shouted and ran back to his mother holding aloft his trophy.
A moment of stillness followed. The gunman stood motionless staring at the boy and his mother. Then, realisation crossed the gunman’s face, and he fled, in so doing, dropping all of his intended ill-gotten gains.
Immediately, Jacob rushed over to the barista, who still had her hands in the air, and helped her to a seat. The poor young woman was trembling and quietly sobbing to herself. Jacob grabbed a handful of napkins and placed them on the table in front of her.
“You sit here,” he said, “while I take care of things.”
He first scooped up the money from the floor and handed it to her then he took out his phone. But as he prepared to dial, the barista placed her hand on his.
“No police,” she said.
“But…” Jacob started.
Her swollen eyes appeared almost as fearful as when the gunman first pointed his gun at her. She gently shook her head and repeated herself. “No police, please.”
The boy and his mother had joined them. She threw the gun onto the table.
“It’s a toy,” she said. “I’m pretty sure I know that punk. Who would rob a café for fifty bucks? You gotta be some kind of stupid to do that.”
“No police,” said the barista, once again.
“If it’s who I think it is, then his mother’s punishment will do more good that getting the cops involved.”
At one time, Jacob had been mostly black and white about the use of punishment for law breakers. Break the law. Take the punishment. The Armstrong experience had changed him. After all, he reasoned. it was impossible to achieve justice for the millions of innocent people Armstrong deceived with his years of skulduggery. Not all of those wrongs can ever be righted. The criminal justice system is a deterrent to wrongdoing, but it is only one deterrent. Bad people still do bad things. Social pressure, in its own way, ensures people behave with limits, just as the prospect of a mother’s rage has its own influence. The law ion its own is not a sufficient deterrent.
He looked at the boy standing there in his costume. Batman took to the streets of Gotham City to help rid them of criminals, and he brought his own form of justice.
Back when Jacob worked on the Chronicle, San Francisco had its own Batman. He called himself Terrordon. Instead of a bat, he used a stylised Pteranodon as his logo. He had a cool armoured car, of course, and utility belt, and he climbed walls with the aid of grappling hooks and flew from buildings using his cape as a hang-glider. For five years he cleaned up the city, and then he disappeared. To be heard of never again.
“I think I will close up for today,” said the barista, whose composure had mostly returned, although she still wore the look of an experience best forgotten.
Jacob followed the mother and her little batman to the exit, which the barista then locked behind them. Jacob gave her a little wave goodbye before heading off down the street with his thoughts, which were now fermenting into a plan.
He needed to excise the muck that stuck to him and the stench that surrounded him from the Armstrong job. There was only one way he knew how to do that. He needed to write a book. A new project that would absorb him and in which he could lose himself entirely. Terrordon.
The only thing people knew about Terrordon were his exploits. Nothing else. What was his motivation? What or who was his source of funding? Who was he? What was his name? These were questions that no-one had answered. By getting into Terrordon’s mind he’d have an excellent chance of identifying who the man behind the mask might be. This, he knew in his bones, was a book. It might even be the book.
Jacob leaned against a streetlamp then took out his phone and placed a call.
“Peter,” he said when the call was answered, “I have the most exciting book idea I’ve ever had. This time it’s not about a bottom feeder. It’s about an apex predator.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="A18063AF-1026-49CD-84AE-399532A16540">
            <Text>He refined the details, got the numbers for all major newspapers in the city and spent a busy half hour drafting a script. He had to sound unhinged but intelligent, credible and also just enough over-the-top to be a believable supervillain. A lone wolf with a bit of flair, not so mundane to make Terrordon think that this would be a matter best left to the police, but not so crazy to be dismissed as a prank.
It took him some tries to record the message correctly because he kept cracking up, mostly because he was so nervous. When he was done he left it alone and went for a workout; he needed to unwind a bit. 
It did him good; as soon as he got back he re-played the message and edited it to distort his voice. Once distorted and edited, the message worked even better than he had thought: he sounded menacing,  believable, and with just the right amount of style to be the Fisherman.
