A/N: Written while listening to Green Day's 'American Idiot'.
I take devilish delight in reading reviews – so thank you very much if you're leaving one.
A coke.
Laurie notices it on the desk and pulls a face.
Mother already taught her how unladylike drinking straight from the bottle was back when she'd been a very small girl.
No glass in sight.
Besides she's always supposed to watch what she eats – another of Mom's lessons. What a scandal it'd be if Silk Spectre couldn't fit in her uniform anymore.
And Laurie doesn't want to get fat and lonely.
She turns her back on the bottle reluctantly, wondering how her mother manages to control her daughter's life from such a distance.
A coke.
Daniel sees it and wonders just how long it might have been since he last held one in his hand.
It hadn't been coke lately.
It's been warm beer and cheap wine in his basement in the middle of the night, sitting next to Archie and stroking the cold metal like he was waiting for it to spread its wings and fly again.
He used to drink coke quite a lot back in the day, after long nights of beating up criminals with his former partner.
Daniel fiddles with his glasses, staring at the bottle dreamily while thinking of old times, of better times.
A coke.
Doctor Manhattan doesn't look.
There's no need for him to see it to know it's there, in fact he's known it'd be there before the bottle was even produced.
Drinking it is one of the few things not crossing his mind.
He amuses himself by analyzing and then arranging its molecules alphabetically.
After exactly 1.25 seconds he returns most of his attention to Veidt's reactor.
This world is so tiresome.
A coke.
Veidt can't help imagining his own smiling face on the label.
He thinks of all the new fans and supporters he might gain with such an advertisement and considers how much money the coke-company could maximally demand.
He estimates the eventual gain and loss for his company, finally concluding that an advertising campaign like that would be exaggerated, too expensive and way too self-absorbed.
Additionally he concludes that he wants it very badly.
He picks up the phone to inform his secretary.
A coke.
Rorschach sees it, grabs it and bottles the almost-murderer.
He watches as tiny pieces of glass bore deeply into the man's skull.
Scum. Doesn't deserve better. Besides cockroach's brain so tiny, the shards probably missed it.
Rorschach glances at the rest of the bottle and drops it with something akin to disgust.
Different. Repulsive. Revolting.
Veidt's pretty face smiles at him, blood on his white teeth.
Conspiracy. Must be.
Coke bottles used to be green.
Just like the ones Nite Owl I, Hooded Justice and other heroes of past generations drank.
American freedom bottled inside of bright, green glass.
Rorschach sets the bar on fire and leaves.
American freedom, he muses cynically, the sound of approaching sirens burning in his ears, they don't make it anymore.
A coke.
The Comedian sees it.
He's thirsty.
He drinks it.