Black Revival
By Two Fifth
Disclaimer: Don't own Watchmen. But if I did? Hurrrrmmm…
With the movie in theaters and upon reading the graphic novel again, I was inspired to do a Watchmen fanfiction. Ironically, at the same time, I was watching Taxi Driver again, for the umpteenth time and realized the parallels between Rorschach and Travis Bickle. I wanted to create a character that's inspired by both, but has his own identity and level of thinking. Hope you guys enjoy.
Chapter 1: At Midnight, All The Agents…Aren't There
"Hey Dan," he said.
Dan awkwardly greeted Morris with a nod. "Hey."
Morris peeked over Dan's shoulder and saw the manager. "What was all that about?"
"Oh," Dan half-stuttered. "Just, uh, just went and signed on for more hours."
"More hours?" his colleague nearly exclaimed. "Dude, you already work five days a week! Sometimes overtime!"
He only shrugged. "Yeah, well…"
Before he could speak any further, Morris spotted some of the other guys who were going out for a drink, and headed with them. However, he turned to ask Dan if he wanted to go, too, but Dan declined. In truth, he couldn't see himself hanging with the other guys, even if they did the same thing he did. It relieved him that Morrie wasn't bothered by it.
December 12th, 2009
This city is gilded. It looks like bliss from the outside, but inside it rots. I can feel it in my ribs, in my gut. I can feel it in the air. Someone has to do something. At the peak of social highs in this city, how could anyone believe me? Am I just paranoid? The security is perfect. The healthcare is perfect. The educational system is perfect. Everything seems optimistic. But why do I feel so uncomfortable? How could anyone in such a perfect place feel bothered? Unwanted? Dissatisfied? Questions. Always have questions. This is a weakness I must not submit to.
Daniel Lee sighed and put his hands in his jacket to give them warmth before heading back inside the garage. Inside, he sighed and decided that he should probably just get started with his day instead of staying here, useless. He was working six days a week now, sometimes even going overtime into the day on some nights. His night shift was perfect, since there were less people to socialize with. The man did not like talking to people on the job, even though cabbies were some of the most sociable people in the city. He just didn't like it when people looked at him, not because he was horrible-looking, but because it broke the bubble. He would rather be a watcher than a participator. It was his role, he thought.
All the savages emerged at night, and he knew it. Even if the city was somewhat of a utopia, he knew that the title of utopia only concealed the crime. There was still crime every now and then, but overall, people were satisfied enough that they didn't feel that they had to murder or steal for a living. Which made it perfect, since it should only reveal true evil, right? Even evil had a way of disguising itself, unfortunately. Whores used to dress up scantily with a scandalous streak that made it so blatantly known that they sold their bodies for money. But today, it was harder to spot one. Most of them dressed up more like rich women from up town. No one from anywhere else could spot them, but to him, they were always easy to spot.
Ah, finally. The first fare of the night.
Daniel pulled to the side of the Harlem streets and waited for the passenger to get in. The passenger, a seemingly older man in his mid-40s, grunted his way through and Dan looked into the rearview mirror, getting a good look at the man before he was ready to go. The man came in with a large cardboard box of things. They seemed old, as if no one had touched them for years. Decades, maybe.
"Where to?" Dan asked. It was the only thing he could say without having to summon courage first.
"Dan?" the older man said.
Dan's eyes widened as he looked up to the rearview mirror again. "Huh?"
"Dan? Dan Lee? Is that you?"
The passenger was a rather overweight man with freckles, and has obviously seen more cheerful winters. That uncanny smile on his face immediately revealed his identity to Daniel, who only slightly smiled in return, though he was happy to see him.
"Hey, Seymour," Dan recognized with a grin. "It's been a long time."
"It has been, hasn't it?" Seymour said. "1023 21st Avenue, please."
"Got it."
The cab rolled forward but he had to stop at the nearby red light.
"Wow, I didn't know you're driving a cab now!"