Then he took the burner phone he had bought earlier and started making calls.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="10C7ABD8-F6E1-4237-80B6-94A8EC6E2840">
            <Title>Chapter four</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch04-Blue$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="923BB06B-3787-43C7-AAC5-41907A03A522">
            <Text>Jason Richards pulled his Aston Martin 777 over just after the Chevron at Menlo Park. He’d just switched off the engine when an officer tapped a torch on his window.
“Drivers license and registration please.”
Richards gave the officer what he needed with a forced smile. He recalled the journey home to determine if he’d been speeding at any point. He had not.
“One moment.” said the officer as he headed back to his car.
Richards tapped his right forefinger into the steering wheel as he wiped his dash with a micro-fibre cloth with his other hand. Once satisfied, he adjusted his cuff-links. When fixing his Windsor knot in the rear-view mirror he noticed a dark SUV without lights on coming down the street, slowly. He looked towards the police car as the SUV passed. The SUV stopped abruptly in front of his car, blocking his exit. His temples began to throb.
A large man wearing a purple suit exited the SUV and strode towards his Aston Martin. Richards heart smacked-repeatedly against his chest bones as he glanced back to the police car. Nothing! What the hell was happening. Richards knew he should start his car, lock the doors and close his window, but his hands were frosted in panic. A moment later the large man had opened his door, cut through his seat belt and was dragging him by his tie onto the side-walk. Richards glimpsed three police officers exit the police car, but it was the ominous face in front of him that held him. Richards waited, but there was no word from the policemen.
“What the hell is going on?” Richards shouted looking again to the police for help.
“They are of no use to you…I am the Sleepmaker!”
Richards lurched forward and kicked for the Sleepmaker’s knee. He missed but gained himself enough distance in the process to get under the Sleepmaker’s guard and land an uppercut. The Sleepmaker tumbled and rolled backwards back onto his feet. To Richards surprise the man was now smiling. The police officers had surrounded them at a distance with their guns pulled.
“What the…” Richards screamed.
The Sleepmaker, threw his knife to the floor so Richards could see him do it and slowly moved forward and head-butted Richards. Dazed, Richards tried to punch the Sleepmaker, swinging his arms wildly hoping for a connection. Then his stomach was ablaze with agony - he fell gasping for air.
The Sleepmaker stood over Richards, conscious he was exposed and open to attack, but Richards stayed down. Then the Sleepmaker looked away into the distance and waited, but nothing.
“This isn’t him, get him in the SUV and let’s get out of here.”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DB5FD49D-B00F-46CB-88C2-3590E1AF9AAA">
            <Text>Jacob woke up with a headache and his body felt cramped and sore. He didn’t remember falling asleep on the sofa. He didn’t remember much at all.
He opened his eyes and, for a moment, had that vague, perplexing sense of unfamiliarity. It quickly turned to a solid awareness of unfamiliarity. He wasn’t home. This wasn’t his sofa. He sat up.
“Welcome Mr Heath, it is good to see you are awake.”
The voice came from behind. It sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t pick it.
“Allow me to introduce myself, I am The Sleepwalker.”
Jacob stopped. He felt the hairs on his arms start to rise and his hands suddenly felt very cold. He realised he wasn’t breathing.
“Do make yourself comfortable Mr Heath. Although, since you are one of the very few people who visited me at Rampworth, that makes you a friend. So, Joseph, your head will be rather sore, so you will find some water and some pain killers on the coffee table beside you.”
Jacob glanced at table and saw a pitcher of water and a little box of Tylenol beside it. He didn’t move.
“Stephen forgot to get soda water while he was out fetching you, so the water is—I regret to say—only tap water.”
Stephen? Keeping his head still, Jacob’s eyes darted about the room. Two men, both looking like they were linebackers for a professional football team, stood on either side of the door. One of them glanced at the water bottle. Stephen.
