Chapter Text
Two Pages, both use a nine-panel grid
Page 1 (9 panels)
Panel 1: Exterior of a greenhouse in Northampton, England. It’s a well maintained greenhouse, not too far away from where Delia Derbyshire died just a year or so prior. But for all that it’s well maintained, it’s still a bit crap and looks like it’s going to be bulldozed to build a flash in the pan housing development for tourists. But there’s a charm to it because it’s Northampton.
Caption: Northampton, 2 weeks before the Coup.
Panel 2: Interior of the greenhouse. There are a bunch of plants being grown here, not all of them cannabis. Working the greenhouse is a solitary individual with a massive bushy hair and beard. He’s either a year shy of fifty or exactly fifty years old. He is dressed sensibly for someone working in a greenhouse, but carries with him an aura of magic and mystery. We don’t really get a good look at his face though. His name is Alan.
Panel 3: Alan looks at a landline telephone, which uses a rotary dial. It’s beige and has been there since the 70s or 80s. It’s located on a side of the greenhouse without any doors or windows. There are a bunch of plants surrounding it, not all of them cannabis. Alan looks rather annoyed that his time working in the greenhouse has been interrupted. We don’t get a good look at his face.
SFX: Ring. Ring.
Panel 4: Alan is at the phone, holding it to his ear. We don’t get a good look at his face, but we get the sense that he is humoring whoever it is on the other end of the phone. He doesn’t really have much to say to anyone who isn’t a mate, and mates of his know full well not to call him when he’s working in the greenhouse. It’s really just six panels of the exact same expression of tired resignation of being on the phone with someone you don’t like.
Phone: Hey, it’s been a while. Listen, I could use some help with the work I’ve been doing. I know you said I shouldn’t trust them with anything too valuable. I haven’t told her anything important.
Panel 5: Alan is at the phone, holding it to his ear. We don’t get a good look at his face, but we get the sense that he’s just tuning this all out. He’s got other things on his mind. Like helping Leah with her comic. Alan doesn’t know why she bothers with this industry full of snakes and businessmen. But, god help her, she has the same bug he does. So, as many a father would do, he helps his daughter with plotting.
Phone: But I’ve been to a lot of fun places. I was actually in Glasgow where I encountered that Scottish wanker you thought was a twat. His dad was doing something or other that got the powers that be quite cross. Or maybe it was a revenge thing, I honestly don’t know. He’ll be dead in a year.
Panel 6: Alan is at the phone, holding it to his ear. We don’t get a good look at his face, but we get the sense that he’s thinking about Paul fucking Levitz. As with any proper con artist, Alan has a belief that if you make an agreement with someone, you stick with it. Not fuck the other guy over when it’s convenient. There’s still work to be done, but once it is, he’s out. Thank god he and Kevin own their comic this time. Alan’s been having a blast working with the guy.
Phone: Anyway, I think I might be a tad fucked. It turns out that Paris is sorta, kinda maybe… goingthroughamassmagicalwarthatismostlybeingfoughtbychildren. And I appear to be one… of them?
Panel 7: Alan is at the phone, holding it to his ear. We don’t get a good look at his face, but we get the sense that he’s thinking about inviting Steve over for dinner. They’d seen each other the night before last, but it’s always good to have your best friend over for dinner. They’ve got that bumper book to work on together, and they aren’t getting any younger. They can pop out to The Bull for a pint or two after. Maybe he’ll get to meet Seline again.
Phone: It’s absolute madness. You know that thing you did in ‘87 with the squid and the bunny cat? Yeah, that but worse. I think I’ve had my head ripped off at least three times. There was this one time Hawkmoth, he’s the bad one, turned a five year old girl into a shark woman who ATE me!
Panel 8: Alan is at the phone, holding it to his ear. We don’t get a good look at his face, but we get the sense that he’s thinking of a comic that adapted one of his prose stories from ‘94. It was a Lovecraft story about an FBI detective in Red Hook who takes drugs and becomes a serial killer. It was a good adaptation and the artist (something Boroughs?) had a unique style. Maybe he’ll work with him on something. Or, if the taxman forces him to, he’ll just do a sequel to that prose story.
Phone: I still have nightmares about the time that reporter lady–a proper one, not like Alya–was turned into a harpy with seven heads and she ripped Chloe into pieces before Chat Noir had to mercy kill this other reporter lady and his scream was so loud, I think I burst an eardrum and the President killed himself, oh fuck! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!
Panel 9: Alan is at the phone, holding it to his ear. We don’t get a good look at his face, but we get the sense that I’ve grown weary of explaining Alan’s thoughts.
Phone: So I was wondering if you might have some… advice?
Page 2 (3 panels)
Panel 1: Close up of Alan’s mouth. The beard is quite thick, decades old even. It might well be almost as old as he is. According to the photos I’ve found, he’s been growing it since he could grow a beard. It’s unkempt and a bit mad, as one would expect from a magician. His mouth is visible, but terse within it. And yet, there’s a sense of humor to it.
Alan: You are not James Bond. You’re a sixteen year old girl being abused by the deep state.
Panel 2: Alan hangs up the phone and resumes his work in the greenhouse. He seems happier now, but we don’t get a good look at his face.
Panel 3: Lila Rossi has the look on her face of a young girl who has just realized the full scope of how fucked she is and wants so desperately to scream in terror, but can’t because if she did, then she would never stop. She is not shaking or being tempted by any butterflies. She is just so consumed by madness and terror that she can’t move at all. She is alone. And she’s fucked.