Fic: The Deadly Light 3/? (Watchmen)

[anactoria]

Title: The Deadly Light
Author: anactoria
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairing: Various, mostly Adrian/Dan
Rating: PG for this part, probably R-ish overall.
Summary: Lovecraft-inspired 1920s supernatural horror AU.
Notes: Thanks to flyingrat42 for beta-reading. :)
Previous chapters: 1 | 2





This is impressive work. Even Adrian has to admit that much.

The design is intricate; more complex than any of the other creations Dreiberg has shown him. It's a pair of gloves, essentially, designed to fit the wearer's hands without inhibiting movement. Thin strips of what looks like electrical wiring run down the fingers, a tiny switch on the underside of each wrist breaking the circuit. The pattern of symbols he sketched out two weeks ago is stitched into the soft leather with painstaking exactitude. Dreiberg must have done that himself.

While that isn't exactly surprising -- the precision required for this kind of small-scale engineering must translate quite easily into skill with a needle -- it does furnish a rather entertaining mental image, and Adrian allows himself a small smile. Dreiberg's unquestionable potential usefulness aside, Adrian is starting to like him. He's so enthusiastic, so cheerfully absorbed by his work, so earnest in his pursuit of knowledge. The sort of man who wouldn't know an ulterior motive if it were standing in front of him.

"Everything okay?" Dreiberg asks, gesturing at the gloves with an uncertain smile.

"Oh, absolutely." Adrian holds up one hand, wiggling his fingers dramatically. "I must say, I'm stunned. And you've produced these in such a short period of time, too."

"Don't say that until you've tried them out," Dreiberg warns him, turning his face away. (Futilely, since the blush reaches his ears regardless.)

Adrian raises an eyebrow. "That might be rather imprudent, don't you think? I'm well aware that Flatbush isn't the most salubrious area of New York, but your landlady will probably still notice if we burn the place to the ground or reduce it to rubble." Of course, in aesthetic terms, ridding the neighborhood of this particular building could be considered a public service--but no, that's uncharitable, and ill befits the surprisingly chipper mood he's in today.

"I like it here." Dreiberg shrugs. "And my mother really doesn't, which is a definite point in its favor. But no, I didn't mean we should test them out in here. I know a place. It's pretty secluded, and it should give us enough space. It's kind of a long trip, but -- you have the rest of the day free, right?" He turns back around, and he's grinning now, excitement clearly overcoming his usual awkwardness. Adrian can't help smiling back.

It is a long trip. They take the Staten Island ferry, and then the trolley; it's lucky that the precious pieces of equipment are small enough to be safely tucked away on their persons. As a rule, public transport is not something that Adrian goes in for -- but the crowds have thinned out by the time they step off in Port Richmond, and in any case, he's barely noticed the crowdedness or the heat or the smell of too many bodies pressed into a tight space, engrossed in the hushed, excited conversation the he and Dreiberg have been holding beneath the rattle of the trolley car and the hum of other voices.

While he never wants for social contacts and hangers-on, Adrian is a solitary creature by inclination, and there are few with whom he's ever felt the desire to exchange anything more than pleasantries. But when Dreiberg's enthusiasms are allowed to shine through, he proves to be an agreeable companion, and the journey is far less unpleasant than Adrian might have expected.

Their destination turns out to be a good-sized patch of waste ground, hidden from public view on three sides by trees and crumbling stonework, and bordered on the other by (of course) an overgrown churchyard. The building itself is old--likely seventeenth century--and shabby, but appears structurally intact, and Adrian eyes it with caution.

"Disused, I assume?"

"Oh, sure. It's been deserted since halfway through the last century. Of course, there are sometimes rumors..." Dreiberg's eyes go wide and round behind his glasses. "Some of the locals claim to have seen hooded figures disappearing into the church just before dawn. Maybe they're ghosts. Maybe they're devil worshippers." He chuckles. "But I'm not scared of them if you're not."

"I'm sure they won't dare come out to molest us during the hours of daylight, at least," Adrian agrees, but he's glancing upwards, taking in the still-imposing gray pile with its curiously shaped steeple. Its shadow falls across the entirety of the waste ground, and although it's a clear day, the whole scene is rendered dim and cheerless. "Though there is rather something about the place."

"It does get a little eerie," Dreiberg shrugs, smiling. "But that fits, right? We are dealing with mysterious forces, after all."

"Indeed. And on that note--shall we?"

