(no subject)
Title: Watchmen
Pairings: Colin/Josie, Greg/Josie, Brad/Caroline, Colin/Deb
Chapters: 2/?
Summary: It’s the story set in an alternative 1985, where the world is ticking closer to the brink of nuclear war, and a plot to eliminate a band of ex-crime fighters is instigated, but why? and by whom? It is up to two of those ex-crime fighters to investigate the plot that seems to go beyond the unthinkable.
Author’s Notes: Ok, I am not telling who the characters are, because it’s all the better the surprise when you eventually find them out :P
Yes I have been on a Watchmen binge and I felt, hey I REALLY want to do a fic to do with the film, because I love it so much :P
No Copright Intended I do not own any of the characters and..well..I hope you enjoy I guess.
I am posting this chapter early as I will not be here on Sunday so….ENJOY XD
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Chapter Two
On the streets down below, a man had been told to do his job. He was cleaning up the blood splatter that had sprayed across the street when the body had hit the ground. A tall, goofy looking passer by with glittering, dull jade eyes stared at the mess on the floor briefly and then gazed up at the shattered window, before returning to making his way down the street, brandishing his large picket sign that read “The End is Nigh.”
Special Detective Carey moved away from the window, sighing slightly as his dark blue eyes fixed on the large gaping whole left by Sherwood’s body careering through it.
“That…..is a long way down.” He observed, straightening his tie as he turned to face his colleague, nodding to the odd Detective who made their way past trying to find causes. “Brad Sherwood…” he started, taking the file from his colleague’s hands, flicking through it briefly.
..” 67 years old, 6’4, Solid 225, The guy was built like a line backer.”
“Yeah I saw the body.” Responded his younger colleague, with brighter eyes and a handsome face, as he glanced up from the victim’s picture at his Higher Officer.
“For a guy his age, he was in terrific shape-“
“You mean apart from being dead?” Carey smirked, taking the photo from Esten, his hands absentmindedly tapping the frame. Esten chuckled slightly, running his hands through his short brown hair, before glancing past Carey.
“That’s plate glass..Drew.” Esten stated, his icy blue gaze observing the shattered glass in front of him and his colleague. “You’d have to step on a gas canister to crack it.”
“He had to have been thrown, Charles.” Carey ducked as another Officer snapped a picture of the debris. “Did you check the bedroom?”
“Yes.” Esten responded, rubbing his cheek, exhausted, following the higher Officer. “Drawers are open, pulled through…mattress is turned over….it was probably a robbery.”
“Or….or it was made to look like one.” Carey turned to Esten, pointing to the picture in his hands. “You see that? He’s shaking hands with the President.”
“Whoa..” Esten replied, raising his eyebrows in slight shock. “You reckon Sherwood was a spook?..Government…or…Black Ops?”
Carey sighed, briefly pulling off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“…I think…this is bigger than the both of us..”
Rorschach’s Journal:
October 12th, 1985.
Dog carcass in alley this morning. Tyre tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me.
A tall, shady individual walked down the streets, hand shoved deeply into the pockets of his large trenchcoat, a dark trilby tilted low and a white mask covering his face, the front of which seemed to be splattered in ink blots. Stepping off the pavement, he glanced down as his shoe made contact with something metal underneath. Leaning down, he pulled the shiny, metal circle from under his boot, revealing the yellow, bright smile, a drop of blood splattered on the edge.
The streets are extended gutters. The gutters are full of blood. And when the drains finally scab over… All the vermin will drown…
Rorschach gazed up at the looming tower block, his eyes reaching the shattered remains of the window pane in one of the highest apartment buildings. Carefully checking to see if the coast was clear from any passer by’s, he withdrew a grappling hook from his deep trench coat pocket. He aimed carefully, before shooting, the hook latching onto the steel bar ledge underneath the destroyed window.
The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up above their waists. And all the Whores and Politicians will look up and scream “Save Us”…
Clicking the button, he held on tight, the gun whizzing him up the side of the building at lightening speed, until, in one swift motion, he unhooked the hook and flipped athletically through the gaping whole in the glass pane, landing on one hand and knee, flicking his head up, the blots suddenly morphing into a different pattern. He was inside the flat.
