Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Jones.
In nineteen sixty-three, a star fell from the heavens and landed in an English field. Or, to be more precise, an alien starship came howling down from the outer dark with its superstructure on fire, and crashed outside a small country town. The ship hit hard, and all of its crew but one died. This sole survivor was rewritten by the ship’s transformation machines, changing its shape right down to the DNA so it could pass as human until help came. But the transformation machines were damaged in the crash, and they wiped away all memories of who and what I used to be, before I was human.
I might have thought it was all just a dream or a delusion, if it wasn’t for the fact that I haven’t aged a day since nineteen sixty-three.
The night sky is an ocean full of ships, sailing forever unseen and unsuspected by all the people down below, walking the Earth with their heads bent, intent only on the world before them. They don’t know they share their world with monsters and angels, the unfamiliar and the uncanny, and all the dark wonders that lurk in the background of everybody’s lives. They have no idea of how large this world really is, and how many weird menaces watch hungrily from the shadows of the hidden world.
That’s why the world needs someone like me, the monster who hunts monsters. The alien who learnt to be human and found he loved it. I stand between Humanity and all who would prey on them, and if I do my job right, no one knows I was ever there.
I have spent most of my life working for secret underground groups, because only they possess the necessary resources to hide me from an increasingly suspicious and surveillance-heavy world. These days I work for the Organisation, a group so mysterious that even I’m not entirely sure who they are. But they respect my secrets and allow me to do good work, so we get along. Together with my partner in crimes, my true love Penny Belcourt, I investigate mysteries and check out the stranger corners of the world.
Because sometimes it takes a real outsider, to see what’s really going on.
The problem with history is that it’s not always content to stay in the past. The sins of yesterday have a way of sneaking up on people and ambushing them in the present. Murder, in particular, always has its roots in the past.