He couldn't recall exactly when or how the idea came to him, but at some point during the pandemic, it occurred to David that it was the right time to do something about getting the Watchmen rights back to Alan Moore. After all, DC Comics had them under a condition, through which they had scammed David's beloved author: they owned the title and its characters as long as the book was in print and the intellectual property was being used — if a year went by without DC exercising its ownership, the rights would revert back to whom they truly belonged. How Moore had failed to see the genius of his work and its potential mystified David, but what really mattered was that DC had drawn up that contract knowing full well that the book would never go out of print and that the licensing opportunities would be endless. The legal language was a smokescreen masking the draconian practices that publishers benefit from to this day: separating artists from their art to profit from what someone else created without needing their approval and, in many cases, without paying them a penny more than originally agreed, no matter how successful the result.
Moore's love for comics must have blinded him back then, but David felt empowered now by a serene clarity: any sort of production was stumped by COVID safety regulations. Starting a new project, like a follow up to the atrocity that was the recent HBO show, could easily take more than a year. And it wasn't too far-fetched to think the book could go out of print if people bought all of the remaining copies; printing and shipping a new edition in the middle of a pandemic would prove tricky. The idea wasn't fully formed, but deep inside David knew that there was something to it, and the possibility excited him. Maybe he should do something about it?
It wasn't like David to do things. He always thought of a quote from fan-favorite Rorschach: “This relentless world: there is only one sane response to it” (Chapter V, page 18, middle-left panel). He agreed with Rorschach's view of the world, and admired his commitment to his morals, but unlike all the alt-right incels out there, David did not agree with the specific response Rorschach thought was “sane.” He would never dress up, never go out beating up “bad guys,” never take it upon himself to change things. Wasn't that the whole point of Watchmen? That superheroes are a sham, no one is in control, and if anyone claims to be, calamity ensues? The world of 2020, much like the comic's fictional world of 1985, was beyond saving. Right, left, red, blue, activists and politicians and criminals trading places depending on which news outlet you read. David would never engage. To engage was to accept, and he could not accept. He only observed and connected the dots, like the newspaper salesman says in Chapter V, Page 12, bottom-center and right panels: “See, newsvendors understand. They get to see the whole picture. It's our curse. We see every damned connection. Every damned link.”
It was connecting the dots that David had arrived at this seed of an idea, and it was one that seemed for the first time ever to move him towards acting. The pro was clear: correcting an injustice that was several decades old. But was he, an unremarkable quality controller at a bottling plant in Minnesota, the one to do that? Why should it be on him to act? Moore could have seen it too. Even the illustrator, his namesake Dave Gibbons, who was also swindled but continued to work for the thieves, may have realized the opportunity to get his property back. Shouldn't they do something about it? The comfort of the thought was always temporary, because soon enough anxiety assailed him again: maybe they hadn't realized. Maybe everyone was too worried about their jobs and their family and their health and David was the only one who had stumbled upon this. And if he kept quiet and did nothing, the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity would pass. COVID was the first world-scale calamity that David had lived through. Who's to say there'd be another?
Nervous, almost nauseous, David found himself unable to focus on his job the day the plant reopened. Sure, there was a staggering amount of safety rules to follow, but the very fact that they had gone from closed to open in a matter of months gave urgency to his idea. How soon would film production pick up? Maybe printing a whole edition of a book would not be a challenge for much longer. The doomsday clock was inching closer to midnight. When he made it home, at the end of the day, he had already decided to share his thoughts with his friend group — Watchmen fans across the Midwest who, like David, deeply admired the book but did not dress up, go to conventions, or write fan fiction (most of them didn’t even like comics in general, just Watchmen). He had met them online and eventually seen them in person several times, and they had grown quite close.
“Everythings kinda stuck rn. What if a year goes by w/o DC using the WM IP and it reverts to Moore?” he sent to the group chat. After a few minutes without a response, he sent a follow up: “Maybe if we organize smth w fans to buy all editions in circulation and force it out of print.” Even the thought of doing that made him queasy. But it was just an idea.
