It is 1985. I stand on the planet Mars, the fourth rock from the sun. I came here seeking solitude from humanity, from people. I have long since grown tired of their antics. Yet, miraculously- or perhaps, unfortunately, from my own perspective- a human being is here. A living, breathing human, somehow able to survive this atmosphere for reasons that escape my understanding.

"Dr. Jon Osterman, I presume?" he asks me. "You know, with the glowing blue aura and skin, hydrogen symbol on your forehead and… lack of clothing. You have a very distinctive look about you, you know."

I look through time and space, but I do not see the events of this conversation. I do not learn anything about this man. I don't know his name, why he's here, how he can survive in these conditions, where he is from, who his family are- nothing. I am utterly perplexed. This man seems to know me, which is not much of a surprise given my status, but I know nothing about him, in spite of all I can, do, and will know. This is… concerning to say the least.

"Would you prefer I call you by your hero name?" he asks me. "Dr. Manhattan… like the 'Manhattan Project,' right? A little on the nose, but I like it. Honestly, I'm a fan of yours. Would you mind doing me the honor?" He extends his arm out to me, offering his hand. I say nothing. Instead, I stare at him. Examining his every feature. Fair skin, as though he spends most of his time indoors. Messy, long blonde hair that extends down to his shoulder blades. A light gray sweater and blue jeans, beat up sneakers. Bags under his eyes, implying a severe lack of proper REM sleep. A slight, barely noticeable laziness in his left eye. If he is supposed to be wearing glasses, he isn't.

He frowns, retracting his hand and crossing arms. "What, are you not gonna say anything?" he asks.

Choosing to indulge him, if only to satisfy my own curiosity, I ask him, "Who are you?"

He smiles. "So you can talk! Nice." He lets his arms at his side, relaxing a little. "Who am I? I'm a visitor. I just came to say 'hello,' that's all."

I frown. I don't buy his story. "How are you able to survive on this planet's surface? You seem to be nothing more than a normal man."

He tilts his head slightly, raising his left eyebrow and squinting his right eye. "Well, I'm far from normal, but I am a human," he tells me. "I'm just… built different. Yeah, I'm built different." A laugh escapes his mouth. He has to stop himself from laughing harder. It takes approximately five minutes and thirty-seven seconds for him to finally control himself. I say nothing, for I'm at a loss for words. I do not find how what he said could be interpreted as humorous.

"Right," he mutters to himself. "You're quite literally the world's most powerful boomer. Of course you wouldn't understand my sense of humor."

I pause. I study him more closely. Of course, such a statement could be a natural reaction to my lack of response, but part of me feels as though that is not the case. It's as if he is capable of reading my thoughts. Such a feat should not be possible. Even if he possessed such an ability, reading my mind specifically would surely drive anyone insane.

The man slouches slightly, sticking his head out in my direction. "But I can read your thoughts," he says. "Well, sort-of. It's not really reading, per say…"

So much as it is, well, writing.

My eyes widen. For the first time in a while, I feel fear. The man's voice implants itself into my mind, like an intrusive thought. "Who are you?" I ask him, trying to prevent even the slightest hint of fear or surprise in my voice.

"I told you," he says nonchalantly. "I'm a visitor. There's nothing really to add. I just visit places and people that interest me. Did I mention I'm a fan? I used to like Rorschach more, since I'm a fan of Steve Ditko and all, but I flirted with Objectivism for a while and I'm uh… yeah, no. Not a fan."

I frown. "Who are you?" I repeat, frustration ever so slightly present in my voice.

He lets out a sigh. "Again, I'm a visitor," he groans. "Look, doctor, I know you want my first and last name, but I don't like to give out my name when the camera is rolling. Or, well, in this case…" He holds up his hands and waggles his fingers around. "…When the fingers are typing." He puts his hands back at his side. "Maybe try asking what I am instead, see where that gets you." He smirks at me.

I tire of this conversation, of this "visitor." I raise my hand. Whoever he is, he poses a threat. I will remove him before he becomes one. He smiles and shrugs at me. "It's not gonna work," he says, "but knock yourself out." I hesitate, only briefly, before waving my hand. He explodes in a barrage of blue flames. There is no visitor. There is only the vast red desert. I let out a sigh and turn my back to where he once stood, taking a seat on a nearby rock. Before I can gather my thoughts, the sound of hands clapping together booms from behind me. It starts out slowly, then picks up pace. I turn around, and my eyes widen.

