Part 2

He was dressed in his old suit; the knee high boots, the form fitting pants and top, and the cape. She couldn't tell if he was wearing the purple mask because his head was bowed, but something definitely looked off about this picture. Veidt always carried himself well; shoulders back, chin high, straight back. He was always the poster child of perfection and elegance. Now, head in his palms, shoulders hunched, and head bowed in his hands, he was hardly recognizable as the proud figure he always was. But nonetheless, it was him.

"Mr Veidt!" she cried in relief, and began hurriedly walking toward him. "What happened here? We've called and sent messages. The media…"

She was cut short mid-sentence. The second she had started speaking, he slowly looked up, like one of those slow-motion shots in movies. As his hands slowly slid to reveal his face, Grace gasped; there was blood smeared on his forehead where his right hand had been, his lower lip was split on the right, and his left cheek bore a small cut. His skin was a sallow, sickly color, and his usually perfect hair was unkempt and falling over his headpiece into his eyes. His nose was bleeding and the look he gave her was that of a wounded dog, backed into a corner by the dogcatcher.

"My God!" she gasped. "Mr. Veidt! What happened to you!" she dropped her clipboard where she stood and rushed across the snow-covered room and up the stairs to crouch next to him. He hardly acknowledged that she had done so. He just stared straight ahead, his eyebrows angled in some form of grief.

Without waiting for him to explain, since it appeared that he wasn't going to, she reached up and felt of the blood smear on his forehead. It was dried, and there didn't appear to be any wound there. She let her eyes trail down to his right hand, and found the source.

There was a hole in the palm of the glove, and it looked like someone had taken a power drill to his palm. She gasped again, and reached for his wrist, pulling it up. He appeared to barely notice; still staring straight ahead, not doing anything but breathing… and hardly doing that either.

She grabbed the glove by the tip of the middle finger, gently pulling it off to reveal the wound. Indeed it appeared like someone had tried to drill through his hand. In the midst of wondering who the hell could have done this to Adrian Veidt, she pulled a handkerchief from her parka, licked the tip, and began wiping off some of the blood on his forehead. Again, he didn't acknowledge her; just let her do it.

"Mr. Veidt, who did this to you?" she asked, quieter now.

That seemed to wake him up. He leaned upright, away from her, and looked her in the eyes.

"Turner, isn't it?" he said, and his voice was hoarse, like it hadn't been used in days.

"Y…Yes. Grace Turner," she said, lowering her handkerchief and staring back at him.

"How much do I pay you?" he asked.

"S… six figures, sir," she said, crossing her hands in her lap.

"Enough to avoid the questions?" he said, his face still set into a stone grimace that was slightly reminiscent of the Ramesses statue behind him.

She was shocked that he would say such a thing, so she resulted to nodding "yes." He nodded in return, and leaned forward again, his elbows supported by his knees as he stared straight ahead at his wall of destroyed televisions.

"Um, sir. Two of…" she began but was interrupted.

"Adrian. Please," he said, still not looking at her.

"Adrian," she said, feeling awkward to be calling someone of such high authority by their first name. "Two of your executives are here. They were worried you had perished in the attacks. You know about them right?"

He scoffed, his face setting into a pained scowl as he turned his head to her. "Of course."

She sighed, her eyes wandering to his many cuts and forming bruises, and brought the handkerchief back to his face to brush off more dried blood. He didn't even flinch.

Grace heard footsteps coming from the hall she'd come in through. Adrian looked up at the hall and straightened as he listened. It was clear that the two executives were returning to continue their search.

Grace almost jumped as Adrian rocketed to his feet, snatching his glove from her other hand. He secured it back onto his hand, and set his face in that ever-familiar businessman glare. He pulled his shoulders back, and lifted his chin just in time to see both Mr. Campbell and Mr. Luca come tromping into the snow-covered room. Grace watched as she sat cross-legged on the stairs.

Both men stopped when they reached the edge of the snow and looked at Adrian, complete confusion playing across their faces.

"Gentleman," Adrian said, all traces of hoarseness gone and replaced with his usual smooth-talking business tone. "I welcome you to Antarctica's Pyramid headquarters. I apologize for the disorder, but it seems the foundation was not strong enough to withstand tremors from Dr. Manhattan's attacks. I shall have it repaired immediately. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must gather some things before we depart. I will meet you on the helipad in a few moments."

Both men stared, bewildered. "We sent word. Why didn't you reply?" Mr. Luca said, raising his chin in suspicion.

"Ah," Adrian said, grinning that guaranteed-to-make-the-reporter-write-something-nice smile. "It seems the phone lines and computer connections are faulty as well. I assure you, that will be mended quickly. Excuse me."

He finished by turning his back to them with a swish of his violet cape, and walking past Grace into a private hall to the left of the Ramesses statue. Grace gathered her handkerchief and held out her parka as she stood, tossing a confused look at both executives. They merely shrugged, and turned to return to the helipad. Grace decided to follow Adrian. After all, only a moment ago, he'd been the portrait of a broken man. She was sure he was a master of façade, so all this was probably a show to restore confidence into his executives.

She followed him down the hall, only to realize that he wasn't gathering anything at all. As soon as he was out of sight, he collapsed against a stone wall, panting and clutching at his temples. It seemed his wits were all he needed to gather. And Grace noticed something else as well; there were computers all around her, and all of them were in perfect working order, one with the many messages Mr. Campbell and Luca had sent. So he had received them. Received them, and ignored them. Something was terribly wrong here. There was something Veidt wasn't sharing.

"Mr. Veidt?" she asked meekly, and he jumped, not having heard her follow. He stared for a moment, then collapsed against the wall again. "Are you alright?" she continued, taking another step toward him.

He rubbed his eyes, looking at the wound on his palm when he did so. He didn't look at her, but held his hand out toward her.

"What?" she asked, confused.

He didn't answer, but instead pointed to the handkerchief in her hand. She handed it over, and he went to work brushing the dried blood from his face. He also removed his headpiece and ran a hand through his blonde hair, making sure it stayed back and presentable. That's when he turned to her, straightened, handed her handkerchief back, and sighed.

"Presentable?" he asked, and she furrowed her brows. She could see right through this. There was something terribly wrong, but he was covering it up for the sake of his executives.

"I suppose," she said, still confused, and nodded in approval. He then walked forward with all the confidence of the proud entrepreneur he once was. As he passed her, he stared a look right into her eyes that clearly said, "You will not speak a word of what you saw of me a moment ago."

It was like looking death in the face, and she couldn't help but step back, as if his eyes alone could incinerate her on the spot. She followed obediently as he walked out to the helipad, and pondered the many questions wracking her brain. Who or what could have beaten Adrian to the bloody pulp he was? Why would he refuse to tell her? And why would he have not answered their messages? Why on earth would Adrian Veidt seclude himself in a deteriorating glass building, shattered and broken?