a stronger loving world
Mar 17, 2011 12:57:18 GMT -5
Post by Megan on Mar 17, 2011 12:57:18 GMT -5
When Megan returned to work on January 5, she arrived with sixteen stitches in her cheek and a decidedly gloomy expression about it. The handful of other Americans at the newspaper noticed and asked in alarm if it had anything to do with her recent jaunt to New York- had she been in the square when it happened? Was she okay? Did she need any more time off?
"I only saw it on television, and I fainted from the shock. I hit my face on the table on the way down."
(This got her a few guilty looks and, in one case, a surreptitious slipping of a business card for a hotline for battered women.)
Out of sympathy, Megan was assigned to sorting the unsolicited stories that came in through the submissions slot along with a few other English speakers working at the paper. The others all seemed to think of this as a uniquely undignified position, but as far as Megan was concerned, it meant she didn't have to talk to anyone.
The unsolicited stories typically involved rather laughable conspiracy theories about everything from aliens to milkmen, but when Megan returned from fetching herself a cup of coffee, one of her coworkers had found something he clearly found vastly more entertaining.
"Hey, hey, look at this thing. Crazy shit, right?"
The grinning man was holding out a small, battered brown journal with the years 1985-1986 engraved on the front.
Megan almost dropped her coffee.
"Give me that-"
The odd-smelling little book was dropped on the table, and Megan picked it up, frantically pawing through it and recognizing Rorschach's cryptic scrawl from the few samples she'd seen before.
"Oh my God..."
"Pretty crazy, right? The best part is where whatever nutbar wrote this starts ranting about whatsisface- you know, blond guy, still looks like twenty in some pictures? Purple?"
"Veidt..." Megan muttered.
"Yeah! Him!"
Megan flipped to the last few entries and could just barely pick out the phrase "whatever the nature of this conspiracy, Adrian Veidt responsible".
She started having trouble breathing. She was fairly certain this was what a panic attack felt like.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I just-"
Deep breaths, Megan.
"-I mean, Veidt's such a... a good man," she muttered miserably. "It's practically insulting-"
"Yeah, I wasn't thinking we should publish either. I mean, Rorschach's pretty freaking right-wing, right? That'd be enough to make a loon like him despise Veidt..."
Megan forced a smile.
"Yeah, it would be..."
When her coworkers were distracted, she stuffed the journal in her purse.
"I'd like to see Mr. Veidt, please."
Megan was wearing a hat with a little light veil that minimized attention to the gash on her cheek without being so heavy that it ended up making you look for something wrong with her face. It didn't stop the receptionist from looking at her skeptically.
"Do you have an app-"
"I was here on Thanksgiving. Remember? I'm a friend of Dan Dreiberg's."
"...ah. He's... he's in his office."
Megan nodded and walked toward the elevator, while the receptionist leaned over and spoke into the intercom.
"Mr. Veidt? You have a visitor..."
"I only saw it on television, and I fainted from the shock. I hit my face on the table on the way down."
(This got her a few guilty looks and, in one case, a surreptitious slipping of a business card for a hotline for battered women.)
Out of sympathy, Megan was assigned to sorting the unsolicited stories that came in through the submissions slot along with a few other English speakers working at the paper. The others all seemed to think of this as a uniquely undignified position, but as far as Megan was concerned, it meant she didn't have to talk to anyone.
The unsolicited stories typically involved rather laughable conspiracy theories about everything from aliens to milkmen, but when Megan returned from fetching herself a cup of coffee, one of her coworkers had found something he clearly found vastly more entertaining.
"Hey, hey, look at this thing. Crazy shit, right?"
The grinning man was holding out a small, battered brown journal with the years 1985-1986 engraved on the front.
Megan almost dropped her coffee.
"Give me that-"
The odd-smelling little book was dropped on the table, and Megan picked it up, frantically pawing through it and recognizing Rorschach's cryptic scrawl from the few samples she'd seen before.
"Oh my God..."
"Pretty crazy, right? The best part is where whatever nutbar wrote this starts ranting about whatsisface- you know, blond guy, still looks like twenty in some pictures? Purple?"
"Veidt..." Megan muttered.
"Yeah! Him!"
Megan flipped to the last few entries and could just barely pick out the phrase "whatever the nature of this conspiracy, Adrian Veidt responsible".
She started having trouble breathing. She was fairly certain this was what a panic attack felt like.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, I just-"
Deep breaths, Megan.
"-I mean, Veidt's such a... a good man," she muttered miserably. "It's practically insulting-"
"Yeah, I wasn't thinking we should publish either. I mean, Rorschach's pretty freaking right-wing, right? That'd be enough to make a loon like him despise Veidt..."
Megan forced a smile.
"Yeah, it would be..."
When her coworkers were distracted, she stuffed the journal in her purse.
***
"I'd like to see Mr. Veidt, please."
Megan was wearing a hat with a little light veil that minimized attention to the gash on her cheek without being so heavy that it ended up making you look for something wrong with her face. It didn't stop the receptionist from looking at her skeptically.
"Do you have an app-"
"I was here on Thanksgiving. Remember? I'm a friend of Dan Dreiberg's."
"...ah. He's... he's in his office."
Megan nodded and walked toward the elevator, while the receptionist leaned over and spoke into the intercom.
"Mr. Veidt? You have a visitor..."