A reply came in: “GENIUS.” Bernie. Was he being serious or mocking him? A follow up: “Totes agree. Big opp. Maybe organize a campaign?” So he was being serious. Then another, this time from Gil: “You guys #FreeWatchmen”
That one he didn't like. David hated hashtags. They were by definition ephemeral, unimportant, meant to last less than 24 hours. A blip in the radar of an observing newsvendor. “But I think opposite, we ask ppl to NOT buy. Boycott evrythng. Book movie show. Ppl are fighting for whats right, this could get traction” Just like Gil. She was often the dissenting voice in the book discussions, the one who would always bring up Moore's “blindspots” about women or characters of other races. One time, a conversation about Joey the lesbian cab driver, in which they faced off over Moore having her kick her girlfriend to the ground (Gil thought it was damaging considering the lack of queer representation; David thought it was on par with how everyone else was portrayed) had escalated so much that Gil disappeared for weeks. David was as open as the next guy to admitting to the book's flaws, but Gil wouldn't settle for anything other than a condemnation. He often wondered why she liked Watchmen at all if she was unwilling to accept its complexity.
It was also Gil who had first brought up the morality of them gathering to discuss a book whose author had once asked to have his name removed from it. The group had several discussions about it, after which they concluded that since Moore did get paid when someone bought the book, it was okay to read it, but that from that point on they would only consume any other Watchmen media (which they were bound to hate, but would be remiss not to check out) through means that didn't allow its producers and publishers to profit. It was tricky sometimes; watching the TV show in a way that viewing numbers wouldn't get back to HBO meant catching them live instead of streaming (pirating felt too wrong), and the only people David knew who had cable were his parents, who weren't too thrilled to have him in their living room late on a Sunday night to watch a “superhero show.” But he endured, for the sake of justice.
Yet her suggestion felt wrong. “I think we need to keep it focused on our love for the book,” he sent. Gil responded almost immediately: “Agreed. Thats our angle. If you support writers, you dont buy Watchmen” That was worse than a hashtag. It was the typical meaningless battle cry of the polarized, one that was generic enough to unite zealots who might otherwise disagree under a cause that could be easily manipulated. What did it even mean, “if you support writers?” What if a writer was an asshole? Why did it have to be about all writers, and not just about Alan? Others were chiming in, agreeing with her.
“What about ‘If you love Watchmen, you don't buy Watchmen?’” he suggested, which he also felt was not good (he loved Watchmen and he had bought it — several times in fact), but at least better than Gil's version. “I feel like ‘writers’ packs a bigger punch, makes it more urgent” Bernie chimed in. Everyone liked his text, digital hearts popping up like balloons, obscuring the rest of the chat.
Feeling suddenly very overwhelmed, the way he felt lately after reading the news for too long, David turned off his phone and went to bed.
* * *
It was on a visit to New York City, which Rorschach described so well when he said it “reeks of fornication and bad consciences” (Chapter I, Page 22, bottom-left panel), that David had discovered Watchmen. Leaving the Met down 5th Avenue, a street bookseller called out to him. He thought of getting something to read on the plane back home. David loved used books, ones that not only told the stories written on their pages but also on their inscriptions or notes on the edges of the page. A large, thin tome caught his eye. Leather bound in deep black, nothing on its cover except for what seemed to be a smiley face with an arrow on it carved into the fabric, almost invisible to the eye. On its spine, in golden letters, “Watchmen — Alan Moore / Dave Gibbons — DC Comics/Graffiti Editions.” Months later, he would discover his find had been priceless, as this was an exceedingly rare edition (though missing its slipcover, which ticked David off the teensiest bit). It even contained an introduction by Moore himself, who was still on good terms with DC (later editions tended to feature only Gibbon's thoughts), and many considered it to be the gold standard of Watchmen publishing, never to be achieved again – only a thousand copies had been printed. But at the time neither he nor the bookseller were aware of its value. He opened it to find an inscription: “To the only brother I ever chose to love.” He wondered what it meant. Someone had cared enough about someone else to say something so emotional, yet had chosen to do so in a… comic book?
