A Dark Sense of Humor, a watchmen fanfic

This is Edward Blake's life and mind as I saw it. Maybe not what everyone else thinks he may have been like, but this is how I felt for the guy. Most of the events and details are more from the novel than the movie, except for the scene with Veidt in Blake's apartment. Because the novel really didn't depict much of a fight scene, I used the one from the movie. Please read and review, and hopefully enjoy :)

The Comedian. That's what he had them call him. He loved it, the irony of such a name, considering he knew all too well there was nothing comedic about life. Certainly not about his. Or perhaps there was a bitter sort of comedy to everything, you just had to know where to look...With him, it started practically from the day he could walk. He never had the most properly functioning family, and he knew he only made things worse. The dark moods. The sick sense of humor. The constant fighting, brutal and always winning. But childhood wasn't something he cared to remember, let alone think about. It wasn't like there was some fateful, traumatizing event that occured and had scarred him forever - no, it was just that he simply didn't care. He cared more about when he heard of the masked vigilantes running around, punishing people, hurting people, and getting away with it. It sounded like something he understood, and could be a part of. Something he could even get away with. So why not be part of it? Dress up like some half-drunk idiot, but as long as it got the deeds done and no one to suspect him, why not? He could do that. He could have fun with that.

Then he saw the advertisement for masked punishers to gather and form a group, some sort of hero-alliance-force. It was a stupid request, but he was one of them, the heroes hidden behind masks. He had no where else and nothing to lose, so he went. Maybe if he was lucky, there would at least be one soul there that understood what he was all about and why he did things the way he did. But he'd never been the lucky type. They were just a bunch of lonely people that thought they knew what it meant not to fit in. They had become "heroes" because they hated seeing evil go unpunished, and felt they needed to help the world, and worse yet - they thought they could. They did actually make him laugh, but only because he felt almost sympathetic that they were so naive, that their lives were so pathetic. These people - the Minutemen, they attempted to be heroically named - made him sick. All of them - Metropolis, Dollar Bill, Silhouette, Nite Owl, Mothman, Hooded Justice - except her. Perhaps the one thing he'd ever seen that might have actually been beautiful, Sally Jupiter, a.k.a. The Silk Spectre, was what encouraged him to become part of their childish club. She was the reason he didn't blow them all away in a breath of cigar smoke after one glance. She was something different than he'd seen before - she was in this masked crime-fighter business not just for the sense of good so much but also publicity, for her own benefit; she was tough and sharp-tongued, easily standing her own ground; and she was as wickedly beautiful as fire. But as he already knew, he'd never been the lucky type.

Things were fine when they simply knew that the others existed and rarely ever had to mingle together. Then the Metropolis guy wanted a meeting. Did he really think they would all just hit it off, all of them in their pathetic costumes, with their pathetic life stories? Did any of them really think that a man with a noose around his neck could get along with a bug-man? Or that he, the brutal Comedian who actually enjoyedcausing pain, could find something in common with a man that got his alter-ego name from a bird? Were they all that naive? He must have been naive too, of course, to actually go to their damned meeting. But he just wanted to see her again, and this was the only way. So maybe it was Metropolis' fault. Or maybe it was her fault for announcing to the entire room she was going to undress. Could it possibly even be his fault - his fault that he misunderstood her, that for once he allowed emotions to get in the way? But it wasn't like he planned on it. He was tired of the people playing dress-up for publicity, the believers that thought they could actually make a difference in the world that was only starting to spin out of control. He was tired of being in the same room with them, he was tired of staying a distance away, of only looking at her. It was all opportunity. She was alone, everyone was leaving, she was undressing....the way he saw it, she practically begged for him to stay behind. Anyone else would argue, but he knew. And then she acted surprised when he did show up, and even angry when he tried to persuade her. She hit him, drew blood. His blood. That quickly, he forgot about any sort of bullshit feelings he might have had except anger. Pure, hot, anger and the fact that he wanted her, so he would have her. No one could ever stand in his way, let alone this woman. As the anger and want blinded him, he struck out to gain that want. The impact of his fist against flesh excited him as always, and he was almost unaware who was on the receiving end as he hit again, then kicked, with a smile of delicious, cruel, joy. He grabbed ahold of her, heart pounding with the excitement of having the chance now. Another blow, just for the thrill, for the control, and he had her. He had her until a dizzying blow to his own skull knocked him over, and opportunity away. The silent creep in the hood and noose had appeared out of nowhere, grabbed ahold of a young Comedian, and began bashing on him until blood spilled. The Comedian still grinned, chuckling at the brutality, amused that he too could be added to the list of young men "Hooded Justice" had beaten the shit out of.

