A/N: Ok, I know I have a thread for poems and oneshots, but this one is a special occasion because it's different than the others.
Disclaimer: I am uncreative in the fact that this disclaimer sucks and I cannot come up with a story on my own, so I add to what Suzanne Collins, the owner of TUC, wrote. Oh, well.
As a serious introvert, parties were never one of Gregor's favorite activities, and this one in particular was getting on his nerves. He quietly slipped away from all the corporate big cheeses, laughing in their small clique-like circles, sipping champaign. He wouldn't be here if it wasn't his house, and he wouldn't have allowed it if his publisher would have accepted his excuses.
He ducked into his private office, locking the door behind him. He sat down in his swivel chair and sighed, relieved to be alone. Well, almost alone. On his desk sat his pet rat, Little Ripred, who had began squeaking excitedly. The rat had come to associate similar parties to shrimp, since Gregor would usually save him a few.
"Not tonight, buddy," Gregor told the rat. He shook his head, a half-smile on the edge of his face, and walked over to his bookcase. Five books stood off to one side, completely alone. Those were his books. His story. And everyone thought it was a fiction. A very good one, but none the less, fiction.
He ran one finger down the white spine of the second book, caressing the red lettering gently. "Bane" it read, in big, defining letters. Just under it, he found the slightly smaller word "King", which was his pen name. Graham King. He didn't pull it out, though. Instead, he reached for the last book in the line, "The War of Time" written in pale gold, stamped on a pitch black spine.
He had a different set of books he kept in perfect order, ones that he didn't read. The ink on the pages were smeared in some places, where Gregor had often cried while reading. Somewhere in the book he held had a few dried drops of blood, where he'd bitten his tongue in memory. He didn't need to read the books to know the story, though. The story was in his head, carved in stone. Nothing could ever remove it from his head, not even amnesia.
He blushed as he read the "About the Author" on the inside of one of the sleeves.
Graham King was born and raised in New York City, where he currently resides in his apartment on the Upper East Side with his pet rat, Ripred, named for the book character. He didn't ever think he'd write books as a child, and was quoted to say, "After fourteen, I realized it was either that or fencing." He does not plan to continue his career as an author or ever get married, and admits to only having kissed one girl in his life, when he was twelve.
With a sigh, he quickly flipped through the pages, random bits of speech jumping out at him every here or there.
"...must get back to the Firelands..."
"...should have thrown you in the dungeon months ago..."
"...thought the Bane had killed you..."
"...I think I know how to break the code!"
"...out of there, Ares!"
"We shall never see each other again."
He snapped the book shut. After eleven years, Gregor had been able to tune out the memories and be somewhat "normal". He never did go back to the Underland. He used to want to so bad, but his parents wouldn't let him at first, before they moved to Virginia. Now that he lived by himself, he could, but he was too afraid at what he might find in the land beneath New York City. He had almost gone back once, he'd even moved the stone in Central Park. But he couldn't do it. So he'd settled for an exquisite apartment on the Upper East Side, where he was close enough to feel at home.
Gregor closed his eyes and scratched his goatee. He'd lead an eventful life for only twenty-three. He had killed a giant white rat miles below ground, fought in a war, and even had a series of books on the national bestseller list. The Overland, of course, only knew about the latter, even though they thought they knew about a fictional twelve-year-old named Gregor who'd done the former. Fiction. Sure.
After putting the book next to it's four paper-and-ink brothers, he booted up his computer. He often enjoyed visiting the forums for his series, "The Prophecies". He could never bring himself to read fan fictions, though. He logged in with his username, TheWarrior. No one ever guessed it was him. No one ever assumed that an author would ever visit their books' own fan sites.
Gregor was always amused how everyone loved Ripred so much. There was a growing cult of Ripred followers who had funny sayings, like "Ripred is god" and other things that made Gregor wonder if he'd actually captured Ripred's personality correctly. It terrified him whenever someone asked if there were going to be any more books in the series. That would require him to go back down to the Underland or write more problems onto his friends. He could never do that.
Mere miles away, a woman his age picked up a battered copy of "The Marks of Secret" off of a small shelf of colorful books. The book was the latest addition, just fallen that day. Holding a lantern near it, she examined the picture of the unsmiling author next to his mini-biography on the inside of the back cover. She held up an old photograph next to the one in the book, comparing the two.
Upper East Side, she schemed in her head. I am certain I could find it.