He flipped through the pages, looking at the drawings, which seemed a bit old-timey to him, like reading an old magazine with outdated news. He was about to put it down when he came across the image of a man in a suit, looking out the window of what seemed to be a skyscraper in a rainy city, as a newspaper lay on his desk upside down, flanked by toys. David flipped the book to read the headline on the paper: “Nuclear Doomsday Clock Stands At Five To Twelve, Warn Experts.” The whole scene (Chapter I, Page 18, bottom panel) gave him chills, a sense of excitement, the kind he used to have as a boy reading books about pirates and explorers. He had once dreamed of following in their footsteps, but early adventures on the playground had made clear what his role in society was not. Yet the itch remained. He bought the book for twenty dollars and went into Central Park, looking for a place to sit down. He would give it a try before reading the whole thing on the plane. If it wasn't good, he'd just buy something else.
He only left the bench a few hours later. He had read the whole thing (including the bonus content), and his mind was blown. He had no idea something like that could be done with comic books. He had often assumed they were simple stories, good guys and villains, zany gadgets and a lot of blow-pow-kapow. The story he had just read deconstructed the whole concept and put it back together in a way that made him think of the feeling he had two days prior while taking a tour of the 9/11 memorial: a historical event so much bigger than himself that it gave him vertigo. Something beyond our control that still affects us deeply. This book captured it in the most beautiful and ingenious way. A comic book turning the very idea of comic books upside down. It was brilliant. How had he never heard of it?
Coincidence, turned out to be the answer. Watchmen was way more popular than he knew, and once he was aware of it, he saw it everywhere. He felt like he had been invited into a secret society that left him codes no one else could read. The book was full of references, and every day he learned something new that informed the plot. And there were so many people to discuss it with! In the beginning, he had been shy about sharing his passion, passing off group meetings as work conferences or relatives out of town to whoever wanted to know where he was going — he didn't see himself as someone who would idolize a book (much less a comic book) and its writer, which seemed like irrational behavior. But by now, Bernie, Gil, and the rest often felt closer to him than his own family. Watchmen had taught him so much about the world, and about himself, that he no longer cared what people thought: he was an out and proud Watchmen fan.
Not that he thought anyone would notice; what reason would he have to draw attention to himself? A good observer studies their subject undetected. David wouldn't mess with the ecosystem that was planet Earth. He just watched.
* * *
The next morning, as he dismissed his alarm, David expected the group chat to have continued on without him, but he was so taken aback by the amount of notifications on his phone that for a moment he thought he might still be dreaming. What had happened?
He ate his customary cereal scrolling through his phone, the flavor and texture signals failing to make it from his tongue to his brain, which was overloaded with information. Apparently at some point they had all decided, at Gil’s urging, that burning their copies of Watchmen on social media and nominating other people to do it would be a good idea. “I know the book is ok in terms of royalties but it sends a strong message,” Gil had said. “It doesnt need to make sense it needs to make a splash.” Good, because it really made no sense at all. How could they call themselves Watchmen fans and burn the book? And what would that even accomplish? David felt a knot tightening in his stomach. It had been a terrible idea to even bring it up. He had acted, and look what happened.
His social media was chock full of notifications. Apparently when they had burned their books they had tagged him as the originator of the idea, and now David, who seldom posted anything, let alone anything inflammatory, had a lot of new followers. Apparently the nominating thing had worked; according to the group chat, over a hundred people had already posted videos burning their copies. A hundred! David wasn't sure the cereal would stay in his stomach, tight as it was.
“Guys,” came in a new notification. “GUYZ.” Bernie was sending emojis and different versions of the word “guys” for some reason. It had been around one hundred and fifty messages since David had interacted with the chat, but the tension was unbearable. “What!?” David asked. “You're alive!” came in Gil. “GUYSSSSS WE ARE ON VULTURE!” Bernie sent a link.