Seymour used to be a neighbor back when Dan used to live in the suburbs outside the city. He was an editor for that old newspaper, The New Frontiersman, before it closed in 2001 when the terrorists destroyed the Veidt Towers and he published a scathing review of city security on it. Ever since then, he moved to the city in 2005 and began working for the New York Times, of all places. He was never one for fairness, anyway. Got that streak from his old boss, as he would always say.
"Yeah, I am," Dan replied.
"How's your mother?"
"She's gone."
A somber look crept up on Seymour's face. "Oh. When did she die?"
"About a year after you left the neighborhood," Dan told him.
"The lung cancer finally got to her, huh? I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he said, his voice almost monotonous. "It was her time."
It was probably the only fair death of a relative that he's ever experienced. Two of his cousins died in the Middle East on different tours, his father was killed in a pharmacy store robbery, his aunt and uncle were both murdered out on the west coast, and his grandfather died in New York when the catastrophe hit in '85. A lot of cosmic injustice in his life.
"You thinkin' of goin' back to school or anything?" he then asked.
"Can't," he replied. "I'm still waiting for military services to hook me up with a job."
He had served in the Middle East for a few years back when the United States issued a war on tyranny. Russia had stepped into the fight, as well, though alliances were still shaky. War had really shaken him up, and ever since he returned, things weren't the same. His father had called it "the only useful thing" he'd ever done.
"I'm sorry, kid."
The car stopped and Dan looked at the meter.
"That'll be $6.75, Seymour," Dan said.
Seymour pulled out a few bills from his wallet. After putting his wallet back into his pants, he shifted the bills for a little bit before giving them to Dan.
"See you around, man. Keep the change."
He lifted the box and got out the vehicle, leaving Dan sitting there for the moment. He thought he had heard a clunk as Seymour left, but ignored it anyway. Dan looked at the bills, and noticed that Seymour had given him two $20 bills wrapped in seven $1 bills. Sneaky bastard. Dan somewhat scowled at it, knowing that he couldn't accept the money. But, Seymour was gone, and he had given the money as a gift, so Dan accepted the gift and put the twenties into his wallet. He thought for a moment, and wondered how the conversation could have gone better. Maybe they could have exchanged numbers or something, and contacted each other every once in awhile. Seymour was like an uncle sometimes, but years of separation had worn the relationship down. He was just another face in this city of lies.
"Sir. Please hurry," a young voice said from behind.
She seemed to be in a rush, as if she wasn't supposed to be on this side of town or something. But this side of town wasn't supposed to be too bad. It was 'Veidt Secure' as everyone would put it, though in his mind, saying it loudly sounded more like mocking it rather than glorifying it.
"Hey, come on. These guys from class have been harassing me and everything. Please. Just drive."
Dan, without replying, stepped on the pedal and began driving, and even forgot to put on the meter. Instead, he kept glancing back and forth from the road to the rearview mirror, eyeing the woman in the back seat. She was probably a college student, age 22 or so; very young woman. She had a backpack. Yes. A student. Her beautiful brown hair was tied back in a bun and her black-framed glasses gave her a somewhat sophisticated, but sexy look. He glanced away every time she looked forward to see where the cab was going. She giggled a few times, too, which led him to think that she was playing with these alleged men who were chasing her. When he turned the corner, she stopped looking back and turned forward.
"Where to?" he asked monotonously.
When he saw her face, she was dazzlingly beautiful, her light brown eyes staring carefully into his dull, dark ones. She puckered her lips in thought for just a moment as he continued down the block.
"I guess I'll be headed down to 1534 Newland Heights."
Newland Heights. Rich territory. It was built as an extension of the suburbs a few years ago after Veidt Construction had finished work there. More than half of New York had been rebuilt since 1985, and it was very different than it had used to be. At least, that's what his mother had told him.
"Actually, make it Veidt University Apartments, West Section," she then said.
He nodded. "Alright."