"This is what you like, huh? This is what gets you hot?"

He was tossed aside like trash, not for the first time, and he still snickered quietly, muttering one last threat, as he climbed back to his feet and stumbled out of the room. He would be accused of attacking The Spectre later, and yet they never kicked him out of their little club. Maybe they actually understood he was the only truly sane one there. Maybe they knew how much the group needed him, to keep their heads straight. He would stumble to the pit called home, dripping blood and curses, trying to find humor in the knowledge that he had just beaten on and drawn blood from the one thing in this world he couldn't find anything wrong with, the one woman that might leave a mark in his mind. And she did.

Something unusual came from that night - he couldn't forget what had happened. For the first time, he couldn't find an excuse for what he'd done. Every time he saw her from that night on, he remembered the force of his fist against her, and saw the blood he caused to spill. The remembering bothered him, it stirred up something unfamiliar and unwanted. It tortured him. Every day, knowing what he had done and what he had ruined, and knowing what he really wanted, it tore him apart. None of the thoughts made sense in his animalistic mind, but they didn't go away. These were different wants than before, and he hated them. But still, despite trying to ignore the pictures and dreams in his head, he knew what he had to do. So in the afternoon, on a day he knew that damned lawyer would be gone, The Comedian made a visit for a reason he'd never imagined he would sink to. To apologize. To attempt to tell the one beautiful woman in his world that he was sorry, and to this day regretted ever hurting her. It didn't go well at first. She hardly wanted to let him in the house, but somehow he got in anyway. He just had that effect on people. And then yelling. She shouted and screamed and cursed for what he'd done to her, what he had tried to do to her, and what he had done to her life. Only when she was near tears and picked up a large book to throw at him, did he interrupt. He gripped her wrist to cease the throwing, and softly told her all that he regretted, all the thoughts that had tormented him, and how he wasn't sure he liked any of the thoughts or feelings, but they were there. Half of his words were strange on his tongue, spoken so rarely or never before. She stared at him, as if expecting it all to be a joke, and then simply stated the truth - it was thirteen years too late for apologies. He knew that, but he just needed her to know - he was sorry. She was beautiful and everything he wanted, and he might even love her, and he was sorry for ever causing her pain. He apologized for what he was and what he did, and told her things he'd never really told even himself. He was weak in her presence, and vulnerable and different, but he couldn't help it. Desperation from fighting and killing and the cruelty he saw in the world was just starting to build up on The Comedian, and he needed some way to let it out. To pretend his life was fine, even if for only a while.

Somehow his words and apologies got through to Sally, and she forgave him in a way he hadn't expected. The way he felt about her, the feelings he was so unused to, were reflected back at him. And then their feelings were the same, and he had the oppurtunity again. This time she didn't tell him to leave, didn't hit him, and he didn't hurt her. This time it was right and what they both wanted. This time he let her know he could touch someone without causing pain, and could speak without insulting or contradicting. Afterward, they lay beside each other and he let her talk, while he listened. Then he spoke too, and he let her see further into the heart and mind of Edward Blake, not just The Comedian, than anyone else had before. He did it because he knew he had to, and maybe because he wanted to. To feel like he wasn't entirely alone in this world. Because of that pretend, sometimes he wondered if all he'd said and done had been pretend as well, been lies. Sometimes he used that thought to make himself feel better about what resulted from that afternoon, and about what his life was now. Yet he knew it hadn't been pretend. It was real, and he would live to regret it.

A few months later, The Silk Spectre retired due to pregnancy. There was no doubt in his mind that the child was not the lawyer's. A child hadn't been his intention, he didn't need a reminder of what had happened and how nothing had changed, but it came nonetheless. Shortly after Sally's retirement, the rest of the Minutemen broke apart. Things had been strained from the start, and certainly for the past several years, and with the red-headed beauty gone, there was no reason for them to stay together. Life didn't need costumed idiots running around at night to stop purse-snatchers and bust pornography rings. Truth be told, it didn't seem any of the Minutemen left cared to have that burden anymore anyway. And with the appearance of this Manhattan fellow, they really didn't have a use. So The Comedian left without a backwards glance, knowing he needed something else to replace the void of his nightly patrolling and attacking. He didn't care to dress up and protect the silly little civilians, not as much as he cared to be handed a gun and told to shoot to kill, shoot as much as he liked. Kill as much as he liked. It wasn't difficult to get involved with the government either. After they ordered for all Minutemen to reveal their identities and realized what a weapon he was, they eagerly used him to their advantage. And he liked it.