It was true. They, as far as there was a “they,” were on Vulture. “What is #FreeWatchmen and why is it trending?” asked the headline. It was a short write up, explaining what the movement (David hated that word) was about and identifying Gil as the original poster ; they didn't seem to catch that her post tagged him as the one who had the idea — not that he would ever think of something like burning books, but if it wasn't for him, this wouldn't be happening. He wished the article didn't exist. He liked Vulture. They were a little Social Justice-y for his taste sometimes, but they often had smart things to say. He hated that the closest he had been to being in it was because of this stunt. And he also bizarrely hated that his name wasn't there. What if Alan saw? That's stupid, Alan Moore doesn't read Vulture. But what if someone he knew read it, or someone who knew someone who eventually would inform him what was happening, and Alan read it? What would he think? Would he be horrified at people burning his book? Or happy that DC's stolen product was getting what it deserved? At the very least he'd appreciate people being so passionate about the injustice he had suffered. How could he not?
Maybe David should write to Vulture. And say what? Take credit for the thing? He could never. Plus Gil's post was there, and she had tagged him. If Alan read her post carefully, he would see that David was the original force behind the whole thing.
Except of course that David's social media was a barren wasteland. And now he had all these followers. What did they think when they saw his feed? Probably that the wrong person had been tagged. Should he… the cereal was done, and his spoon banged hard against the bottom of the bowl, as if to snap him out of it. But the thought had entered his mind and did not leave him as he did the dishes, took a shower, and dressed for work. The dots had been connected.
The ideal scenario would've been, of course, for David to have been the first-ever person to burn a copy, so that when people went to his feed, they'd see the timestamp and confirm their assumptions about his role in the whole thing. That had not happened, however, and by now him posting a video burning a typical paperback, the kind he wouldn't miss, would not cut it. He needed something more, and deep inside he knew what it was, but his mind raced to find other solutions. He couldn't leave for work without taking care of this first. Things were getting out of hand and he needed to step in again, or the whole ship would sink under Gil's cultish behavior and his friends’ herd mentality. It was a tough choice, but he couldn't find any other solution. The doomsday clock kept inching ever closer to midnight.
He made his way to the bookshelf in his bedroom, the top part of which housed his Watchmen collection. He owned most editions, and he allowed himself to look at each of their spines, but he knew who the perfect victim was, the one that would make the biggest splash. Black leather, golden letters, never going for less than a hundred dollars whenever one made its way into the internet, often much more than that. No one would ever destroy a copy on purpose, it would be madness. And this was not just a copy — it was the copy that had changed his life. It had been destined for him. How else to explain their random encounter at a dingy table set up on a sidewalk? An unsuspecting exchange that, should it have happened under regular conditions, would've cost him six or seven times the price he paid, at least? Fate had priced it just right, so that he wouldn't reject the call.
He opened it again, reading the inscription for the umpteenth time. “To the only brother I ever chose to love.” Whoever had written that meant it more than they could ever know. That person didn't know David, but they loved him. They had performed an act of love for him that no one else had ever matched. He flipped the pages, looking for Moore's intro. He read it once again, even though he knew it by heart. He loved it less for its content, which didn't say anything about the work that wasn't already evident, and more for its energy. Moore seemed to be rightfully tired, yet so proud:
“It's only now, twelve months after triumphantly typing THE END in big, underlined capitals beneath panel seven on page twenty-eight of issue twelve that I realize how dazed a state I'd spent that year in, as if I'd been slam dancing with a bunch of rhinos and the concussion was only just starting to clear up. On the whole, I think I pulled it off. Even if I'm wrong, and it was all just spaghetti after all, I'm still very satisfied with WATCHMEN on a personal level.”
His name on the bottom, that contested name that would be pulled from so many Watchmen follow ups and adaptations, seemed to communicate even more feeling than the essay. “Alan Moore:” a signature that stood for a happy time, when he wasn't yet aware of the trap he'd walked into. A moment that painted things as they should be: people do a good job, and they are rewarded for it.
David couldn't do it. He hugged the book, protecting it from evil. He couldn't. He would delete his social media, and take a break from the group chat. Let Gil sink them all. Watchmen would remain on his shelf, where it belonged.
But Alan. Alan had been happy, and that happiness had been stolen from him. Someone needed to rectify that.