She didn't do much while in the vehicle. After a few short moments, she pulled out her cell phone and started texting her friends. Every young person that he came across seemed to be fiddling with some sort of small gadget or device that it was distracting. Inhuman to him, almost. He believed that people should be acting like people and have the courtesy to make conversation with others rather than mouthing off on a cell or texting in the middle of a chat. But then again, him not using his cell phone much did make him stand out. He was used to it.
"You don't seem to be the type to be driving a cab," she then said, shutting her phone and looking up at him.
He looked up at her, but didn't answer, instead slightly smiling at her, much to his frustration. He hated that he had trouble making conversation with others. It's just that he never had much to talk about. Returning a smile, she looked back down to her phone and sat there with a somewhat bewildered look on her face, realizing that he wasn't replying.
"Don't talk to strangers?" she then asked.
He did, however, have the courtesy to answer a question whenever it was asked.
"No," he muttered. "I just…"
The woman beamed a million-dollar smile. "Don't like talking to people, right?"
"Uh…" he smiled again. "Yeah."
Her phone began to ring, and she picked it up to her ear. "Hello?"
So, it seemed like the conversation had ended. He sighed and made another turn, realizing that the Veidt Apartments were not far from here. Another minute or so and he'd reach the destination.
"Mom? Sorry, but I've got some studying to do. Finals coming up," she spoke on the phone. "Of course I'll be over for Christmas. I won't forget to come over. Yes, I know. You're the only family I have and all that stuff. Don't have to lecture me."
The vehicle then stopped as he sighed and looked at her in the rearview mirror again. She smiled. Again. But it wasn't one of those socially obligatory smiles that strangers had to give each other during encounters. She seemed genuinely happy, and wanted to share that happiness with him. Right?
"That'll be $5.25, miss," he told her.
She reached into her backpack and grabbed the money, reaching over to hand it to him through the plastic separation between them.
"Thanks…" she began, then looked at his name tag on the dashboard. "Daniel. Hey. That's my father's—"
That quick pause caused him to look up into the rearview mirror at her.
"Mm?"
She halted her words, realizing what she had just done, and from his judgment, she looked like she had just done something wrong. Immediately, she corrected herself. "Uh…m-my father's brother's name. Daniel."
He raised an eyebrow. "I see. Strange coincidence."
"Quite," she said. "Well anyway, thanks, Dan. We had a good talk, didn't we?"
The raised eyebrow then twitched, as he considered the conversation nowhere near productive. It wasn't even finished. "Well…I wouldn't call it a great conversation. I barely talked."
"It was sarcasm," she noted. Her face, though, returned to a more optimistic expression. "But hey, you're talking now, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am."
"By the way," she said, lifting a small brown-ish book from the backseat. "I think the last passenger dropped this. Just wanted you to know. It's probably a diary or something."
She passed it through the window, and as he grabbed the book, his fingers brushed hers, and his hand nearly jerked the diary from her grip out of surprise, though it was inconspicuous enough for her not to notice. His heart nearly raced.
"Thanks," he said, not even looking at her anymore.
"See you around, Dan," she then waved goodbye, exiting the cab and onto apartment grounds.
December 12th, 2009
Evening shift. I met with Seymour again, as my first shift. Nice man. He seemed disappointed and slightly heartbroken when I told him about mom's death. Should have spoken more to him. The second fare was more interesting. There was a woman who entered my cab, probably about my age; probably a bit younger. She tried to make conversation while in the cab. I should have been more participating.
She's gone now. Too bad. I should've asked for her name. The rest of the evening shift was shit, as usual. Mostly hookers and junkies and dealers in disguise as respectable people. What a country.
I also received a journal today. Seymour probably dropped it. I'll likely look at it later to see if there are any crazy conspiracy theories in there. Then, maybe I'll consider returning it to him.
What a weird guy. Diana Hollis thought to herself as she made her way up the stairs to her apartment. Doesn't talk much. Kind of cute, though.