“It seems you don’t trust me. The medication box is sealed, and you can examine the blister packs – if I was going to kill you I’d pick a method that was much more fun than poison.
“Allow me to demonstrate. 
“Stephen! Please pour four glasses of water.”
The man who had glanced at the water bottle jumped a little then, after a momentary pause, swaggered forward and poured the water. He picked up the box of pills between his thumb and forefinger, displaying it to Jacob while he used a key to snap the plastic seal. He returned the box to the table and stood up.
“Jacob, you will choose a glass of water for yourself, and one for Stephen. You will open the pillbox and remove 4 pills, two for you and two for Stephen. Stephen will consume the water and the pills that you give him. You may wait as long as needed to see that he has not been harmed. We need to talk, and I need you to have a clear head. I don’t want to ask Stephen and Derrick to help you, but will if I need to.”
Jacob looked up Stephen and imagined him forcing a pill down his throat. If he was going to die, then he was going to die, so he may as well do it on his terms. He reached out, broke two pills out of their blister pack and downed them with a whole glass of water. He had to admit, he did feel better having the water.
“You’re not going to share? Well, it seems that Stephen is not needed then.”
There was a thud and Stephen fell backwards to the floor. A crossbow bolt stuck out from his chest. He didn’t even twitch.  
Jacob fought a sudden surge of nausea.
“See? Now that’s how you have fun.” 
Sleepwalker stepped into view, an empty crossbow slung nonchalantly across his shoulder. He dropped in to the chair on the other side of the coffee table and grinned. 
“Oh this is so much more fun than I thought.” 
He reached down beside the chair and pulled up a new bolt, then held it up over his other shoulder as he called it out to Derrick.
“Arm this for me will you? There’s a dear.” 
As Derrick took the crossbow and bolt, Sleepwalker looked at Jacob. 
“Now my friend, we need to talk. It seems a rather amusing coincidence that the Fisherman would appear so soon after you visited me—or rather, visited my friends—at Rampworth. And how strange that you should want to know so much about Terrordon, and then that Terrordon himself would reappear. It almost makes one believe that these events are all connected in some way. 
Jacob could hear his heart. It seemed so loud he wondered why Sleepmaker wasn’t raising his voice. 
“Perhaps the Fisherman is just bait to catch a dinosaur from another age? And the Terrordon is most certainly a dinosaur worth catching don’t you think?”
Jacob could barely feel his hands or feet, and had to consciously remind himself to breath.
“Now Jacob, we’re friends. You can tell me. How do you intend to use your Fisherman to reveal the Terrordon’s true identity?”
Jacob shook his head, swallowed, and tried to speak, “…”.
“Do you want some more water my dear? Please, do tell.”
Jacob tried again, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh Jacob, I am so disappointed in you. I thought we were friends.”
Sleepwalker raised his hand and Derrick placed the loaded crossbow into it.
Jacob stared at it.
“Now, I’m sure your dear sister Emmy would agree this was just a misunderstanding. Do you know that I bought that pitcher from the Teal and Taupe? It’s a lovely little store and Emmy’s doing such a good job there. You really should go there and see what she’s done.”
Jacob blanched.
“And little Pacey is adorable. Walking around the yard, talking into his toy mobile phone, he looked just like his Daddy. I’m sure he’ll make a fine accountant one day. And don’t his grandparents love him? They don’t seem to mind all the time they spend looking after him while Emmy’s at work. They do seem to wish they could see you more often.”
With a barely perceptible flick, Sleepmaker fired the crossbow again. The pitcher of water exploded. 
“Oh dear, an accident. I’ll have to go back to the store and buy another one from Emmy. I’d hate for there to be other accidents…”
It was too much for Jacob, “You’re right. It’s me. The Fisherman is the bait. I want to find out who the Terrordon is. I’m trying to write his biography, but I don’t know who he is.”
“See? I knew we were friends. So how will you find out his identity?”
Jacob took a breath, “I don’t know. I didn’t get that far. I just thought that, if he came out of retirement, I’d work it out then. But I haven’t. I don’t know how I’ll do it.
