She’s writing again.

The Agency works hard to prevent it. Some things though, some things can’t be stopped. Like hurricanes and tornadoes.

She’s writing again, and those who know of her work are terrified. Watching through cameras the size of pins. Hidden in long unused holes where nails once hung pictures.

She’s writing again.

Her boyfriend’s a plant. An Agent, their staged first meeting a very stereotypical meet cute; guy bumps into girl, helps her pick up her books, takes her to coffee. You know the cliché.

He’s at his apartment, fast asleep. I guess he got complacent.

She’s fucking writing again. Furious pen strokes nearly tearing through the pages. She’s got the urge. The near permanent block created by a carefully curated mix of psychedelics and hypnosis failing in real time. The Agents could do little more than watch and prepare for the fallout. Words pour from her fist like a storm of ink staining the pages with fiction that would soon become prophecy.

Maybe it won’t be so bad this time An Agents says to his supervisor. Their entire department on high alert.

She writing again. She’s been watched closely since she was ten. Under round the clock surveillance since 15. The Agency’s watchful eye fell upon her as she penned the words the plane hit the towers. Simple, yet tragically destructive, the energy she released set their instruments-built to sense exactly that kind of energy- a blaze.

Its going to be worse, she’s four pages in responds the supervisor as her fingers fling a completed page back on its spiral binding and now on to five, she’s never gone this long he’s sweating as he watches on.

She’s writing again. We all need to prepare. She’s a very special type of person. With unimaginable power. She alters the fabric of reality with every word of “fiction” she pens.

She’s writing again, and it seems this time. Nothing is going to stop her.