The day had been interesting. She finished her classes for the day, then Jake Dixon sought to pursue her while she was studying at a nearby café, and they played cat-and-mouse through the streets for just a bit. Eventually, though, she won when she entered the taxi cab with that weird driver. He was probably from the poorer parts of town, though she never liked judging people for their status. It was common to judge others at Adrian Veidt University, for some of the greatest minds and richest students come here yearly. She just happened to get a free pass due to his parents.
Sam and Sandra Hollis were wealthy enough to be living in Newland Heights, and though she was supposed to go see them today, she felt that she had to stay in and study instead.
Diana remembered that her roommate wouldn't be home until later, and she threw her backpack on the table and plopped down on the couch, wanting to spend the entire evening alone on the cozy comfort of her couch. She stretched and yawned and realized that she could knock out at any moment, surprised at how tired she actually was. However, she grabbed the television remote and flipped on the small plasma TV in the corner of the room.
"Today, Mr. Adrian Veidt discussed fashion, and revealed his next release, Nostalgia II, the long-awaited follow-up to Nostalgia, released in 1985. More on that later. Next, the big question is asked: are our streets as safe as we think they are? There is a heated debate, from politicians to comedians to police officers, as to just how safe these streets really are."
She scoffed at the news and flipped the channel, only to find out that the exact same topic was being discussed.
"No, I don't think that these streets are dangerous," said a politician in his monkey suit with his monkey tie. It seemed like his mother had dressed him up. "Look, we have strived for safe streets ever since Mr. Veidt rebuilt this city, and yes, although there are crimes every now and then, there's absolutely nothing wrong with the neighborhoods."
"Well, Mr. Ackerman," spoke another man, sitting across. "How do you explain the drug flow down in Brooklyn, or the prostitution ring in Harlem? Or the mysterious murders happening in the Bronx?"
"They cannot be true," the politician said. "We've had trustworthy sources—the sources that you, yourself, used—confirm that these accusations of crimes are baseless. They are without any valid proof."
There was nothing else on, so she kept the television on and watched the sunset through the sliding door on the balcony. The bright light beamed right through the clear door and illuminated the room with a cozy and lovely softness.
She thought about the rumors of organized crime in the streets. Could it be possible? The last murder reported was just a month ago, and that was done by a psychotic man who had too many drinks. How could murder be possible, too, especially with the fact that the city had passed the Civil Protection Bill, which banned all civilian firearms? Only the law could own guns in this city. To her, she enjoyed the lack of violence, but it also violated the constitutional second amendment. She didn't think Veidt was corrupt, but if his leadership of the town ever stained itself, the people would be at their complete mercy.
Very few people other than cops had guns. She just knew it in her gut. All it would take is for one man to go around with an endless supply of ammo, and it would be one of the greatest catastrophes in history. It scared her.
But, this was almost a utopia! Everything was so grand in this city. People were so happy that they could speak to each other with ease and optimism, right? She sighed, now having trouble taking a nap.
Then, she was afraid. She had never felt this kind of fear before. The future, and everything she thought she could see, was suddenly uncertain. If crime truly was rampant, then it could ruin this city forever. It led her to wonder how anyone in this city could be unsatisfied, and how even crime can happen when goodness has prevailed. Why does the world move so? It didn't seem to wait. Not even for its greatest city.
December 13th, 2009
Morning. Just finished my shift, and I'm about to go up to my room. The society is a huge lie. They delude themselves with their huge egos and narcissistic elitism without considering the lives of the innocent. Today, I saw a pimp beating down on his hooker behind an alleyway while I was eating my dinner. Where are the night watchmen? Where have the arms that protect this city gone to? It was midnight. And the agents weren't there to round up anyone.
This city thinks it is safe, and I cannot shout for help. Shouting never helps. The people need hard examples to shake them out of delusion and apathy. It's ridiculous for them to think of a perfect society. Veidt was awfully vain when he decided to rebuild New York. But he was stupid to think he could maintain evil. Evil always prevails. And the good must come to silence the evil. Someone has to do something.