He's standing there, just as he was before, clapping and smiling at me. The Visitor. I stand up, staring at him in awe. "You're really good at blowing up rocks, doctor," he says to me, pointing to a crater at his feet. I missed? Impossible. I saw him explode. He should not be here. He should not, and yet he is.

I wonder why that could be, doc? Why don't you ask?

I take a deep breath, then ask him, "What are you?"

He smiles at me. "I'm an avatar," he says simply. "A pan-dimensional avatar! I walk across realities visiting places and persons of particular interest to me. You just so happen to be one of those people that interest me, lucky you!"

I am puzzled. "A pan-dimensional avatar?" I ask him.

"Correct!" he yells with a big grin plastered on his face. "A writer's pan-dimensional avatar! See, where I come from, life is boring. I'm a nobody with nothing going nowhere in life. Ever since I was a kid I've desired to escape into the stories that I love so much." He begins to walk around, speaking not just with words, but with his hands as well. "I wake every morning to a dwindling bank account and a job that I tolerate but don't enjoy. I have friends, yeah, and they're cool people! Really, they are! But they don't understand me the way I understand myself. They don't have the same desire I have."

He pauses, stopping in place, before muttering. "The desire to be fictional." He turns his head to look at me. "I don't even have to be a hero or a villain, I just wanna live in a world where there's people like you, ya know? Larger than life folks I can look up to."

I say nothing. He looks away and continues walking and speaking with both words and hands. "I mean, sure! I wouldn't mind if I went to Tremorton High and became besties with the cute robot girl, or were an arctic fox boy that became friends with the fastest hedgehog alive and went on adventures, but I don't need that. I just need to be fictional. That's why I'm here, doc. I'm visiting places and people in this form. Maybe through my writings, I can find some way to… cross over."

"You are suffering from delusions," I say to him.

"Who cares?" he responds. "People like what I write. The changes I inflict on realities others have created. A rom-com filled with drama and pop culture references, the occasional innuendo… at the time of me writing this, it has thirty-nine chapters and seventy-four reviews. I'm having fun, and I'm rewriting realities while doing so." He turns to me, glaring at me. "You of all people should understand."

"I do not," I say. "I think you are delusional. I think you need help. You're under the impression that this world is fictional. It is not. You are under the belief that you can become one with a piece of fiction. You can not. You need help from a professional, not from me. Leave."

He frowns. "It's a shame, doc," he says, anger in his voice. "I like you. Really I do. But now I kinda would like to know what a world without you is like." He stares at me. "Do you know what a retcon is, doc? You're about to find out just how fictional you are."

I look at him, unsure of what he is going to do. I try once again to see the outcome. I don't see it. In fact, I can't see a thing.

It is August 20th, 1959.

My eyes widen. No. Whatever you are going to do, stop. The consequences will be beyond your comprehension. I know you can see these thoughts somehow, so please, listen to me.

Jon Osterman does not forget his coat containing the repaired watch in the intrinsic field experiment test chamber.

Stop. Stop this, right now.

As such, he does not become trapped by the safety lock on the door in block 15. He is not disintegrated in the disintegration test. Jon Osterman's consciousness does not begin to manifest a body over the following months. A disembodied nervous system does not manifest. A circulatory system does not manifest on November 10th. A screaming, partially muscled skeleton does not appear on November 14th. Jon does not fully reappear in the Gila Flats cafeteria on November 22nd, 1959. The world is not introduced to Dr. Manhattan.

STOP!

I look around me. No one is with me on the red desert planet. No one ever was. How could they? They never existed. I ponder what a reality without Dr. Manhattan would be like. How would the other Watchmen be affected? Would Nixon still become President for longer than two terms? What of the Cold War? How is it affected? Ozymandius grand plan… does it ever come to fruition? I shrug.

It doesn't matter now. What's done is done. I let my anger get the best of me, and this is the result. Oh well. At least the events of Doomsday Clock don't happen in this universe. Maybe I could explore this world in future writings… but not right now. I've got other stories to write. Other places and people to visit. I walk off into the distance, wondering how this story will be perceived. I decide to deal with that when the time comes.

Author's Note: Please be sure to review, I value your feedback.