Triumph
Author’s Note: so there’s a funny story about why this took me like five thousand years to write. I mean, it was partially because I’m tired and I had school. But there was also the part of me that was like “I should pick a real gang for them to come across! I should do some research. That won’t be too hard, right? 8D”
Guys, New York is fascinating. I got totally sidetracked. Someday I’m gonna buy that ginormous book about New York called “Gotham” and I’m gonna read the whole damn thing. But for the purposes of this fic, only the barest of things has been researched. So any native New Yorkers, shield your eyes. This takes place in 1969. Historical notes at the end.
In honor of Rorschach's birthday. Here's some Good Old Days for you, bb. <3
Footsteps echoed boldly against the silence of the night, slapping against the cracked pavement. Voices that were meant to be hushed and rippling murmurs rang out, bouncing against the brick of the alley, betraying them.
They might have thought they were being quiet. They weren’t.
Two shadows shifted against the dark beyond the streetlights, imperceptible to the group of men cutting across the darkness. The gang knew these stalkers well, was well acquainted with their fierce retribution. Their violent and swift vie for justice. And these shadows didn’t take “nothing personal, just business” as an acceptable excuse.
The gang’s sudden spike in violence caught their attention. Rumors of a new leader, a sudden and violent upheaval and redirection marked by a string of mutilated and tortured victims. Didn’t fit the old leader’s modus operandi. Some new investigation was required.
They had managed to maneuver the newly re-organized gang into a proverbial corner-putting pressure on their movements, aiding the police in tracking their crimes-until they were forced to do their work under the furtive cover of night. It helped that the gang, though notorious, only consisted of about twenty to twenty-five members at any given time. It was enough to be a handful, but not enough to be overwhelming. And now they’d been given a tip that the gang would be meeting tonight-a drug exchange, some information, neither vigilante had really cared-and it’d been a short trip to Hell’s Kitchen.
About nine men arrived, looking nervous and jumpy, their eyes shifting towards the pockets of darkness that promised nothing but ill intentions. None of them noticed the momentary glint of Nite Owl’s goggles. Nor did they catch the shuffle of soft-soled brown shoes and the flap of a trench coat. The phantoms were closing in.
“I dunno, man.” A younger voice with the characteristic Irish brogue spoke out, shattering the momentary silence, “I don’t like this. Bein’ out in the open. Why can’t we have met back at-”
“I told you.” Came the sharp reply. “Jimmy don’ want us to look like we’re hidin’ from these masked idiots.”
“Your mistake.”
The voice, a growl rough-spun with nails and broken glass, was the only warning the men received. Before any of them could reach for their respective weapons, Rorschach had delivered a crushing blow to the nearest of the men, sending him spinning to the ground. There was a moment of stunned pause, and Nite Owl took this opportunity to step out of the dark to alongside his partner, his hands loosely balled into fists and a crooked smile on his lips. The taller man opened his mouth-undoubtedly to say something clichéd and reprimanding-but the remaining eight men all seemed to have recovered their wits.
Under his mask, Rorschach smiled. Generous night indeed.
Cut by the moonlight, the two men moved like water, fluid and dancing in spite of the rough violence spilled out on the pavement in blood and teeth and saliva. The cacophonous sound of shouting, the stutter of gunfire (aimed frantically and swiftly dispatched), the grunts of pain, and the inexplicable sound of Nite Owl’s laughter were musical against the backdrop of the city’s usual hum and roar.
Soon the orchestra was over, the final note punctuated by the buzz of zipties. The men lay unconscious or barely conscious about the alley, and Nite Owl was busy collecting them all for the police.
He turned up and beamed at Rorschach, his smile curving wide and glistening with moonlight and lamplight and full of promises:
“You know, buddy? I could do this forever.”
Rorschach knows the feeling.
-
-
-
A/N: aaaand historical notes! That you don’t need!
- the gang that I was trying to cleverly reference is the gang called the Westies. Their main spike of violence began under the rule of Jimmy Coonan (hence the “Jimmy” in the dialogue). He started up in like 1967, as far as I can tell
- I gave the gang members present a “characteristic Irish brogue” because the Westies were known as the last generation of Irish mobsters. Yeah, probably not everyone in the Westies had an accent, but I chose to keep it since I wasn’t going to name the gang by name.
- I chose the year 1969 because between the years of 1968-1986 they were responsible for over 60-100 murders. And because the years 1966 to 1985 are relevant to the Watchmen ‘verse. Because I am a dork I guess.
- The line “redirection marked by a string of mutilated and tortured victims” was meant as a nod to the manner of which the Westies under Coonan chose to operate. Usually chopping their victims into little pieces and bagging it after they killed them.
- I choose to believe in this universe, Nite Owl and Rorschach were directly responsible for the early downfall of the Westies because a sap, I am one. Historically, this is still an active gang.