….And I’ll look down and whisper….”No”… Now the whole world stands on the brink. Staring down into bloody hell….All those liberals…and intellectuals…and smooth talkers…and all of a sudden, nobody could think of anything to say….
Shoving his grappling hook back into the deep pocket, Rorschach whipped out a torch, shining the newly cast light around the dark, crippled apartment. Careful not to draw attention to himself, he carefully shone the thin stream across pictures of Brad shaking hands with the President, and of one woman, with short brown locks, cropped, a knife now embedded into the canvas, through the glass covering, obviously from the struggle.
….Beneath me…this awful city….It screams like an abattoir of retarded children… And the night reeks of fornication and bad consciences…
Flicking the torch around, he froze, the beam of light illuminating the dark doorway into Brad’s bedroom. Slowly, he stepped over the broken glass and shrapnel, making his way into the room as cautiously as he could. Letting the torch wonder, he spotted another picture of the woman with the brown, cropped hair above Brad’s bedside cabinet, recognising the effortlessly beautiful face instantly, yet continuing to carry on around the room.
Placing the torch carefully on the floor, Rorschach began his work, pulling out the drawers, digging around inside, finding old pictures and documents of Brad’s time in Vietnam. He glanced up slowly, noticing the cupboard next to him, leaping to his feet, tearing the doors open. He grasped the clothes which were hanging peacefully and threw them aside, as if expecting something to be hidden behind them.
Using his height to his advantage, Rorschach felt along the top edge of the cupboard, pushing the clothes rail back, grunting in slight achievement as the moved rail revealed a small red button. The ink blots slowly changed their patterns on his mask as he pressed the red button, calmly stepping away as the back of the cupboard clicked and whirred, parting away to reveal a costume behind it. Assessing everything as carefully as he could, he noted each object in the wardrobe; Newspaper clippings, pistols, magazine clips, the costume. Rorschach grunted slightly again, something catching his eye. He gently slid a picture off the inside of the hidden wardrobe, taking in the costumed figures in the sepia photograph, the banner above their heads reading “The Minutemen, 1940.”
Tonight…a comedian died in New York…somebody knows why…
“Somebody knows…” he breathed again to himself, gazing at the picture.
Comments are love :) <3
Pairings: Colin/Josie, Greg/Josie, Brad/Caroline, Colin/Deb
Chapters: 2/?
Summary: It’s the story set in an alternative 1985, where the world is ticking closer to the brink of nuclear war, and a plot to eliminate a band of ex-crime fighters is instigated, but why? and by whom? It is up to two of those ex-crime fighters to investigate the plot that seems to go beyond the unthinkable.
Author’s Notes: Ok, I am not telling who the characters are, because it’s all the better the surprise when you eventually find them out :P
Yes I have been on a Watchmen binge and I felt, hey I REALLY want to do a fic to do with the film, because I love it so much :P
No Copright Intended I do not own any of the characters and..well..I hope you enjoy I guess.
I am posting this chapter early as I will not be here on Sunday so….ENJOY XD
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter Two
On the streets down below, a man had been told to do his job. He was cleaning up the blood splatter that had sprayed across the street when the body had hit the ground. A tall, goofy looking passer by with glittering, dull jade eyes stared at the mess on the floor briefly and then gazed up at the shattered window, before returning to making his way down the street, brandishing his large picket sign that read “The End is Nigh.”
Special Detective Carey moved away from the window, sighing slightly as his dark blue eyes fixed on the large gaping whole left by Sherwood’s body careering through it.
“That…..is a long way down.” He observed, straightening his tie as he turned to face his colleague, nodding to the odd Detective who made their way past trying to find causes. “Brad Sherwood…” he started, taking the file from his colleague’s hands, flicking through it briefly.
..” 67 years old, 6’4, Solid 225, The guy was built like a line backer.”
“Yeah I saw the body.” Responded his younger colleague, with brighter eyes and a handsome face, as he glanced up from the victim’s picture at his Higher Officer.
“For a guy his age, he was in terrific shape-“
“You mean apart from being dead?” Carey smirked, taking the photo from Esten, his hands absentmindedly tapping the frame. Esten chuckled slightly, running his hands through his short brown hair, before glancing past Carey.
“That’s plate glass..Drew.” Esten stated, his icy blue gaze observing the shattered glass in front of him and his colleague. “You’d have to step on a gas canister to crack it.”