As if in a daze of his own, slam dancing with a bunch of rhinos on social media, David doused the pages of his most precious possession with lighter fluid that his father had once left behind after a futile attempt at imparting barbecue skills on him. The liquid smudged the ink, giving the pictures an even more apocalyptic look, as if the whole story was the ending and the nuclear blast had consumed all the panels that came before it.
Under the gaze of his smartphone camera, David lit a match.
For Alan.
* * *
He had a strange, vivid dream. He was in some sort of facility, being handed inkblot test cards that he had to interpret. In each of the ink blots he saw someone's dead face – Ozymandias, Dr. Manhattan, Sally Jupiter – their corpses grotesquely bloated. He felt sick, and told the person handing him the cards that he didn't do well in boats. He leaned out of a window and saw seagulls flying above, the sea below him, and before he could puke in it, he woke up.
He quickly connected the dots. His dream was a reference to Chapter VI, “The Abyss Gazes Also,” in which a psychoanalyst tries to “cure” Rorschach of his bleak worldview. Rorschach is handed inkblot cards and lies about the horrific things he sees – until he doesn't. It's the analyst who ends up depressed, absorbing Rorschach's point of view. Was his dream a warning? About observing?
Who would win the staring contest between David and the world?
* * *
“The cleansing fire of the #FreeWatchmen movement,” read the headline.
The Atlantic article represented a whole new level for them. It was their highest-profile coverage yet, and the most in-depth. It recapped the whole intellectual property fight, its creative and financial implications, and David's own role in making the issue relevant again. “It's pretty simple,” he was quoted saying, “if you support writers, you don't buy Watchmen. You don't watch the movie or the TV show. You don't read any of the spinoff comics. You stop letting DC profit from this brand until they stop using it and give it back to whom it belongs. This has been a long time coming, and it ends now.” His quote had been longer than that, and taking out some of the context made it sound dumber and harsher than how he said it (plus he was incensed that he had been quoted calling it “the movie,” which he never had and never would, because it lent it an official status it most certainly did not deserve; he called it “the 2009 Zack Snyder movie”). He had also never said “if you support writers” — he had stuck to just Alan. He emailed the journalist and cc'd Gil, who was pretty mad about it since she had said it first, asking for the line to be taken down or correctly attributed to her. He got no response. Gil wanted him to correct it publicly on his feed, but he argued that public criticism of the piece could undo much of what they had achieved.
Because it really kicked things into high gear. For starters, it gave them a symbol: the piece was accompanied by an illustration of the iconic Watchmen smiley face, but instead of a blood stain on it, it had flames coming out of its mouth and eyes. Pretty soon, #FreeWatchmen adherents were changing their profile pictures to the image or even making buttons out of it, which they proudly displayed on selfies. The burning smiley face became as ubiquitous as the hashtag. The movement was becoming not only more widespread but more legit. After The Atlantic, there were pieces in the Huffington Post, Buzzfeed, and even Fox News (who gave a lot of attention to the book-burning aspect).
Then came the public statements. Malin Åkerman, Patrick Wilson, and James Wolk all felt sorry about having participated in adaptations of Moore's work with which he disagreed, and to have contributed to the harm that was done to him by DC. Regina King, more measured, said she was proud of the work she did on the show, but would not be part of any further Watchmen projects. Damon Lindelof similarly expressed love for the work of his “amazing writers room, cast, and crew,” but publicly apologized for taking on the project and announced he was donating his salary to a charity that distributed comic books free of cost to public schools across America. Some, like Zack Snyder, declined to comment; Jeremy Irons didn't see any reason to apologize and said he'd come back for a season 2 if offered; and Jackie Earle Haley briefly dominated social media by posting a video in full Rorschach costume in which he burned his copy of the book. The caption simply read “#FreeWatchmen”
David and his friends could not believe the size of the shitstorm they had kicked up. Their group chat was reduced to nothing other than updates on the movement's repercussions. Any downtimes proved grueling; hours going by without notifications became the hardest part of any day. David started cultivating a stronger social media presence, promoting creator-owned titles (most of which he admittedly hadn't read; he relied on follower recommendations) and denouncing people who still hadn't taken a position on the matter. He didn't feel right calling people out, but after seeing the reaction to the movement, David had become convinced that acting had been the right thing to do. He had been predestined to accomplish this one thing. How else to explain the unprompted insight to seize on the pandemic? Or the fact that the movement had taken off with barely any prodding – except for his? His anxiety had been correct: no one except for him had thought of it, and if he had done nothing, no one else would've. By his mere act of sending a text, the world had reacted with force, proving that the cause was there, just waiting for a champion to lift it up.