He was ordered to find Hooded Justice, firstly, and took the task with sick joy. The government never specified what to do when he found the man, only that they wanted him to reveal his identity and possibly answer some questions. So he used his wide range of skills, intellectually as well as physically, and eventually found the bastard he hadn't seen in years. And hadn't exactly missed. But he remembered their last meeting and how it ended, him bloody and bruised and dropping one last threat before leaving. Now he could hold true to that promise. It was violent, it was brutal, and it was fun. That's all he cared to remember. He returned to the people whom had given his orders, and reported failure in finding Hooded Justice. He just hoped they didn't see his smirk.

Then somehow he wound up amongst more people in costumes, again ones that believed in saving this damned city and the people inside it. New masked heroes this time around, and he was the oldest one, the one with actual knowledge of what they were trying to do. The one that knew it would fail again. So he sat there behind the newspaper, paying little attention to their foolish plans. There was a new Nite Owl, and he was sure he disliked the new guy as much as he did the last. Rorschach, a slightly interesting individual but perhaps only from his silence and efficient reputation. Manhattan, the bizarre glowing blue guy that only interested The Comedian because he saw someone that could do absolutely anything he wanted, and never be harmed, never be killed, not have any consequences. What fun. Young Laurie - he truly did try to ignore her, and how much she reminded him of her mother, of their past and everything wrong with it. And then Ozymandias, the prettied-up young man that pissed him off just by being in the room. At Ozzy's indication that he believed they could solve the world's problems, specifically if he - smartest man on the planet - was in charge, Blake showed them how feeble their attempts would be, and how it really didn't matter. There was no "saving the world", he'd known that long ago. He was just trying to enjoy the view as it all burned down.

After he burned down their little world, their pathetic display of crimes and chaos, he stood outside in the dark, taking slow drags off his cigar. He wasn't sure why he stayed, never was really sure if he was waiting for her or not, but soon enough the new Silk Spectre walked out. She strode purposefully towards the corner, but stopped when he called her name from the shadows. She recognized him easily, even complimented him on his little disappearing act inside. He couldn't help himself, and he reached out to touch her, to get a look at what he'd accidentally created. He could tell he made her uncomfortable, and when she asked for a light, he attempted to reassure her, readily offering up his. It tortured him to have her right there in front of him, talking with him, and yet unable to tell her he was more than just a hard-mouthed old friend of her mother's. He considered the consequences of telling her, but got no further than considering when a red-headed beauty he hadn't seen in ages strode up to them. She was furious. He missed her anger, along with everything else, he realized. She snatched Laurie away like he had a disease, and asked what depths he would sink to.

"Can't a guy talk to his, y'know, his old friend's daughter? I mean, what do you think I am?"

She snapped at him to stay away, shoved Laurie into a car, and they drove off. He stood and watched them leave, wondering how things had possibly turned out like this. As he'd always known, he'd never been the lucky type, but this seemed cruel even for him. That afternoon he went to talk to Sally, and with the way things had gone, part of him had hoped she would see how he really felt about her and them, their lives. He'd thought, insanely perhaps, that maybe things could change for him. He'd never felt for a woman like he felt for her, and he'd never thought he could need something so bad - let alone a person. But he'd already screwed up any chance there was thirteen years earlier, when his young and vicious mind took control of sanity. Now when he finally thought he had done something right, created something right, he was proven wrong once more. He didn't understand. All he wanted was to get one glimpse of the family he never thought he would have. And still wouldn't.

