Issue #0, Page 1, Panel 1...

I wrote this article back in July for a site I regularly contribute to, Forces of Geek. At this point, Terminals hadn't even been pitched yet, let alone found a home with a publisher. It's by far one of the most personal articles I'd ever written, and I think it does a swell job of painting a picture of just how dedicated Rove and myself are when it comes to this comic.

In the article, which I do hope you read, I conclude with the complete narration from Terminals Issue #0, a nine-page mini that was to be used to sell the story and art to publishing companies; the book, fortunately, received the green-light before these pages were even inked.

I'm not sure if this nine-page preview issue will see the light of day, I really hope it does as I'm quite fond of it. Regardless, here is the narration for those nine pages; I know you haven't seen any pencils yet, but try to visualize it in your head. Mystery, after all, is what draws us near.

I stand here, hundreds of feet above the ground, not as a God. I stand suspended as a man. As an insect. A mere speck in existence.

A blip.

A blink.

You would look at me and call me a superhero, a para-human, whatever. If I'm not Wynn Collins, I'm a dead man.

A man created me, just as a man created them. The villains. Are they truly evil, or do they wish to just live their lives completely and utterly for themselves? Somewhere in there, you can't help but respect that. What separates me from them? Is it because I don't kill and steal? Surely I'm just as dangerous. The potential to do terrible things lies in all of us, but I'm caught in a loop-hole; I have to stop them. Not because I know better, but because I signed the permission slip.

I could be slinging americanos for $8.50 an hour, but now I'm pulling a masked man's molar out of my boot.

I had nothing to lose, I suppose. I'm a sucker for authority and a major pushover. Major Pushover, now there's a superhero name. I'll have an MP embroidered on my cape.

You could say I left one prison only to find myself in another.

You see us as you want to see us. You see us as an animal, a telepath, a freak of nature, a muscle-head and a walking corpse. Correct? That's the way we saw each other this morning. We were created. We were normal, unusual, entirely unremarkable humans. Then our names were pulled out of the scientific lottery.

We were given gifts. Curses. Responsibilities. Burdens. Abilities. Disabilities.

We were not up for what we signed on for. Of all the powers we were given not one of us had the power to go back in time and change our minds. But would we?

Protecting the country. A thankless job. What good is the victory when you can't enjoy the spoils. I sound bitter but I'm not. Just young. Just scared.

We are all going to die soon. Not in the figurative, over-dramatic “we're all dead on the inside now” kind of way. In the literal “worms are eating their way through my sternum” way. That was all part of the plan, you see. Like I said, there's not much difference between us and them. They kill you, we kill them, you kill us. The circle of life. The monkey holds the lion.

Just as any story unfolds, this one has it's ups and downs. This one has its love. Its terror. Its deceit.

It's as human as much as it is inhuman. It has family. It has hope. It is completely and utterly everything all of us have to face, the villain with the mask. Life.

It's not all shades of grey however. The evil that men and women do are real, as real as you or I. This isn't fantasy. Legends are passed down for generations, why are we surprised to finally see them? These threats, they come in every size, shape, color, every possible angle and vantage point and possibility. Half beautiful. Half rotten. Whether you want to believe or not, these bad men and women are very real, and will force you to make a leap of faith that you don't want to. If you don't you're either lucky or dead.

I stand here ready to kill those that created us. Created only to be destroyed. Why does a team of forgotten souls even bother when their clocks are ticking, deafeningly? Perhaps we're fulfilling a destiny. Maybe it's some misplaced sense of heroism.

I like to think we're all simply terminal.