Sleepmaker burst into laughter. 
“Oh my friend, that is delightful.” He kept chuckling, “This is even more fun than I’d imagined. Tell you what, for a bit of a lark, I’ll help you. What the Fisherman can’t do on his own, he’ll manage with the help of The Sleepmaker. What do you say?”
Jacob, relieved to still be alive, and hoping to keep his family safe, just nodded.
“Excellent! I haven’t felt so alive for 10 years!! Derrick, take Jacob downtown and dump him somewhere public. But be nice, he’s my friend now.
 Oh this is grand!”</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="0EB117D9-F154-4362-B276-95AD7474A807">
            <Text>It was 9:30 in the morning. Jacob had been back from the gym for a couple of hours already. On the table sat his laptop, a copy of today’s Chronicle, folded open to an article called “We’re Clueless, Admit Police,” and an empty saucer. From back in the kitchen came the sound of his grumbling old pastel green espresso machine as it grudgingly spat out his third cup of coffee. One hand on the machine, muscles in his arm tensed, both eyes searching the skyline out his kitchen window, Jacob was not a happy man.
It was worse than disappointing. It was downright frustrating. His plan hadn’t worked at all. The dozen or so tabs open in his web browser each represented another news source and the most recent articles on the case. Some sources had nothing since yesterday — the story growing cold. And there was nothing in the news anywhere that he could see that mentioned the claim of responsibility he’d fabricated and gotten to the police. No one was writing about The Fisherman. Web searches for “fisherman” turned up nothing of relevance, just as news-radio on the short drive back from the gym had been annoyingly vacuous. And, as he might have guessed, without the involvement of such a super-villain, there was also no mention in the media of Terrordon. Why should there be?
In a way, he knew he was lucky that the police were stymied. Their ignoring his fictional clue was inconvenient for sure, but if they had found some real clues and were able to pursue the real culprits, that would be a whole different thing. And he knew he’d be honour-bound not to derail a real investigation with a real chance of bringing a criminal to justice. So all in all, just as well the police were baffled.
Still, he needed to inject something into this story somehow or find some other way of trying to provoke the missing vigilante Terrordon into reacting. Another man might have added the option “or give up.” But that was not an option for Jacob Heath. He would throw together a makeshift fisherman’s costume and rob something himself rather than abandon this idea.
Back at the table, sipping strong caffeine and smooth steamed milk, he again scanned the Chronicle’s coverage. There were extended quotations taken from an interview with the investigating detective, one Brian Browning. The byline of the article read: Amy Kennedy. That was the blonde woman he’d talked to a while ago. He liked her.
And it occurred to him that it was possible the press would take notice where the police obviously had not. The papers would always be interested in something sensational — sensational sells — where the police would be inclined to dismiss it. “Fisherman” could contact the press as he’d done the police. Or maybe he, as Jacob, could talk to Amy Kennedy again and, this time, suggest the Fisherman had a role in the attack. But no. How would he know of the Fisherman or his responsibility? Best for the Fisherman to claim responsibility to Amy and the Chronicle.
Jacob finished his coffee. A wry smile reached his face as he set the cup back down. Or maybe both: Fisherman could send a claim of responsibility to the Chronicle — it would be certain to reach Amy’s desk. He could then have another meeting with her, ostensibly to talk some more about the Terrordon back in 2005 and the biography she knew he was writing. And then maybe he could “just so happen” to get her to talk about what she’s been working on… “Any new leads?” he could ask innocently. Best of all, perhaps talking about Terrordon and Fisherman in the same evening would link the two together in her mind and perhaps in her writing.
Happy to have a way forward, he swiped his way through the contacts on his phone till he found her name, pushed the button, and, standing up from the table, put the device to his ear, talking while walking around the living room.
“Hey, yeah, it’s Jacob,” he smiled.
“Jacob Heath,” he clarified, “Right — Terrordon book. Listen, I was wondering… I’ve worked through another chapter and there are some more inconsistencies that are worrying me — I know you must be busy with all the….”
