If you’ve peeked around or have read my earlier posts, you know that I am the creator of a sci-fi character named Leon “Catwalk” Caliber. Some of you have read the original Catwalk origin story published in Peregrine Entertainment’s 2001 comic, “Independent Voices 3.” Others may have read the prologue to the upcoming novel, “Catwalk:Messiah.”
I’m proud to announce that the novel is in the hands of beta readers as we speak, after many round of edits, and me finally kicking myself in the ass to go ahead and publish it. I’m open to tips from fellow writers on seeking a publisher, though I largely subscribe to the lessons learned by renowned mystery/horror writer J.A. Konrath on his philosophy of self-publishing vs. the traditional route.
For those unfamiliar with my titular character, let me make an introduction. This is the character description I was asked to write for editors/artists collaborating with me:
Leon “Catwalk” Caliber is a job man, a freelancer whose wanderings have landed him in Nitro City. He’s 28, which alone is an accomplishment in his line of work. He is about average height (5’10”) with the physique of an experienced martial artist (Brandon Lee or Robin Shou). His eyes are black, matching his long hair, which he usually keeps pulled back. His legs and spine are cybernetic implants, providing him with world-class foot speed and gymnastic agility. When on the job, he wears his trademark uniform consisting of a black leather jumpsuit with armored gloves and boots, and his helmet depicting an angry cat. (See sketches)
Leon’s parents abandoned him, and he ran the streets of then Washington, DC with gangs until one tragic day when his legs were crushed by a fallen building, the result of a cross-town gang war. Having no known family, he was shipped off to St. Vincent’s orphanage. He grew up as an introverted, angry child with only the orphanage mother (Sister Mary Adrianne Grace) and a handful of other children as his friends (Bobby, Angie (issue 1) and MJ). To show their devotion to one another, the four children all took the last name Caliber before getting separated. They were Cat’s only family.
At 18, Leon was offered a way out. The local police department had confiscated some untested, experimental cybernetic technology, and needed a guinea pig. Having nothing to lose, Leon underwent the implantation surgery. He was given new, functional legs and a stronger spine, in exchange for 8 years of service to the DCPD. He worked on the motorcycle squad before a double cross landed him in the worst department around. For three years, he worked with a motley crew called the KAPS (Kick Ass Psycho Squad) retiring oversized cyborgs and psychopaths. After a number of arguments among themselves and the emotional and physical abuse of the job, Cat left and moved west to Nitro City to work independently.
Cat’s demeanor and dialogue are peppered with bitterness. He reeks of sarcasm. Everything good in his life is either gone or dead, and he deals with it by brash talking and casual violent acts. He is prone to fits of uncontrolled rage, a result of the conflict of technology and humanity that his body has become.
He is well trained in a handful of martial arts and an arsenal of different guns. He has a long-time love of motorcycles and anything fast.
You can see a few images of Catwalk and how he has developed in this post. How did he make the transition from comic to written page? Well, here is the prologue for the very first Catwalk novel, coming to readers in 2013:
“Okay, Sweetie, open your eyes.”
Leon “Catwalk” Caliber takes a long drag off of his cigarette. The voice on the vidscreen triggers the same sick taste in his throat as the first time he pressed the play button. The series of events on-screen remains the same: the awkward smile of the girl in the frame, the sweet and self-absorbed tone with which the man just off-camera delivers his dialogue, the slight, excited shaking of the camera as she looks up at him. Once again he asks the young girl which hand holds the coin, even though only his left hand is extended. She’s nervous. Her shoulders are pulled up, and her arms are tight to her body. She shifts to accommodate the tight fit of her school uniform. She blushes, the ghost of Shirley Temple, complete with pigtails and storybook innocence. She giggles and touches the back of the man’s gloved hand with a finger. She’s correct.
It’s the right hand that wields the bone saw.
Catwalk stops the recording. The glass next to him is empty, the bottle of bourbon almost the same. The dull glow of the paused recording is the only light in the loft, save a few blinking sensors from the bay that hosts his motorcycle and gear. He stares mutely at the image on the screen. He already has the rest of it memorized. The girl survives for another two minutes and 17 seconds. She doesn’t suffer long. Thank whatever God she believes in that she doesn’t feel what happens next. This killer doesn’t keep his victims alive along. He saves the mutilation and sex acts until after they’re dead. He doesn’t get off on torture, just the rush of ending a life … even that of an eight-year-old girl.
Cat takes a hold of his whiskey tumbler, mindlessly raising it to his lips. The lack of liquid distracts him from the screen. The video was an unexpected test. Someone hoping to remain anonymous had paid a deposit for his services. The instructions were simple. Watch the video. Find the killer. Get vengeance for the victims. Get proof. Get paid.
His yellow eyes return to the screen. His lips curl into a sneer. After watching the recording once, he was willing to do the job for free. That feeling amplified each time he watched the girl die. Cat chuckles out loud. He’s curious at his reaction. This chit never bothered him before. Why now? Why her?
He stands and walks away from the screen. He needs a break. He stands and stretches. The muscles along his arms and sides are sore. His legs and spine don’t protest. They’re hard-wired into his nervous system. Thanks to modern cybernetic technology, he can leap from the sidewalk to the top of an apartment complex, and outrun most of the commercial vehicles on the market.
The benefits aren’t without a curse. His immune system has never quite solved the riddle of his experimental cybernetics. Treatment is painful and expensive. He could use the money this job would bring in.
Catwalk stands in front of one of the windows, listening to the endless clamor of sirens, screams and gunfire in the distance. He’s chosen a nasty part of Downtown. It’s dangerous, but it’s very private. As a professional hitman, that’s worth the risk.
Running his hands through his jet black hair, he ties it into its customary ponytail. He never had the chance to remove his jacket once he got the transmission. Instead, he watched the recording the first time, completely submersed in it enough to tune out everything else.
He looks over his shoulder at the custom-crafted, armored helmet resting on the counter. The triangular yellow cat’s eyes stare back at him. Cursing under his breath, Cat walks toward the helmet and the armored motorcycle behind it with cold intent.
There’s work to be done.
Welcome to the future that may or may not be. Welcome to Catwalk’s world. Enjoy your stay.
-nK