Less than a year later, in Vietnam, he was re-introduced to the glowing blue weapon the world called Dr. Manhattan. To be honest, he was excited when he discovered the government planned to use this invincible destroyer to help in 'Nam, he was eager to see what the guy could do. And he wasn't disappointed. The massacres Manhattan could cause with a twitch of his hand awed even The Comedian, but he was the only one that watched without fear. The world might think they had found a way to stop wars and save their self-destructing planet, but he knew better. He also knew that the good Doctor didn't see or feel the world like a person does and should, because he no longer was a person. He knew that this planet's supposed savior didn't give a damn what happened to them. And when that came to light, then true hell would break loose. So he grinned and waited for it to happen, torching and filling the enemy with bullets. War, being set off the leash to kill freely, this is what he liked. This was the only way he could get relief from everything else. It worked for him, too. The government needed someone willing to kill, eager to kill, and who wouldn't return home from war a different, damaged person. He was already a different, damaged person, so it worked out perfectly. Until one woman, one night, got in his way.

She demanded he help her and her child. It was not theirs, would not be theirs. No matter what she said. He told her to leave, told her he didn't care about her and the accident inside her and her god damn country that he was really starting to get sick of. She said she couldn't forget, but he swore he would. He had to. He knew he should be feeling sorry for her and what he'd done to her, and for the child, and what kind of world it would have to grow up in, but he didn't. He'd already made the mistake once before, to let sympathy and any other emotion take the wheel, and there was a result from that too. And the result, dark haired Laurie, hated him. He didn't need another mistake in his life, didn't need to be reminded anymore of the monster he knew he was. Yet despite these thoughts and knowing this truth, he hadn't planned on it. He hadn't planned to turn around at the sound of breaking glass, then feel fire flash across his face. He touched a hand to the burning, and pulled back, blood on his fingers. Stupid woman. She drew his blood, and the pain, mixed with the memory of the last time a woman caused him to bleed, blended into a cold fury that blinded him. He didn't recall pulling the gun out of it's holster, or pulling the trigger, or even hearing the shot. It meant that little to him. He saw her fall and felt faintly relieved, but little else.

Then Manhattan, who had stood and watched the entire show, tried to show some humanity that The Comedian knew wasn't really there. He appeared not horrified, not terrified, but mildly surprised that Blake had just murdered a pregnant woman. He spoke as if Blake should be mortified by his actions, as if the scene before him was too terrible to comprehend. But The Comedian knew the truth, and spat it into the Doc's face with ease. He told The Superman what he knew could have been done, what with Manhattan's ability to alter objects and time and the entire fucking planet. He told him what he'd seen in the way the indestructible being slaughtered people. And he told him that he knew the world's greatest protector didn't give a shit for their lives. And he left.

"You're driftin' outta touch Doc... God help us all."

After Vietnam's forced surrender, the government had little else they needed him for. Off and on he would take out certain small problems, but there was no more war for now. And so, because there was only one option he had, it was back to the mask, back to "protecting the city". Only now, they didn't want The Mask's kind of protection. Certainly not his. There were graffiti-ed warnings on buildings and threatening signs. Riots. The worst was the riot when the Keene Act was first mentioned to the public. He didn't want other Masks' help, but without being able to be armed with actual ammo - just rubber bullets and riot gas - he knew the mob would eat him alive. So somehow he got stuck with the damn Owl guy, in his damn Owlship. The only good thing to come of the entire night was nearly burning down the Owl's little cave by accidentally hitting the flamethrowing-thing while looking for a light. The Owl - Dan? - didn't find it quite as funny as he did. But nonetheless, they were stuck with each other for night. The Comedian was increasingly irritated by the damn Owl's pacifist reactions to the idiots in the streets below them, and when the chance came, he leapt out of the ship and into the chaos. Ignoring the other man's complaints, Blake beat away anyone that dared get too close with laughter and a smile, amused by the desperate, enraged stupidity of the people. A fist into some man's face, his gun into a woman's stomach, all part of the game. The mob quickly dispersed once they realized no one could get near him, let alone cause any damage, and weren't hyped up enough anymore to let him break their ribs with the butt of his gun. Even though the streets were quieting down and the fires fading into smoke, he still stood with a smirk and shot at anyone who dared run by or mingle too long in his sights. The Nite Owl finally showed up and surveyed the scene with something like exhaustion, before finally asking The Comedian how much longer he thought they could keep going on like this, what all was happening to the world. The man with a humorless reply to everything simply smiled and gestured at the scene before them: the cars beaten by baseball bats, stores broken and burglarized, trash littering the street, graffiti screaming to them "Who Watches The Watchmen?", the smoke covering it all...