“Yeah,” he nodded to what she was saying in response. “I know. I can imagine…. Oh, is it?”
“Well, anyway,” he continued when appropriate, “You have to break to eat some time right? Maybe I could buy you dinner and get your take on things while we work through the appetiser?”
With a little disappointment, “Yeah, I understand, no, Friday would be fine.” Without any progress in the police investigation till then, there was a real risk of another story coming along and knocking the attack off the front page. Still, Friday was better than nothing.
“Shall I pick you up or…?”
“Right, sure, fine. I’ll meet you at the restaurant. I was thinking Joker.”
He loved the idea of meeting her to eat at Joker — the name was like a super-villain, of course, but also it was a fish restaurant. Ordering their “Catch of the Day” might suggest Fisherman to her subconscious. If you believe in that kind of stuff. He did.
“Right,” he said, “Seven suits me too. Hey, thanks for your time; I really appreciate it. See you then!”
He was still smiling and feeling warm feelings toward her as he put the phone on the table and got to work setting up the Fisherman’s claim of responsibility for the San Francisco Chronicle — a claim that would reach the desk of ace reporter Amy Kennedy before Friday at 7.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="DF21676B-6626-484D-9CA7-8247DC485A73">
            <Text>Stalker99666:
You dumb b*tch you cant write to save you're life and your ugly as f*ck why dont you die and stop writing dumb sh*t theres no Fisherman its the illuminati
[EDITOR'S NOTE: please be advised that this user has been flagged by our readers and the comment is being reviewed for content and abusive language]</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="5976ABF4-FC92-4C00-8B57-80A1152EAC54">
            <Title>Chapter seventeen</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch17-Orange$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="CA86B241-437A-475E-9E8D-301CE49D2312">
            <Title>Chapter five</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch05-Grey$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2B7C49AB-C434-4ACB-914F-6F142229FAAC">
            <Text>He’ll never be able to say how he got to the shelter that night, caked in dust, blood and mind ablaze with attempted conspiracy. The seed was planted, but would it be found? Would it go viral? Jacob lay curled around his handheld radio on the FEMA cot, twisting the knob from one frequency to another, yearning for the snippets of news he wanted to hear.
“Already taxed from an unprecedented summer of fires, volunteers have been worked to a state of utter exhaustion as conflagration devours the Tenderloin, Market Street and, we’re just getting word in now that mandatory evacuations are being conducted in the following areas…”
Click.
“It has yet to be corroborated, but the Islamic State has claimed responsibility for the deadly string of alleged explosive attacks made on the infrastructure of San Francisco this morning at 3:42, which is now believed to have triggered the 7.1 mag…”
Click.
“…We’re just now getting reports that the eastern span of the Bay Bridge has collapsed. I can’t— I can’t see through the…”
Click.
“…The magnitude 7.1 earthquake that has devastated San Francisco in the early hours this morning is now known to be caused by an intentional act of terror, though it is not known if the earthquake itself was…”
Click.
“…as the White House is preparing to announce a state of emergency in the State of California, the president has again caused outrage with a series of tweets—can we get this on the screen Ralph?—he said, ‘Failing San Francisco made sanctuary and now see what they got. They owe a lot of people a lot of debt you know we’ll see. Maybe we lettlem…’, I’m not sure what that last, can we—okay here’s the next tweet: ‘God bless our brave ones there. We are proud of the strong ones. Not like that poorly rated mayer and low I.Q. police chief.’”
“Do we have an official response, is this the…”
Click.
“It was absolutely not a coincidence! I have it on good word that what we now know for sure was a terrorist attack, and my listeners know I’ve been saying that all day long, we know that. We know it was deliberately designed to trigger a quake. I don’t care how many scientists say that’s not possible. Let’s hear what some of you think. Chuck, you’re on the air…”
Click. Click. Click.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="1D30E867-E078-4CF0-A2B9-A9D1B005AB1F">
            <Text>He thrust the phone back in his pocket, unable to process the juxtaposition of what he had just done and his sister’s simple act of caring. All around San Francisco right now, people were sending similar texts—because of him. But he was okay and everyone else was okay. He had been so careful of that.
