*The rating may eventually change to M*
Valley of the Kings
Part 1
It was November 4th 1985; three days after the world's major cities were brutally obliterated in an act of violence perpetrated by Dr. Manhattan, when Grace Turner noticed that her boss had not returned from hiatus.
The Veidt building was one of six buildings still standing in New York; the Chrysler Building being one of the others. It had been examined thoroughly on the 2nd, closed for minor maintenance on the 3rd, and opened to only employees on the 4th. But as Grace took calls at her desk just outside Adrian Veidt's office, she noticed the one crucial missing piece; Adrian himself, the multi-billionaire entrepreneur who had left on hiatus on October 31st. He hadn't shown sight nor sound for almost a week now, and everyone in the office was becoming frantic. So, Grace did what got her hired for Veidt Enterprises in the first place; she took some initiative.
At 1:16 on November 5th, she had a Veidt owned helicopter scheduled to fly out to his location. There had been notes and other memorabilia on his desk pointing to a Pyramid base in Antarctica. What on God's green earth would compel a multi-billionaire to fly to Antarctica; Grace had not the slightest clue. But Adrian Veidt was MIA, and had to be found immediately. The CEOs and share-holders of Veidt Enterprises were becoming anxious that the brilliant Mr. Veidt had perished in the explosion, but Grace knew differently. If anyone survived the blast, Adrian Veidt would be the one.
She hadn't spent much time around him; that position was held for his personal attendants and secretaries, but the time she had spent with him had proven to her exactly how intelligent the man was. He articulated every sentence to beyond perfection, he spoke as if he was educated in every art (which might be), and he held himself in the utmost regard. He was the smartest man on earth, and he knew it. Knew it, but didn't dare flaunt it. He was incredibly down-to-earth, if not completely humble, which surprised Grace the first time she met him. Nobody is both intelligent and modest; it just doesn't happen. That was why Grace had become worried. Veidt always called if he was going to be even a minute late to a meeting (which hadn't yet happened, he just called for courtesy), or he always sent word if a meeting had to be postponed. He valued other peoples' time, and he made sure not to waste it.
So on November 5th, 1985, she met three other people on the roof of the Veidt building, where the helipad was already burdened with the aircraft that would bear them to Antarctica. One man was the pilot, Veidt's personal pilot, a Mr. Gerald Hargreeve. He was a silent man; only motioning them into the helicopter and grunting to tell them to strap in. But he was welcoming nonetheless, so Grace reserved judgment for a later time. The other two people, both men as well, one with spectacles and a potbelly, and the other with a receding hairline, were top executives for Veidt Ent. They bid her welcome, but didn't skip into pleasantries. Everyone was still reeling from the attack on New York, and just about everyone you talked to had lost a mother, father, brother, or sister to Dr. Manhattan's attack. No one felt like talking much; just helping those who survived in any way they could. So far the body count of Veidt employees was staggering; almost sixty percent of people hadn't shown up when doors opened on the 4th. Given that ten percent of that was probably people too emotionally scarred to come to work; that meant that fifty percent were dead.
Grace held her flowing brunette hair in place as Mr. Campbell and Mr. Luca, the executives, hopped into the helicopter and shut the door. She was surprised that of all of Veidt's secretaries, she was the only remaining one who had shown up. Otherwise, she was certain she wouldn't be in this situation. But, her family lived in New Jersey, and she happened to be visiting them for Halloween when the blast hit New York. So, since she and her family were virtually unharmed, she had come to work. Some of the other executives had found a single message playing across Veidt's computer when they arrived; fund rebuilding of New York in any way necessary. They had assumed it was sent by Veidt, but nothing was conclusive. So, the media wanted to talk to Adrian Veidt about such generosity, and get a statement about how he felt toward his former Watchmen partner, Dr. Manhattan. But Veidt Enterprises had to keep stalling the media, telling them that "Mr. Veidt cannot be reached for comment." But of course, the media cockroaches were nasty little leeches, and had already started spreading rumors about him. So he had to be found. Now.
A plane ride to Antarctica would probably have been faster, quieter, and wouldn't have had to stop once to refuel, but since the attacks on the 1st, airspace was strictly monitored; allowing only the highest qualified private aircraft to fly. Given the missing billionaire, they were highly qualified.
With the exception of the fuel stop in Salvador, Brazil, the nineteen-hour flight was relatively mind-numbing and nineteen hours too long. Especially when both the Veidt executives had lost someone in the blast and weren't up for conversation. So Grace resorted to filling out some paperwork she had brought with her on a clipboard, and when she finished that, she just doodled on her spare paper. She found it slightly ironic that she worked for the smartest man in the world, and here she was doodling little drawings of puppies and rain clouds.
She could tell when they were getting close. The pressure in the aircraft changed so often that she stopped trying to pop her ears and just ignored it. The temperature also dropped so severely that she shivered, even after putting on the parka she had brought. She stared out the window, where there was an endless map of ocean, icebergs, and more ocean. On the distant horizon, she could see ice cliffs, where she could make out a building, hardly even recognizable as pyramid-shaped at such a far distance. But nonetheless, she knew that within twenty minutes, they would be there. Relief washed over her as she basked in the thought that she would soon be able to get off of her numb butt and stretch her legs.
But the relief was short-lived. As they approached, she could immediately tell that something was wrong. Matching gasps filled the helicopter as they all got a look at the building. It was mostly stone, but there were two glass pyramids protruding from that stone, and one of them was completely collapsed from about halfway up. Grace's heart leapt into her throat, not just out of anxiety, but because the pilot was rapidly descending toward a helipad just to the left of the stone pyramid.
She gathered her wits as Mr. Luca threw open the door barely after the chopper had set down, and the three of them bounded out and onto the windblown pad. The three of them raced to a titanium door set in the stone wall, and scurried inside. Grace hurried to fix her hair, knowing full well that even 5 mph winds turned her into Cousin It.
Both men turned to go in different directions, apparently looking for their boss, without so much as a grunt. She huffed a sigh and went looking for Veidt as well. Both Campbell and Luca had descended stairs into the stone pyramid, so she decided to steer into the glass one. She almost got lost several times, having turned into dead-end hallways and offices. But she eventually found herself walking down a long, cold hallway; at the end of which she could see snow on the floor. It had to be the glass pyramid.
She sped up her walk, until she was at a brisk run, the footfalls of her knee high (but somehow still fashionable) snow boots echoing off the walls around her. When she emerged into the glass pyramid, she found herself in a much larger room than expected. All around her were statues of Ramesses II, arms crossed over his chest and a scepter in hand. To her immediate right was a giant wall of television screens, all turned off, and many of which were bashed in or broken. There was at least a foot of snow on the ground, mixed with shards of glass, and snow was still slowly gathering. Directly in front of her and to the right was a staircase, and at the top was a shoulder-up likeness of Ramesses, along with the old Shelley poem from which Veidt had pulled his pseudonym. And at the base of that statue, sitting on the top step of the staircase, bent over his knees with his head in his palms, sat Adrian Veidt.