So maybe he was making some people uncomfortable. Had people not made Alan Moore uncomfortable for years and years and not given a shit? Anyone who took or gave money to DC was complicit. He himself had been complicit. No more. Alan deserved better.
* * *
He had the dream again, only this time, amongst the dead faces, he saw Alan's bloated features, before puking out the window as the seagulls soared above. He woke up disturbed and elated at the same time. He hated the thought of Alan dying; but if the dream was warning him about gazing into the abyss, then it was failing, because he would love nothing more than to sit down with the genius himself and absorb some of his worldview. They had never met – David had become more and more of a fan around the time that Moore became less and less of a public figure – but David felt like he knew him, through interviews and articles and the way other people described him (including Bernie, who had seen him at a book signing once and used to bring it up a lot until the group had told him, in so many words, that a handshake and an autograph didn't mean shit).
Was Alan watching? Back when it was a social media thing, it would’ve been delusional to think so, but now that it had elicited responses from the industry, the crazy thing would be for Alan not to have heard about it. And yet it seemed completely plausible that he would not care to know more, that he would be superficially aware of some Watchmen fad but not find out its true purpose – or its true founder. It bothered him. Some days he would get a little petulant about it: how could Alan remain silent, after everything David had done for him? But then he'd remember all the pain Alan had to endure after giving the world such an essential piece of art, and he'd soften. If the old man wanted to enjoy the rest of his days in peace, who was David to deny him that?
And then it happened. He was coming home early for an interview with IGN, and absentmindedly grabbed the mail to sort through before changing into something fresh for the Zoom call. Bills, spam… and a letter. Fan mail? He looked at the sender, and his heart skipped a beat. It was from Northampton. Just seeing the town was enough, but his eyes looked up to the name. Alan Moore. It couldn't be. It was a prank. It had to be. But the stamps matched. And the handwriting was familiar enough that he was pretty sure this had to be real. Should he wait until after the interview to open it? Or maybe do it on-camera, give IGN five times the views they'd expect? Post it on his own social media?
He glanced at the clock, which inched closer to 6pm. He still had a few minutes. And for once he wanted to shut the world out. This was between him and Alan. He opened it as if defusing a bomb that could go off at the slightest wrong movement, tearing the envelope as little as possible, his mind flashing to a future where it would be the centerpiece of some precious collection. A single sheet, handwritten. Beautiful, recognizable penmanship.
Dear David,
For a fan such as yourself, these words should suffice:
“Finally, and not without some irony, it has satisfied my appetite for superheroes. Like the bottle of perfume in the story, my nostalgia for the genre cracked and shattered somewhere along the way and all the sweet musk inside just leaked out and evaporated. For better or worse, the ordinary non-telepathic, unmutated and slightless humanoids hanging out on their anonymous street corner of WATCHMEN have come to seem more precious and interesting than the movers of rivers and shakers of planets. I wish the super-hero well in whatever capable hands guide his flight in the future, but for my part I'm eager to get back to earth.”
Thank you,
A Moore
David felt blood leaving his organs, pooling in some unknown corner of his body. He felt light, empty. There was only silence in his brain.
Sounds from the computer. IGN was calling. Dazed, as if slam dancing with only one letter-writing rhino, David sat down at his desk for the interview. He felt like Dr. Manhattan, who could create copies of himself to accomplish several tasks at once. It was a copy of David that answered the interviewer's questions and made an impassioned case for boycotting one of the most famous comic books of all time in order to save it. The real David, the original one, was back on his bed, holding the letter, reading it again and again.