Except everyone else wasn’t okay.
More of the smoke and dust had cleared and now he saw where those fresh screams were coming from.
There was someone on the bridge.
She was young, blonde. Her raincoat was dusty with powdered masonry, but Jacob could still make out its colour.
Bright pink.
Jacob became nothing but pure, liquid terror. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything but watch the floundering young woman on the bridge in mute horror.
The woman was screaming for help.
She was laid flat out on the remains of the chequered slabs of the bridge, right at the jagged edge where the centre had given way. Her left hand gripped a shaft of ironwork, and her right hand was doing exactly what it had been doing the last time Jacob had seen her—holding her daughter’s hand.
The little girl in the polka-dot parka was dangling in mid-air, hanging over the edge of the bridge with her mother’s hand her only connection to life. She was kicking her little feet furiously, as though she might be able to swim upwards through the air to her mother. Screaming and crying in great gulps.
In the rubble far below her lay a fluffy green stegosaurus.
The rain was merciless, and Jacob was aware of how slick with water his own hands were. How long could the mother hold on?
Every cell of Jacob’s body told him to look away from the inevitable, to run away and never look back, and yet not a single cell could move. So transfixed was he that at first he barely registered the flicker of black in the upper right of his field of vision.
And then everything happened at once.
The mother’s hands were as slippery as Jacob had feared.
The little girl fell.
Her mother let out a shriek that would keep Jacob awake at night until the day he died.
A blur of black swept out of the sky in a graceful curve.
Huge, angular wings.
Icarus, thought Jacob.
The black blur swooped beneath the bridge and then arced upwards again.
And even though this was everything that Jacob had hoped for, it seemed to take his brain an age to catch up and register what it was seeing.
The Terrordon.
When the Terrordon landed on the bridge—not quite as gracefully as in his prime, noted Jacob—Jacob nearly let out a whoop of joy. He would always be too scared to analyse the cause of his elation in this moment, whether it had been because his plan had worked and he had drawn the Terrordon out of retirement, or because of what the Terrordon held in his arms—a terrified, but alive, polka-dotted little blonde girl.
The Terrordon handed the girl to her mother, and mother and daughter clung to each other and cried. The mother kissed her daughter’s head over and over again and kept saying something to the Terrordon. Jacob couldn’t hear the words but he could recognise the gratitude. He wondered if that was a sort of power, too. Did the Terrordon get the same thrill of control from the dependency of those he helped as Jacob had briefly felt upon pressing the button?
He made a mental note to write that down later.
Jacob got a good look at the Terrordon now and tried to memorise every detail for when he got back to his laptop. The Terrordon stood in classic superhero A-stance. He was perhaps a little paunchier than he had been before his disappearance, but he was still powerfully built. The famous pteranodon silhouette stretched across impressive pectorals. His hang-glider wings folded up slowly and slightly creakily around him. The costume perhaps looked a little dated, and the Terrordon’s chin beneath his eye mask was all salt-and-pepper stubble. The head crest of the helmet looked a little bent. But it was him.
And then Jacob realised that the Terrordon was getting a good look at him, too.
He couldn’t remember doing it, but at some point Jacob had stood up. The Fisherman and the Terrordon stood face to face across the devastation below.
But that was fine. Jacob had prepared for this. This was the moment he had been planning for, the moment that he had imagined every night before sleep for the past few weeks: the supervillain revealed; the game begun. Good hack that he was, Jacob had even prepared the perfect line for this encounter:
“They said you were extinct, Terrordon,” he would say, “but I, the Fisherman, have reeled you in.” With maniacal laughter for dessert.
This was what Jacob had planned to say, at least. But in the event, he froze. Stage fright.
