At Play Amidst the Strangeness and the Charm
Another prompt fill, for 'Watchmen - Sally, Silhouette (either) - You need to watch your mouth', from findmyantidrug over at the Bechdel comment-fic thread.
Which is still excellent, by the way - go, write/prompt about ladies being awesome! The ladies here aren't being awesome as such, mind you, though I think I actually made them less objectionable than is likely for patriotic costumed adventurers in their time and place.
Both the New Yorker and the PM Magazine pieces mentioned here really were published in August 1945.
Series: Watchmen
Characters: Sally, Silhouette
Rating: PG; some swearing.
Warning: mention of the 1945 atom bomb, casual 40s-era racism.
Sally Jupiter stood by the window and the late August rain came down like a wall of mosaic, like gravel or grapeshot.
She was still wearing a face for the cameras, her face matte as icing sugar, one for the ration books.
She was staring down through the teeming glass, as if she was waiting for someone, her arms crossed, a wide band of bruise across the back of her thigh dark through her stockings, if one looked closely. The edge of a rooftop in downtown Manhattan, a scuffle with gunrunners and a nasty scrape under her glove, not worth mentioning, she had told the others.
The Silhouette, low down in an armchair, legs out ankles crossed whisky at her elbow, was reading the New Yorker, her cigarette burnt to a gritty nub in its holder. Sally sighed lavishly, yawned, came to pour herself a glass. The light in the room was dull and dense, time to tap that old barometer, Hollis would say.
It caught the sides of the trophy cases, Moloch’s emerald sceptre, the half-melted prototype ray gun they’d taken from mad Doctor Sinsidium. The spiked cosh Sally had once bought in was nowhere to be seen. The Silhouette had once turned up with a little spice rack full of small glass vials glowing pink and green, but she’d emptied them down the clubhouse sink. Not for show and tell, darlings, she’d said.
Sally knocked back her whisky and wiped the corner of her mouth.
“I sure as hell needed that,” she said.
She leant over the back of the Silhouette’s chair, her big tits in their shiny yellow nylon pushed up against the leather. The Silhouette looked up: Sally, their Sally, always good for a show and no stopping still when the lights go on neither.
Sally cracked a sixteen carat Silk Spectre smile.
“Whatcha reading, Sil?”
The Silhouette looked back down, fine black hair scissoring out across her pale face.
“It’s about the bomb,” she said. “The bomb and the Japs.”
“Again?” Sally came round to pour herself another glass, perched one round fish-net criss-crossed thigh on the arm of the chair. “It was almost a month ago, jeez. Let it rest, y’know? Let them all rest.”
“This one’s about survivors,” the Silhouette said. She smoothed her hand across the newsprint.
“It can’t be as ooky as the picture PM Magazine put out of what it would do to New York,” said Sally. She tilted her glass, its oily amber.
The Silhouette snorted, flipped the paper shut. “The Comedian,” she said, “he says that’s the kind of firepower we need. Us Minutemen, that is.” She tapped the butt of her cigarette out onto the table, swivelled a new one down into the holder. Looked sideways, again, up at Sally.
“No doubt,” said Sally. She paused. “What will you do,” she said, “now?”
“Well, they tell me it’s autumn tomorrow. I thought I’d celebrate the occasion by going out and taking down the Marshwood Boys. I’ve got the drop on them this time, I can tell you that much.”
“No, I mean now. Now that the war’s gone.”
“I know, my dear Spectre,” said the Silhouette. “And I suppose I might ask the same of you. But frankly, I think I can guess.” She stretched her legs out, crossed her ankles the other way. Crooked up her left ring finger.
Sally opened her mouth, closed it, shook her head. She picked up the decanter and, after a moment’s pause, the New Yorker, took them with her glass to a chair by the window.
Outside, the rain was slowing, softening.
Like a cat by the fireside, licking its fur, drowsy and dazzled with the warmth of home.
Sorry, guys, my internet self is mostly over at dreamwidth: fulselden. Please do comment over there.
Which is still excellent, by the way - go, write/prompt about ladies being awesome! The ladies here aren't being awesome as such, mind you, though I think I actually made them less objectionable than is likely for patriotic costumed adventurers in their time and place.
Both the New Yorker and the PM Magazine pieces mentioned here really were published in August 1945.
Series: Watchmen
Characters: Sally, Silhouette
Rating: PG; some swearing.
Warning: mention of the 1945 atom bomb, casual 40s-era racism.
Sally Jupiter stood by the window and the late August rain came down like a wall of mosaic, like gravel or grapeshot.
She was still wearing a face for the cameras, her face matte as icing sugar, one for the ration books.
She was staring down through the teeming glass, as if she was waiting for someone, her arms crossed, a wide band of bruise across the back of her thigh dark through her stockings, if one looked closely. The edge of a rooftop in downtown Manhattan, a scuffle with gunrunners and a nasty scrape under her glove, not worth mentioning, she had told the others.
The Silhouette, low down in an armchair, legs out ankles crossed whisky at her elbow, was reading the New Yorker, her cigarette burnt to a gritty nub in its holder. Sally sighed lavishly, yawned, came to pour herself a glass. The light in the room was dull and dense, time to tap that old barometer, Hollis would say.
It caught the sides of the trophy cases, Moloch’s emerald sceptre, the half-melted prototype ray gun they’d taken from mad Doctor Sinsidium. The spiked cosh Sally had once bought in was nowhere to be seen. The Silhouette had once turned up with a little spice rack full of small glass vials glowing pink and green, but she’d emptied them down the clubhouse sink. Not for show and tell, darlings, she’d said.
Sally knocked back her whisky and wiped the corner of her mouth.
“I sure as hell needed that,” she said.
She leant over the back of the Silhouette’s chair, her big tits in their shiny yellow nylon pushed up against the leather. The Silhouette looked up: Sally, their Sally, always good for a show and no stopping still when the lights go on neither.
Sally cracked a sixteen carat Silk Spectre smile.
“Whatcha reading, Sil?”
The Silhouette looked back down, fine black hair scissoring out across her pale face.
“It’s about the bomb,” she said. “The bomb and the Japs.”
“Again?” Sally came round to pour herself another glass, perched one round fish-net criss-crossed thigh on the arm of the chair. “It was almost a month ago, jeez. Let it rest, y’know? Let them all rest.”
“This one’s about survivors,” the Silhouette said. She smoothed her hand across the newsprint.
“It can’t be as ooky as the picture PM Magazine put out of what it would do to New York,” said Sally. She tilted her glass, its oily amber.
The Silhouette snorted, flipped the paper shut. “The Comedian,” she said, “he says that’s the kind of firepower we need. Us Minutemen, that is.” She tapped the butt of her cigarette out onto the table, swivelled a new one down into the holder. Looked sideways, again, up at Sally.
“No doubt,” said Sally. She paused. “What will you do,” she said, “now?”
“Well, they tell me it’s autumn tomorrow. I thought I’d celebrate the occasion by going out and taking down the Marshwood Boys. I’ve got the drop on them this time, I can tell you that much.”
“No, I mean now. Now that the war’s gone.”
“I know, my dear Spectre,” said the Silhouette. “And I suppose I might ask the same of you. But frankly, I think I can guess.” She stretched her legs out, crossed her ankles the other way. Crooked up her left ring finger.
Sally opened her mouth, closed it, shook her head. She picked up the decanter and, after a moment’s pause, the New Yorker, took them with her glass to a chair by the window.
Outside, the rain was slowing, softening.
Like a cat by the fireside, licking its fur, drowsy and dazzled with the warmth of home.
Sorry, guys, my internet self is mostly over at dreamwidth: fulselden. Please do comment over there.