AN- Ok, this in the same timeline as my Silent Observer, but isn't really a sequel. More a bit of reflection at things. It wasn't meant to be a story at all. I started writing it as a warm up, to get my pen into Hellboy mode so that SO1 and 2 came out in character. But then I got bored, so I started posting bit by bit. It needs some refinements along the way, of course... Thanks to my REVIEWER (1) theshadowcat. Nice hearing from people!

Masks

My hippy friend is getting confused at my silence, so I go back to him.

Stan Connor, college student. Barefoot, longhaired, Allen Ginsberg fan… Today, he's come to my page to buy a bagel. That's where I'll start with him.

Stan, right now, wants some breakfast. He's hungry, tired, not having had his morning coffee, and is speaking out at his campus later today. He walks into a little diner…

I spend the rest of the day typing about Stan. He's an easygoing person, and similarly he seems to flow off my pen. He has peers, too. The owner of the diner is Mrs. Hopkins, who gets along with him fairly well. There's also Louise, an offshoot of Jenny, but with a happier life, though no less difficult. Myers walks by, hoping to get my attention, but I ignore him. It's just one of those days where people seem like a little too much to deal with. Marina stops by later, with a bowl of eggs and an offer for a game of crokinole.

"Not right now, please"

She guesses my mindset in about three seconds, and moves silently behind me, reading for about fours seconds.

"Add a villain, Abe. But don't make him evil"

That made more sense than it should have, and I nod distractedly, fingers already flying.

Four hours, three visits unwelcome visits, and two acts of a play later I uncurl from my computer chair. Stretching languidly, I stride quickly towards my tank, determined to move for a little while.

I wake up in the middle of the night, with a sick urge absolutely compelling me to write. It's odd; I generally don't do this whole inspiration thing more than once a week. But Marina's villain has suddenly developed a face. And I guess I've been writing more since the Professor died.

I've always been fascinated by writing. Putting down onto paper what I see inside people. I'm a believable author. I know how people think.

But more and more I find my characters less like someone I know, and more like myself. I guess it helps to write. Then people know how I'm feeling, even if I do put it up behind a mask of another character.

But that's all we are, really. Masks. Everyone has a mask they slip on in the morning, which changes depending on who they're talking to.

And in all my acquaintances only one person has realized that that was why I can be so frightening. I see right past the mask, to the bottom of the heart, and to the deepest secrets. And that one person decided that that was alright, because the mask was not important. And dear god, I'm babbling like a lunatic. Who knew I became so philosophical in the early morning.

Marina's always cheerful. Even on missions that last late into the night, she always has time to banter with Myers, or take a photo of Liz and Red.

Realizing my urge to write hasn't panned out to anything useful when I see the still blank screen after half an hour of writing a sentence, re reading it, and deleting it. Giving up, I wander back to the tank, and slide into the water, sighing.