The Terrordon was unfurling his wings and stepping back now, ready to take a running jump. Could he make the top of this building from there? And if so, how quickly?
Jacob didn’t wait to find out. He grabbed his holdall and bolted for the fire escape, squeaking and creaking the entire way—it turned out that rubber boots and waders weren’t the choicest of getaway gear. By the time he jumped from the bottom level of the fire escape, the Fisherman was nothing but detritus strewn down the steel steps, Jacob having discarded his waterproofs along the way. At the bottom, he threw off the rubber boots and shuffled out of the waders before sprinting in stockinged feet, looking for somewhere to hide, catch his breath, and put his own shoes and jacket back on.</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="9569FBC3-68A5-4C46-99B1-4517073DFA6D">
            <Text>He went to the store. Usually his shopping was hit and run: go to the corner convenience store, get what he wanted and a couple of impulse items, get out. But this time he took his time, trying to catch conversations among the patrons, or any hint that the Fisherman was starting to catch people's attention.
While he was there he browsed the newspapers. It was getting rarer for stores to carry them, but this one did. Jacob bought the San Francisco Chronicle, making sure there was an A. Kennedy byline there.
"Bad stuff, this attack, eh?," he tried on the store manager as he was paying. He received a blank stare as an answer.
"This guy, the Fisherman," he tried again, pointing at Amy's article in the paper he'd just bought. "Seems like a really crazy guy." He made a bit of a show of muttering some choice sentences written in the article, and shook his head sadly.
"It's all crazy guys out there lately, man," the manager shrugged. "Do you want anything else?"
"No, thank you."
Undaunted by this glimpse into the man-on-the-street mind, he went home with his purchases, got online, and googled 'Fisherman'. 79 million results. Yeah, maybe not the most distinctive name for his supervillain. Then he googled 'Fisherman attack'. Eleven million hits, mostly about fishermen attacked by sharks. Then he googled 'Fisherman terror attack'. Jackpot. There was the Kennedy article and also a smattering of articles, either op-eds and starkly informative, in a number of online media. There was also some chatter on social networks, not a lot, but satisfying enough.
He spent about an hour browsing through social media sites and comments sections. It was predictably depressing, and also failed to produce any hint that he had sparked Terrordon's interest. Maybe it was too son, maybe it was too unclear. What would draw him out?
He tried to think like the Fisherman: his fake villain would not really want to attract Terrordon's attention, of course, so he couldn't be too blatant. But he also would want to carry out his 'mission', and do so garnering better media attention than he was getting right now. Strike now, when the iron is hot, is what his gut told him. The Fisherman would need to feed his ego, his need for attention. 
A bomb threat would really hit the mark, he thought. These days there weren't enough of them to be fashionable as a kid's prank, it would be taken seriously, and it would get a lot of attention.
He jotted down the essentials:</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="07D145AB-482B-43BD-A260-F2D996789FD9">
            <Title>Chapter 4</Title>
            <Synopsis>Jacob has no luck - speaks to police commish, mayors office, society peeps and a journalist from the time no one has any ideas</Synopsis>
            <Text>General background
AUGUST 2017 - SAN FRANCISCO
JACOB HEATH is a professional biographer. He has decided his next book should be about the TERRORDON - the masked vigilante that was credited with cleaning up the streets of San Francisco at the turn of the millenium before disappearing in 2005.
Things that have already happened
Jacob has already told his agent, PETE SCHLAMME, the subject of his next book.
Starts with
Jacob starting to do research to come up with a range of plausible theories for who the man behind the Terrordon was.
Chapter details
Jacob should do some research and go and meet some key players from the time - the Police Commissions (no comment), the Mayors office (they'll get back to you), but with no luck. 
Jacob remembers a journalist who wrote some of the contemporaneous press coverage for the Chronicle while he was there - AMY KENNEDY.
Jacob meets up with her to discuss any theories she had of who the Terrordon was. She shares them.
Ends with
Amy offers to go through some of her old stories and see what else she can think of.