“He had to have been thrown, Charles.” Carey ducked as another Officer snapped a picture of the debris. “Did you check the bedroom?”
“Yes.” Esten responded, rubbing his cheek, exhausted, following the higher Officer. “Drawers are open, pulled through…mattress is turned over….it was probably a robbery.”
“Or….or it was made to look like one.” Carey turned to Esten, pointing to the picture in his hands. “You see that? He’s shaking hands with the President.”
“Whoa..” Esten replied, raising his eyebrows in slight shock. “You reckon Sherwood was a spook?..Government…or…Black Ops?”
Carey sighed, briefly pulling off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“…I think…this is bigger than the both of us..”
Rorschach’s Journal:
October 12th, 1985.
Dog carcass in alley this morning. Tyre tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me.
A tall, shady individual walked down the streets, hand shoved deeply into the pockets of his large trenchcoat, a dark trilby tilted low and a white mask covering his face, the front of which seemed to be splattered in ink blots. Stepping off the pavement, he glanced down as his shoe made contact with something metal underneath. Leaning down, he pulled the shiny, metal circle from under his boot, revealing the yellow, bright smile, a drop of blood splattered on the edge.
The streets are extended gutters. The gutters are full of blood. And when the drains finally scab over… All the vermin will drown…
Rorschach gazed up at the looming tower block, his eyes reaching the shattered remains of the window pane in one of the highest apartment buildings. Carefully checking to see if the coast was clear from any passer by’s, he withdrew a grappling hook from his deep trench coat pocket. He aimed carefully, before shooting, the hook latching onto the steel bar ledge underneath the destroyed window.
The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up above their waists. And all the Whores and Politicians will look up and scream “Save Us”…
Clicking the button, he held on tight, the gun whizzing him up the side of the building at lightening speed, until, in one swift motion, he unhooked the hook and flipped athletically through the gaping whole in the glass pane, landing on one hand and knee, flicking his head up, the blots suddenly morphing into a different pattern. He was inside the flat.
….And I’ll look down and whisper….”No”… Now the whole world stands on the brink. Staring down into bloody hell….All those liberals…and intellectuals…and smooth talkers…and all of a sudden, nobody could think of anything to say….
Shoving his grappling hook back into the deep pocket, Rorschach whipped out a torch, shining the newly cast light around the dark, crippled apartment. Careful not to draw attention to himself, he carefully shone the thin stream across pictures of Brad shaking hands with the President, and of one woman, with short brown locks, cropped, a knife now embedded into the canvas, through the glass covering, obviously from the struggle.
….Beneath me…this awful city….It screams like an abattoir of retarded children… And the night reeks of fornication and bad consciences…
Flicking the torch around, he froze, the beam of light illuminating the dark doorway into Brad’s bedroom. Slowly, he stepped over the broken glass and shrapnel, making his way into the room as cautiously as he could. Letting the torch wonder, he spotted another picture of the woman with the brown, cropped hair above Brad’s bedside cabinet, recognising the effortlessly beautiful face instantly, yet continuing to carry on around the room.
Placing the torch carefully on the floor, Rorschach began his work, pulling out the drawers, digging around inside, finding old pictures and documents of Brad’s time in Vietnam. He glanced up slowly, noticing the cupboard next to him, leaping to his feet, tearing the doors open. He grasped the clothes which were hanging peacefully and threw them aside, as if expecting something to be hidden behind them.
Using his height to his advantage, Rorschach felt along the top edge of the cupboard, pushing the clothes rail back, grunting in slight achievement as the moved rail revealed a small red button. The ink blots slowly changed their patterns on his mask as he pressed the red button, calmly stepping away as the back of the cupboard clicked and whirred, parting away to reveal a costume behind it. Assessing everything as carefully as he could, he noted each object in the wardrobe; Newspaper clippings, pistols, magazine clips, the costume. Rorschach grunted slightly again, something catching his eye. He gently slid a picture off the inside of the hidden wardrobe, taking in the costumed figures in the sepia photograph, the banner above their heads reading “The Minutemen, 1940.”
Tonight…a comedian died in New York…somebody knows why…
“Somebody knows…” he breathed again to himself, gazing at the picture.
Comments are love :) <3