"What happened to the American Dream? It came true! You're lookin' at it."

Eight years passed. The Masks were outlawed, no surprise, but it made little difference to him. He still had fun playing Hero for the government. Until he accidentally found out. The island wasn't charted, wasn't supposed to exist, so his militaristic mind assumed it was an enemy's and went to look. There was only one thing he'd ever done to regret more than that decision, and he'd gotten tired of that regret a long time ago. This was new, and his mind and body were too tired of problems to take this discovery light. A nightmare, he saw on that island. A perfect plan to slaughter many more than he could dream of ever killing, and the perfect way to get away with it all. He couldn't explain it, but the things he saw and discovered actually frightened him. He couldn't specifically recall being frightened before, maybe once. But this was too big, too terrible, too possible. He returned to his quiet, empty, high-rise apartment, and told himself he would stay quiet and handle it. He knew he couldn't stop what he'd seen even if he wanted to, and swore he would let it happen, take it in silence. But the knowing ate at his mind, and eventually he fell too deep into the bottle. Deep enough to pay a visit to his enemy for decades, Edgar Jacobi. Moloch. His head was too hazy from the drinks to really be sure what he said, but he still couldn't say aloud exactly what he'd seen, what was coming. It was too big. Instead he rambled and raved at the thin man cowering in his bed, desperately trying to find the amusement in the fact that he was, finally, falling apart, in front of his enemy. He tried to find the humor in the fact that the closest thing he had resembling a "friend" was said enemy in front of him. But it wasn't funny, not in the least, and he was cruelly aware of it all. So he drank more, shed more pathetic tears, and stumbled home.

Too soon after his visit to Moloch's, he heard footsteps outside his door. He sighed, not even flinching when a kick snapped his door to splinters, and rose to face the intruder he'd been waiting for. The familiar face didn't surprise him, nor did the fact that the figure had appeared. He'd known from the beginning this was too big for him to know and survive much longer. He knew how this chapter in his life would end, too. But none of that stopped him from fighting back with everything he had, refusing to give in to this damned pampered mockery. One person would not take him, The Comedian, the one who'd been around and fought longer than anyone else, down - certainly not this cocky son of a bitch. At least that was what he told himself. So he lunged for the gun laying on the table nearby, lifted it to shoot, and felt the weapon grasped, turned, and he missed. Punches flew from both of the men, only a select few landing, and mostly on the older fighter. He was slammed into a wall hard enough to crack the plaster and the frame holding a picture of the only person he ever missed. He swung again, missed and took a corner out of the wall. Again, and missed, fist going through to the next room. As if his attacker was tired of games, he swiftly landed blows on the larger man and slammed him into the table, before throwing him across the room, to crash through another table. Blake groaned and ignored the spasms of pain, to reach up and grab a knife from the counter. He spun around and flicked it easily at the other man, missing by a hair. He grabbed another and threw it just as quickly, only to have it boomerang back at his head. He grabbed yet another blade, and decided to simply attack with this one. He jabbed and thrust, swung and carved, using every trick he could think of. They got him nowhere. Just some broken fingers and then his head pounded into the dark island counter top, powerfully enough for his shoulder to break through until he hit the floor. The proclaimed Smartest Man On the Planet lifted The Comedian as if he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes, dangling him in the air for a moment. Blake chuckled once more, remembering how his life was supposed to be flashing before his eyes, and yet all he could see was how no one would miss him. The one - okay, maybe two - people he wished would miss him certainly wouldn't. Not the only woman he might have loved, and instead had broken, and most positively not the only thing good he had ever created. Laurie would probably weep with joy, now that he thought about it. Why hadn't he told her? Maybe if he had - maybe - she would forgive him, for his past. Maybe he would have some sort of family. People that actually cared about him.

"It's a joke...it's all a joke..mother forgive me."

That was the last thing he thought before his body collided with strong glass, shattering through it with ease. Now was the time to be frightened, but he wasn't. As the glass crumpled around him and the sounds of the night swarmed past him, a peculiar sense of peacefulness cascaded over Edward Blake, The Comedian. For once, he knew what to expect, and the weightless free-fall was just his ticket there. For once he couldn't find humor in the events occurring. For once he had nothing to say. Falling to his death, to the end of this Hell he'd shared and even helped create, there was only one murmured thought twisting through his mind, haunting and torturingly true:

It was about time.