He didn't need to look up the words. Moore was quoting himself, from the essay in the Graffiti edition. The only original parts of the letter were “Dear David, for a fan such as yourself, these words should suffice,” and “thank you.” He separated the dots in order to connect them again. “A fan such as yourself:” an acknowledgement of David's commitment, and an indicator that Alan expected him to recognize the quote. “These words should suffice:” this is all Alan had to say for David to understand. Then there was the quote. From the edition David had burnt. Was it on purpose? To chide him? And why that quote, in which Alan said he was done with superheroes? He seemed to be mocking David: if he had paid attention and read carefully, instead of burning, he would've known that Alan didn't want the rights back. But was that what the quote said? It only said he was done with superheroes, and no one was asking him to write another book!! They just wanted to give him back control of his property. Could he not see that?
Was David interpreting things wrong, or was Alan? “These words should suffice.” Well they DIDN'T suffice. And the bastard couldn't be bothered to come up with new things to say? He couldn't spare new words for David? The “thank you” was what bothered him the most. It sounded like “thanks but no thanks.” THANK YOU? That's all he had to say? THANK YOU? Did he not see how much people loved him, what they had done for him? Did he not appreciate how much they all cared? David had no life outside #FreeWatchen; even at work, his mind was constantly engaging with the movement. And all Alan had to say was “thank you?”
David tried to calm down. Maybe he was getting it wrong. Maybe Alan was encouraging them. He texted the group. As soon as he mentioned a letter they all flipped out. They wanted to call. He sent them a picture of it. No responses for a while.
Then Gil: “Fuck that dude.”
The words did suffice after all.
* * *
The dream didn't usually scare him, but that night it did. It began the same as always, but when the test was handed to him, the cards didn't have inkblots. They were bound in black leather, and the same symbol was carved into all of them – a smiley face with fire coming out of its eyes and mouth.
He tried to explain to the person giving him the cards that they weren't bringing up any images because there was nothing to interpret in them. Eventually, overwhelmed, he leaned overboard to puke – but there was no sea. No seagulls. Only pavement. They had reached land.
He woke up sweating, and leaning over his bed, he puked.
* * *
A call in the middle of the workday. An unknown number, from California. He stepped out to answer – more press?
A woman put him on hold before he could react, but he was sure he heard her say “DC Comics.” Was he in trouble? Was this a phone version of cease and desist? He felt scared, but tried to calm down thinking about the movement: if he told them he had been threatened, they would galvanize around him, he was sure of it. They wouldn't let DC get away with it. #FreeWatchmen was a family.
Another woman's voice. She introduced herself by her name and position at the company, something with the words Chief, Marketing, Director, and Operations (and one of the coasts, he didn't catch if East or West). She was aware of his cause and wanted to commend him personally for his passion. Dedicated readers like him had kept DC on the market for almost a century. Would he be open to meeting with her? Due to the sensitive nature of the conversation, it had to be in person. They would pay for his travel to Burbank and a hotel, as well as whatever other expenses he incurred. She understood if he felt uneasy getting on a plane during that time, but she assured him everyone at DC was taking all necessary precautions, and if he chose to come, he'd be in good hands.
“What is this about?” he asked. She was vague, saying only that his message had been heard and they were willing to work something out with him. She couldn't say more over the phone. He didn't have to answer right away; she gave him a number he could call when he made up his mind.
“Did you talk to Moore?” he asked. She couldn't say over the phone.
* * *
It had all started with that panel, the one that caught his eye as he flipped through the book obliviously: Ozymandias, looking out that rainy skyscraper window, ignoring the big headline on the desk behind him. David had felt a kinship with him. Someone who is above it all. Who sees the world exactly for what it is, in the way it refuses to see itself. More than one character could say that (The Comedian, who declared it all a big joke, or Dr. Manhattan, who eventually fled to Mars to escape human drama), but only Ozymandias cared enough to keep watching.
For so long David had just watched, feeling certain that acting wasn't his place. Unlike Ozymandias, David never aspired to big things, believing the very concept of “big things” to be a fiction, and whoever gets to decide what they are to be inherently compromised. But he’d been wrong. It was Alan who was compromised, giving up the fight, letting justice go undefeated. David again recalled the words of Rorschach: “in the face of Armageddon I shall not compromise” (Chapter I, Page 24, bottom-center panel).
