Who are these masked men, anyway?
Who: Nite Owl and V, maybe others?
What: Just a chance encounter and an odd conversation, like as not. V looks like a shady character and Dan is suspicious.
Where: Eastern District, somewhere between the Museum and the Plaza.
When: Backdated to before V’s meeting with Wendy.
Warnings: None.
( Smile. It makes people wonder what you’re up to. )
What: Just a chance encounter and an odd conversation, like as not. V looks like a shady character and Dan is suspicious.
Where: Eastern District, somewhere between the Museum and the Plaza.
When: Backdated to before V’s meeting with Wendy.
Warnings: None.
( Smile. It makes people wonder what you’re up to. )
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V met the other mask halfway, appraising the adventurer and biting back a laugh. It wouldn't've been directed at the owl-man, or his choice of costume, or the oddness of the encounter; instead, it would have been no more than a reasonable reaction to an affirmation of what was (he felt) a fundamental truth: Everyone's got a story. Everyone is a hero, a villain, a lover, a fool. Everyone.
Why an owl?
Any explanation is---in all probability---a story for some other time.
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So he tried to fill it. "Aren't we all?" He looked the man over, trying to decide whether he would fit in back in his world. Actually, he wouldn't exactly stick out...
"Where are you from, if you don't mind my asking?"
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"London. If I may ask after your own origins...?"
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"New York. 1985, I guess I should add. We appear to be from the same sort of world, if not the same time," Dan said. It might be nice to talk to someone from his own world, or at least the next best thing.
This was, of course, assuming his first instinct was incorrect and this costume wasn't that of a villain. So far, he seemed like a nice guy.
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He straightened and stood with one elbow cupped, free hand stroking his painted goatee. "Tell me, please, how often anyone arrives from a time before or after the present of anyone else---the only other I've any in-depth discussion with couldn't remember what year he had."
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No. He didn't really want to know. This was his home now.
In response to- oh, he hadn't found out his name yet, strange- the man's question, he shrugged and said, "I've met quite a few people from different versions of Earth from all sorts of times. But the people who know each other, well, it does seem to be a bit at random, now that I think about it. Occasionally they'll leave and when they come back much more time has passed for them than what's passed here, so it's not like it's impossible to line yourself up with others from your own world."
He paused, realizing this sort of thing was sort of difficult to fathom. "But that's just from what I've noticed. I may be wrong."
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He had had enough.
He had every intention of leaving London to its own; it was up to the people---the people, once again---to build or to burn on the ashes of the old order, and Evey to influence them, aid or evade them as she would.
Well.
"Regardless, you've offered an introduction to the most interesting aspects of this city, its inhabitants aside, and I appreciate that."
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It wasn't something he wanted to think about. After all he'd seen here...he'd hate to go back and not be able to act on any of it. Or not be able to remember.
He snorted at the second thought. "Believe me, you're not totally acquainted with this city until you've been caught up in the madness yourself. But if I can help your transition even a little, well, it's the least I can do."
Curiosity got the better of Dan and he finally made himself ask, "What sort of world are you from, friend?" And once again, he realized he hadn't asked his name.
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The man who never stopped smiling stood silent a moment, selecting an answer.
"One which, I imagine, holds substantial similarity to yours---or held such similarity until certain events. Were you in New York in 1985? Were the United States still that? Had you heard of Norsefire, or of an Adam Susan?"
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He paused, wondering whether he should give more information about his world just yet. If this man was a villain...well, he might use this sort of thing against him. And even if he wasn't, with everything that happened, it would be a simple matter to blame Dan for what Ozymandias had managed to do. Dan certainly did.
"I've never heard of either of them. It seems our worlds are pretty different."
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He wondered if it was possible that the world this stranger spoke of was the future he'd abandoned when he came Nautilus, but somehow it seemed unlikely. Veidt had his fingers in too many things to allow the world to fall into disrepair so quickly.
But then again...
No, he didn't think so. It was impossible that in an overview of the future of Dan's world that the mass murder attributed to Dr. Manhattan would be left out completely.
The change of mood was a bit jarring, but Dan found he was amused by the poetic language the man used. He nodded in agreement.
"Yes, it's true. We could've been lightyears apart but it doesn't seem that way."
Finally, he remembered and said, "I haven't asked your name."
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Calmer, composed, and even managing a second smile beneath his mask, V turned his palms up in a c'est-la-vie shrug. "The gods are fond of a jest, and we've certain similarities for all our differences." Again, the question ...why an owl? came to mind and went unasked. "What of your world?"
The observation was met with a chuckle, and V nodded. "To be fair, I've never offered one. 'V' is near enough. If I may ask after your alias...?"
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He didn't know where to start when it came to his world. Should go back and explain Jon and all the impacts his transformation into Doctor Manhattan had made? Was the Keene Act even worth mentioning? Would explaining the Cold War be unnecessary or the key to making any of it make sense?
As he thought it over, he wished he could hide behind a mask. The simplest thing to say was the thing he didn't want to admit.
"When I left my world, it was just after one of my comrades...one of my friends, I thought...had just murdered thousands of people in the name of preventing war. He framed an incredibly powerful but completely innocent man. And, indirectly, he killed my best friend." Though he knew Rorshach had essentially killed himself, he continued anyway, "But, despite all the horrible things that happened...it seems like it might've worked. At least for a little while."
As he went silent, he realized he'd never really explained this to anyone. Not completely.
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V waited patiently for the other to straighten out his story and summarize. He could not hurry him, and he could not interrupt---even in its condensed form, a story like this one rose above a running commentary. The first remark, made after a beat, was meant as honestly as anything.
"I am sorry for your loss."
A new silence spun out, as V considered the people he had killed and the lives they had lived. There had been no innocent among them. Those men and women had tortured and killed for pay and pleasure. Those men and women saw their fellows as breathing bags of meat at best. Those men and women turned blind eyes on the very idea of basic dignity, adopting such absurdities as 'it was them-or-us' and 'I only followed orders' as rallying cries.
They had been punished for that, for what they had done and were doing, for what they had become and were creating, but every accident, every disguised death, every execution had been about retribution---never estimation.
"Why that particular path?"
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