@.@ Okay I’m done. The A/Ns are probably longer than the fic. >.> This was brought to you by some sentimentality and a crapton of 60s music I don't even know. Thanks for reading! Hope you liked! ^^
Guys, New York is fascinating. I got totally sidetracked. Someday I’m gonna buy that ginormous book about New York called “Gotham” and I’m gonna read the whole damn thing. But for the purposes of this fic, only the barest of things has been researched. So any native New Yorkers, shield your eyes. This takes place in 1969. Historical notes at the end.
In honor of Rorschach's birthday. Here's some Good Old Days for you, bb. <3
Footsteps echoed boldly against the silence of the night, slapping against the cracked pavement. Voices that were meant to be hushed and rippling murmurs rang out, bouncing against the brick of the alley, betraying them.
They might have thought they were being quiet. They weren’t.
Two shadows shifted against the dark beyond the streetlights, imperceptible to the group of men cutting across the darkness. The gang knew these stalkers well, was well acquainted with their fierce retribution. Their violent and swift vie for justice. And these shadows didn’t take “nothing personal, just business” as an acceptable excuse.
The gang’s sudden spike in violence caught their attention. Rumors of a new leader, a sudden and violent upheaval and redirection marked by a string of mutilated and tortured victims. Didn’t fit the old leader’s modus operandi. Some new investigation was required.
They had managed to maneuver the newly re-organized gang into a proverbial corner-putting pressure on their movements, aiding the police in tracking their crimes-until they were forced to do their work under the furtive cover of night. It helped that the gang, though notorious, only consisted of about twenty to twenty-five members at any given time. It was enough to be a handful, but not enough to be overwhelming. And now they’d been given a tip that the gang would be meeting tonight-a drug exchange, some information, neither vigilante had really cared-and it’d been a short trip to Hell’s Kitchen.
About nine men arrived, looking nervous and jumpy, their eyes shifting towards the pockets of darkness that promised nothing but ill intentions. None of them noticed the momentary glint of Nite Owl’s goggles. Nor did they catch the shuffle of soft-soled brown shoes and the flap of a trench coat. The phantoms were closing in.
“I dunno, man.” A younger voice with the characteristic Irish brogue spoke out, shattering the momentary silence, “I don’t like this. Bein’ out in the open. Why can’t we have met back at-”
“I told you.” Came the sharp reply. “Jimmy don’ want us to look like we’re hidin’ from these masked idiots.”
“Your mistake.”
The voice, a growl rough-spun with nails and broken glass, was the only warning the men received. Before any of them could reach for their respective weapons, Rorschach had delivered a crushing blow to the nearest of the men, sending him spinning to the ground. There was a moment of stunned pause, and Nite Owl took this opportunity to step out of the dark to alongside his partner, his hands loosely balled into fists and a crooked smile on his lips. The taller man opened his mouth-undoubtedly to say something clichéd and reprimanding-but the remaining eight men all seemed to have recovered their wits.
Under his mask, Rorschach smiled. Generous night indeed.
Cut by the moonlight, the two men moved like water, fluid and dancing in spite of the rough violence spilled out on the pavement in blood and teeth and saliva. The cacophonous sound of shouting, the stutter of gunfire (aimed frantically and swiftly dispatched), the grunts of pain, and the inexplicable sound of Nite Owl’s laughter were musical against the backdrop of the city’s usual hum and roar.
Soon the orchestra was over, the final note punctuated by the buzz of zipties. The men lay unconscious or barely conscious about the alley, and Nite Owl was busy collecting them all for the police.
He turned up and beamed at Rorschach, his smile curving wide and glistening with moonlight and lamplight and full of promises:
“You know, buddy? I could do this forever.”
Rorschach knows the feeling.
-
-
-
A/N: aaaand historical notes! That you don’t need!
- the gang that I was trying to cleverly reference is the gang called the Westies. Their main spike of violence began under the rule of Jimmy Coonan (hence the “Jimmy” in the dialogue). He started up in like 1967, as far as I can tell
- I gave the gang members present a “characteristic Irish brogue” because the Westies were known as the last generation of Irish mobsters. Yeah, probably not everyone in the Westies had an accent, but I chose to keep it since I wasn’t going to name the gang by name.
- I chose the year 1969 because between the years of 1968-1986 they were responsible for over 60-100 murders. And because the years 1966 to 1985 are relevant to the Watchmen ‘verse. Because I am a dork I guess.
- The line “redirection marked by a string of mutilated and tortured victims” was meant as a nod to the manner of which the Westies under Coonan chose to operate. Usually chopping their victims into little pieces and bagging it after they killed them.
- I choose to believe in this universe, Nite Owl and Rorschach were directly responsible for the early downfall of the Westies because a sap, I am one. Historically, this is still an active gang.
@.@ Okay I’m done. The A/Ns are probably longer than the fic. >.> This was brought to you by some sentimentality and a crapton of 60s music I don't even know. Thanks for reading! Hope you liked! ^^