The Watchmen

[twentyonetwentyfour]

The Watchmen themed campaign.
Weekly. Saturdays. 7 PM CT

[twentyonetwentyfour]

Seymour selects Rorschach's journal and starts to read it. "This is good", he thinks to
himself. Seymour reads a lot; specifically, he reads a lot of comic books and science fiction. So
Rorschach's journal immediately strikes him as literary gold. Presently, he sneaks off to a disused
cleaning closet, his 'secret lair', where he can get comfortable and really delve into the thing.
Nestled in the closet among 'borrowed' coats and a large painter's drop cloth, Seymour devours
the journal in one sitting. Somewhere, near the middle, the realization that this wasn't simply a
work of fiction as he had first believed, slowly creeps into his consciousness. This is real! This
happened! He leaves his hideout and begins walking. He finds himself outside, in a park, in the
brisk winter air. He doesn't remember leaving the New Frontiersman. "This is Central Park",
announces a voice in his head. He finds a sense of physical location in his home town reassuring.
The fact that this information was conveyed to him by a disembodied voice, though unnerving,
seems distant and unimportant. The implications of Rorschach's journal are simply too grand for
him to process. He continues on aimlessly, walking through world in a dream-like state.
Eventually, a series of noises that have been rising both in pitch and intensity culminate in a
scream truncated by a dull thud. This causes him to turn automatically toward the source of the
noises. When he does, he sees a man wearing dark, bulky layered clothing standing over the
inert form of a slender gray-haired woman attired in light mauve full length coat and matching
winter boots. A man is methodically removing objects from a light mauve purse decorated with
orange and yellow flowers and dropping them to the ground. Every so often, he deposits one of
the objects into his pocket instead of dropping it to the ground. "Those are Marigolds", declares
the voice. "That's odd", ponders Seymour. He isn't sure if he knew what marigolds looked like
before, but he is certain that he doesn't care what they look like now. "That information wasn't
particularly useful", admonishes Seymour. "The man just assaulted the woman, and is now
robbing her purse", replies the voice. This information takes a bit longer to register. Seymour
tried to collate this information. "The man assaulted the woman. The woman is now on the
ground, presumably injured. The man is currently stealing things from her purse", thinks
Seymour to himself. Then, "That information is certainly more useful than the stuff about
marigolds." Seymour then mouths the words, "Somebody should do something". "You are
somebody", immediately suggests the voice. This information slams into Seymour's mind like a
blast of electric ice. Quietly, but definitely audibly, Seymour proclaims, "I am somebody.
Somebody should do something." Then, after only the briefest of pauses, a duet of voices
asserts, "I/We should do something". What happens next is a bit confusing. Seymour is aware
that something is happening, something violent and dangerous and certainly out of character for
him. But he cannot bring all the pieces into focus. Ages seem to pass. Then, suddenly, he is
helping a slender gray-haired woman sporting a light mauve coat and matching winter boots to
her feet. He hands her a light mauve purse embroidered with marigolds. She is shaking his hand
and thanking him in Lithuaniun. "Esate labai laukiami, motina", he replies. He then escorts her
out of the park, hails a cab and tells the driver to take her to The Mount Sinai Hospital. As the
cab drives off, he looks down at his hands and is surprised to see blood on his knuckles. A
moment of panic strikes him and he quickly reaches into his jacket pocket. A warm wave
of resolution washes over him as his hand touches the worn leather edge of a book..,.