For Gareth Morrow, 2012 was mostly a year of self-inflicted problems. Had things ended up differently, it could very well have been his professional undoing.

To begin with, Morrow very sincerely believed in that misinformed prophesy about the end of the Mayan calendar in December that year. In response, he began slacking off on his work responsibilities: missed deadlines, forcing editors to adjust to his odd sleeping hours, and a prima-donna-like insistence on creative control. He'd spend increasingly more time posting apocalyptic rants on his blog, which opened with "SALUTATIONS, VILE CUM-NUGGETS OF THE INTERNET" or similar greetings. Eventually, the studios realized that there were Fractions, Gillens, and Hickmen who'd happily deliver the same quality of work, minus the drama.

With contracts being dropped at rapid clip, Morrow continued preparing for the end of the world. He carelessly sold off media adaptation rights to all his creator-owned work – frequently at less than market value. He even waived royalties, seeing literally no future use for his intellectual property.

In some cases, the results were interesting. A duo of indie video game designers from Johannesburg built a point-and-click graphic adventure based on Morrow's limited series Nibiru A Go Go, which treated Sumerian and Assyrian mythology with the larger-than-life four-color approach of Jack Kirby's New Gods.

More often than not, it was a qualified disaster, as in the case of the Esotericorps film. The roots of that fiasco go back to the previous holiday season, when the movie version of The Subtle Knife – the second book in Phillip Pullman's His Dark Materials series – became an unexpected runaway hit for its Hollywood producers. Now every suit in the entertainment industry was hoping for a guaranteed payday with a youth-oriented cosmic adventure to go up against its sequel, The Amber Spyglass, Part 1.

That's when Double Happiness Pictures – a middling, China-based production house – snapped up the film rights to Esotericorps. In particular, they wanted to adapt the final arc, "Tiny Creatures".

In that story, Rex Populi is now a broken old man, retired from a life of truth-seeking, and recovering from a crippling spine injury at an inherited country manor in Dover. That's when he learns about a cosmic-level threat to existence itself. For the last time ever, the wheelchair-bound rebel assembles a troupe of Esotericorps – a ragtag bunch of misfit youngsters from around the globe. In a blatant homage to Giant-Size X-Men #1 (and Doom Patrol, to a lesser extent), he recruits some of the most uniquely traumatized characters in the series' history. We meet a water-breathing lady-boy from Thailand who survived a tsunami; a former Sudanese child soldier with frightening telekinetic abilities; an ex-teenage whore from the Ukraine whose powers vaporized the human traffickers that smuggled her to London; a disgruntled outsourced support agent from Bangalore who discovers her mind control powers. With Rex Populi as their disembodied spirit guide, they embark on a journey across space-time, giving up their lives to save a multiverse that didn't know – or care – that they existed.

All of this is clearly meant to be a grim commentary on the state of global capital. Of course, that's not what Hollywood producers had in mind. So the version released in cinemas featured a bored-looking Ralph Fiennes as "Rex Pop", leading a quirkier-than-thou team of magickal hipsters, including a real-life YouTube celebrity and the Chinese girl from Scott Pilgrim. The film opened in cinemas shortly before Christmas, on the date of the predicted Mayan apocalypse. In spite of everything, it was a modest commercial success – and Morrow had given up on a cut of the royalties.

By the end of New Year's Day 2013, Morrow had promptly wiped out his blog, deactivated all his social media profiles, and sent a profanity-filled email to his former publishers, essentially disowning the majority of his bibliography. After that, it was radio silence, as far as the public was concerned.

Naturally, fans and pundits were concerned about his state of mind, to say nothing of his whereabouts. Friends like cabaret rocker Dahlia Black reassured the public that Morrow was simply getting the rest he needed. Other peers simply offered no comment.

There was much speculation in the wake of Morrow's hiatus. Some folks claimed he was detoxifying at an ashram in Benares. Others insisted they had seen him meditating among the cairns in the Scottish Highlands. There was a brief period when fans believed he had ghost-written an episode of Doctor Who. But the one rumor that went around most frequently was that he intended to perform some kind of mystical rite that would remove any trace of him from existence.

Several hours after Great Britain announced its exit from the European Union, Morrow reactivated his Instagram account with a photo of burning pyre, set against the backdrop of rolling mountains. It was accompanied by the caption "Off to immanentize the Eschaton". Amid the furor about nascent jingoism around the world, a handful of geeks began speculating about what Morrow's post could mean. One such fanboy – Anton Tanlimco of Greenhills East, San Juan – knew at least one thing: the photo was taken in Kalinga province. He had seen almost the exact same view a few months earlier, on a pilgrimage to get a traditional indigenous tattoo from famed mambabatok Apo Whang Od.

For all Anton knew, it could have been an old photo. Plenty of more experienced snoopers had already tried in vain to retrieve metadata from the image. Besides, Morrow might not have taken the picture himself. One thing was for sure: Anton would never turn down an excuse for a road trip, especially one with such a promising reward.