</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="4CEDA10D-306F-4F41-B5BD-96FE0EEAB35A">
            <Title>Chapter brief</Title>
            <Text>Background

Things that have already happened

Begins with

Chapter Details

Ends with

</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="2010F499-6BA4-42E1-9A00-6B3026A9CF47">
            <Title>Chapter twenty</Title>
            <Synopsis>$$Ch20-Red$$
</Synopsis>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="F76B16DD-C6D2-4609-AD92-D17398487D49">
            <Title>Copyright</Title>
            <Text>START WEARING PURPLE

Originally published: 2017

Copyright © 2017 Various Authors
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Story by: Tim Rogers

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental, and more than just a little bit scary.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons 
Attribution - NonCommercial - NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. 
You are free to share (to copy, distribute and transmit the work) 
under the following conditions:
Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified 
by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that 
they endorse you or your use of the work). 
Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes. 
No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work. 
For more details, visit:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/

Original cover photograph by Tim Rogers

www.novelinaday.com</Text>
        </Document>
        <Document ID="5E2C1077-2174-4E1A-ADA9-26E281A10BFF">
            <Text>Jacob had chosen his outfit carefully that morning and took extra effort to style his hair. While his hands worked quickly, his mind was deep in thought, playing out a mental game of the prospective exchange he would have with the Commissioner later. Things would go well if he played his cards right. He arrived at the Police Headquarters about 30 minutes early, sufficient time to allow him to mingle with the staff with a valid reason without arousing suspicions. The receptionist politely told him to have a seat while she informs the Commissioner of his arrival. He was just starting to make small talk with the receptionist, charming her into girly giggles when the Commissioner himself appeared at the hallway to receive him personally, much to his dismay. "Mr. Jacob Heath, I hope you did not have to wait long," the Commissioner said and extended his hand. "He seemed as eager to meet me as I am to meet him," Jacob wondered to himself as he took his hand into a firm handshake.
He followed several steps behind the Commissioner as he led him briskly into a room down the corridor. He hardly had any time to take a good look of his surroundings and lost his bearings after several turns. The room was small and had a clinical feel about it. He wondered if it was one of those rooms where they held their interviews and whether there was anyone watching them from behind the darkened glass windows.
"Please sit down Mr. Heath and make yourself comfortable. Would you like to have some coffee or tea?" The Commissioner gestured to the two pots of steaming beverages on the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. "I'll have some coffee please," Jacob stood up to help himself but the Commissioner was one step ahead of him, his left hand grabbing another mug and pouring him a share too. It did not take too long into their discussion before he realised that the Commissioner was in more ways than one already several steps in front of him. When he left the building moments later, Jacob felt frustrated. It seemed that the Commissioner had simply wanted to fish information from him regarding the Terrordon. The Commissioner was tactful with his words but his intention was clear to him - he had met enough people like him to know, especially the ones in positions like his. It was precisely for this reason that he had built up his network of liaisons from people in the lower rungs of the ladder, people who are perhaps more gullible and unreliable but less scheming and less selfish. It was not difficult to get people like them to talk. He could use money or invest some well-calculated time and emotions. It was people like the Commissioner that he had barely anything to offer up for a trade. The Commissioner had assumed Jacob would have some details that had not reached his ears yet. For the entire length of the exchange, Jacob maintained his composure, putting up an agreeable yet firm front but could not glean any new information from him as well. All that resulted as an impasse, a stalemate of information exchange. The meeting ended up as nothing more than a courtesy call. It was a lousy set of cards played on both their parts. However, the Commissioner did share that the Mayor may have some insights if he could get him to talk, a heavy emphasis on the word "if". 
"It is most certain the Commissioner must have tried and failed, so now he is expecting me to try and do it" Jacob muttered to himself, "and why not."
He stopped and took out the name card the Commissioner passed him earlier from his pocket. He flipped it to the back where the Commissioner's handwriting was strong and clear and dialled the number written behind.</Text>
        </Document>
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