"Where have you been all night?" asked the landlady, a single mother of three. "You been out with the lowlifes again? I need the rent!"
He was intimidated by her tone of voice that seemed to roar like a dragon that would bite his head off if he did not answer. "I work the night shift now, Ms. Palmer."
"I don't care if you're working the fucking night shift. I need the rent. You're $40 short of paying me back all those times you missed."
Forty bucks. That's all that Seymour had given him, and it would mean that he'd have less money to spend. However, he stayed deliberately behind on the rent so that he could spend the money he saved on something special. It would have to be something useful.
Dan reached for his wallet and took out the forty bucks that he owed her. Without thinking or considering that he might need the money later, she snatched the bills from his hand and went back into her room. Her face looked awfully pale, and her eyes awfully baggy. Maybe there was something going on.
His room was organized. It was not messy, chaotic, or even remotely dirty. That was because he rarely spent time inside his apartment and spent most of his time out there, in the city. He was sure that 75% of his apartment was covered in more dust than usual because he rarely did anything in it. It was a decent establishment, though the side of town he lived on was still fairly poor compared to the others. When he entered the room, he noticed that a letter had been slipped under his door. Strange, since mail would come to his mailbox on the ground floor. He glanced at the name and realized where it was coming from.
"United States Marine Corps Social Services Department," he muttered.
Immediately, he opened the letter and began making his way through the paragraphs. The first few lines revealed what the entire letter would be about, however. He frowned as his eyes went past the words:
Dear Sergeant Daniel Lee,
We regret to inform you that your psychological tests for your law enforcement and military applications have returned negative. You are not fit to return to any kind of active duty, neither policeman nor marine, and will not…
Blah, blah, blah. More useless government crap. He expected that the military would help him create a stable fund for college, but instead, they gave him the shaft a few years ago, when he proved that he was capable of extreme violence, far worse than any of the other soldiers. Maybe if he had been more careful, they would have given him a badge to wear.
December 13th, 2009
It's daybreak now. Just got a mail from the USMC, and they did not validate my psychological tests. The letter felt condescending, like they were speaking to a freak that had no place in this world. Is that what I am, then? I feel useless.
I'm sick of this place. It sits atop a high throne made of air, and they are only up there because of their delusional, pompous attitudes. The world moves on as people do nothing to stop the darkness from closing in. And I feel it closing its grip tighter each night I ride into the streets. I wish I could escape it all, but maybe this is a sign. Maybe I should just give up on people. Maybe apathy is the solution.
No. This is wrong. Why should the lives of the innocent pay for the sins of the wicked? Someday, a real storm will hit this city. Someday all the scum will have something to fear. They are hidden in plain sight, mocking the system and using it to their advantage. Laughing at our faces while their pedophilic human trafficking and prostitution rings and cocaine habits poison our streets in plain sight, and no one is willing to do anything about it.
Also, the landlady was eager to get the rent again. Her skin is pale as snow and she looked as sick as a broken whore. Possible substance abuse? I don't think her children would enjoy that.
Then, he saw the journal. Dan put his journal away and reached for the small book that the passenger had given him earlier. It seemed old, but well preserved, as if it hadn't been read in years. When he opened the journal, he found several Post-It notes on the inside; likely Seymour's. On the inside of the cover, there was a small note that read:
Seymour—
This journal might be true, but no one will believe a psycho. Put this away and make sure no one ever reads it.
Dan then felt a sort of chilling sensation, the mystery resonating just from holding the journal alone. Might be true? The Frontiersman was not much of a newspaper, but they never said that their news was ever true, either. At least, not the opinionated pieces. True? That was too bold a statement to be made. It was bold enough to get him reading. And he started.
Kind of slow, I know, but I'm just merely establishing the background. The story, hopefully, will pick up faster by next chapter. Please leave a review!