He would get the rights back. Not for Alan, but for all writers.
* * *
David was kept waiting, which he didn't mind. There was so much to look at. Even though mainstream superheroes weren't his thing, he was excited about some of the volumes on display on the walls of the conference room. Some looked fairly new, but others were clearly old originals. The paper was different, the cut, the ink. Like his beloved used books, they told stories besides the ones printed on their pages. Adventures of times gone by, when the world was bigger and so much of it was yet to be explored.
He was admiring an issue of some obscure character whose powers seemed to be related to mud when she came in. LA personified. How would Rorschach describe her? Probably with sexist unrepeatable words, disgust at her patented desire to fit in, to have her outward look represent a conformity that would get her… what? Success? Love? David shook her hand, and they sat down across from each other. Behind her, through the window, the city. No superhero would ever make their home here. To fight what? Skin cancer?
She opened with similar words to those she had used on the phone call: they admired his passion, commended him on his efforts, etcetera. “But sadly, we cannot give the rights back to Moore. For starters, he refuses to communicate with us.” David felt his blood escape again, to the unknown crevice of his body that safeguarded it. He felt light, almost immaterial. His destiny was not to be. “More importantly, I know that the popular narrative casts us as the villains who knew what we were doing all along – we didn't. Everyone gets those contracts because, as you can imagine, new stories featuring new characters don't often run for long. For every Batman and Superman, there are hundreds of comics that don't even finish their planned run, let alone become regular series. So as much as you and I admire Moore's genius, the truth is all it took was things going just a little bit differently for Watchmen to be some obscure 80s comics whose only printed copies would be in our vault or some aficionado's collection. He would own 100% of nothing.”
David’s blood kept draining, sucked into an internal black hole that was making his ears hurt. He tried to argue – since Moore had succeeded, didn't he deserve more? “He got exactly what we agreed on! And he could've gotten more if he wasn't so stubborn. He refuses to accept a fundamental truth that geniuses like him cannot stomach: if it wasn't for us, there would be no Watchmen. If he and Gibbons printed it on some dingy garage and distributed via whatever independent means they could muster, people like you would’ve never heard of it. It'd be a fun hobby they did on their time off from the real job that paid their bills. We deserve our compensation as much as he does. And what's more, we need it. One successful property pays for all other projects. One Watchmen allows us to bet on hundreds of other ideas from unknown artists with no proven market value that might never see the light of day because there's no way they will break even. Your movement has it backwards: if you support writers, you buy Watchmen. It pays for everyone else's salary.”
David was about to vanish into thin air, like when Dr. Manhattan teleported people to other places. Holding on to his chair, he managed to ask why she wanted to meet with him, then. “Your movement has a point, and we've heard it loud and clear: we haven't been as careful with the franchise as we should've been. Business took precedence over art, and we made some questionable calls. It's people like you who keep us in check. We want to start a deeper, more meaningful dialogue with our fanbase, and we think you're just the person to help us with that.”
His blood stopped retreating, and he started to materialize again. How could he help? “We are creating a new division, one that will be responsible for auditing all our Watchmen-related enterprises, and we want you to be the head. Your mandate will be to identify any continuity errors, guarantee consistency across mediums, and be an essential voice at the table when we greenlight any new ventures. You'd be the ultimate watchman, reading every script, watching every video, consuming everything and catching the problems that we never even saw. We honestly can't think of anyone who has as much knowledge about the IP as you do. And you work in quality control, right? It should be a natural fit.”
She kept going, explaining how, as their ambassador to the fanbase, David would need to address the #FreeWatchmen movement and find a way to work with them in this new phase, by promising their voices would finally be heard, now that he was on board.
Behind her, the city. If he squinted, he could see the ocean.
A flock of seagulls flew in a circle, preparing to fly down on some dead creature floating on the water.
Curious to know more about this story and why I wrote it? Read my thoughts here!
Illustration by Deepti Sunder, revision by Lilly Camp.
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