There are literally thousands of people on Earth by the name of Timothy Joyce, but none of them, as it turns out are the Timothy Joyce. The Joyce in question is an enigma, a riddle to confound the brightest of men. He shows up as a ghost and is vanishing as one. He is a ghost, a specter, haunting modern day Earth. He is the nightmare that won’t go away, won’t fade in the light of day. He is a guerilla fighter, a mass murderer, a gambler, an environmental terrorist. There is nothing he won’t do, it seems, to accomplish his goals.
But what exactly are his goals? No one seems to know. His public communications are few and are usually him simply telling what he will do, who he will kill on a given date. His speeches, his words are only hinting at what he wants, who he is. He can strike at a drug-pusher gang one day, and the next day, with equal fervor he may kill hundreds of people in a public gathering. There is no rhyme to what he does. Or if there is, none apparent.
Timothy Joyce appeared out of nowhere eleven years ago, a man with no past, one who has remained elusive ever since. Nothing is known about his birth, his adolescence, his relatives. It is as if he, at some point has reached back into the past, and created himself… from nothing.