Dreiberg nods, his smile fading a little. "Sure." He takes off his glasses, rubs at the bridge of his nose. "'Course, as I told you before, I haven't had much opportunity to test these things. I can't really vouch for their efficacy..."

"I have every faith in your abilities, Dan."

"That's what bothers me." A quick, nervy downward glance. "I don't want to disappoint anybody, I guess."

Adrian reaches out, gives his shoulder an experimental pat. "I know as well as you do that we're working entirely within the realm of enquiry here. Nothing can be guaranteed. And in any case, it's hardly as though you owe me anything. I'm here because I'm interested. That's all."

Dreiberg nods agreement and looks back up, right into Adrian's eyes. "You're right," he says. "Thanks."

He needn't have worried. When he cocks the pistol and presses the trigger, there's a half-second where nothing happens--and then the very air seems to shudder and come to life, and there's a light, dazzling and cool and alien, that shoots right across the patch of waste ground and takes a small branch off one of the neighboring trees.

In color, it's almost golden, though not quite. It could be the light of the sun, but filtered through feet of sea-water, or the atmosphere of another planet. A light from between worlds.

Dreiberg stares down at the gun in his hand, blinking, as though uncertain of the actuality of what's just happened. Then he gasps and laughs, and is running heedless of the uneven ground to check the impact point, his impatience more befitting a child of ten than a gentleman amateur.

Adrian just watches him, keeping his expression calmly indulgent, careful not to betray too much of excitement. He may well be able to use this -- but he'll save speculation for later, for when he is alone.

Dreiberg's eyes are still bright when he returns. "It works!" he says. "It actually works!" His voice rises in amazement, as much question as exclamation, and he watches eagerly as Adrian slides his hands back into the gloves and flicks the switch on his wrist. Were Adrian given to sentimental attachments, he'd probably find Dreiberg's artlessness charming. But--

But then he is not thinking about Dreiberg any longer, because at the edges of his field of vision there is a darkness pregnant with endless crawling movement, and there are voices just beyond his hearing, competing in rustling whispers to say something of vast import, and he cannot help but think of the blank and unknowable gaze of the idol that is waiting even now in his study, waiting for--

"Just try to direct it by moving your fingers," Dreiberg is saying. "It's probably going to be more difficult to manipulate than the gun, at first, but it should be more versatile. The energy should be travelling along these conductors, here." And his hand is on Adrian's, he is running his fingers along them, sure and unfaltering in the flush of first success.

Adrian squeezes his eyes shut. He breathes in deeply, and does his best to concentrate upon the moment -- upon the instructions, and that light, certain touch, and not those voices whispering in the dark recesses of his memory. This is not the time. He will control this; he will not be overtaken by it. He will not think about what he saw at Giza. Not now.

"Adrian? Are you all right?"

"Fine, thank you," Adrian hears his voice say, and is grateful, not for the first time, that dissimulation comes to him as naturally as breathing. "A slight headache; that's all." With some effort, he opens his eyes. He looks straight ahead. "Shall we give it a try?"

There is no light this time. What emanates from Adrian's fingertips is more an absence thereof, spidering like cracks in glass and eating light out of the world: forked lightning in reverse. It's beautiful. And with it the crawling motion seems to spread, and the whispering voices to rise.

To shut them out, Adrian concentrates upon the crooked non-light, the patterns it forms, the way it changes, following the movements of his hands. It wavers more than the cool, steady golden light, but it looks as though it should be manipulable. Right now it's just disappearing into the ground, the scrubby grass blackening and crumbling where the energy touches it.

Dreiberg is watching it too, fascinated, the grin still wide and bright on his face. "Amazing," he breathes. "I still feel as if I should be pinching myself. You'd think we really were working with magic."

Adrian looks up, and smiles at him. "Not at all, Dan. You've achieved a true scientific breakthrough here. You should be proud."

"Not without help," Dreiberg says, seriously. "Thank you." Then he laughs. "But really, you look like a cover illustration from one of the pulp magazines. The evil sorcerer, plotting his malevolent schemes..."

The switch snicks as Adrian presses it back into the 'off' position. He pulls off the gloves, and looks sharply at his wristwatch.

"Shall we head for home?" he says. "It's getting late."

Dreiberg frowns, and for a moment Adrian thinks he is about to ask a question.

He is clearly wise enough not to. "Sure," he says, pocketing the gun and turning back to the direction from which they came. "Let's go."

By the time they step off the ferry, Adrian's previously-invented headache has begun to manifest itself for real. Poetic justice apparently exists. He arrives back at Dreiberg's rooms resolved to stay only long enough to be polite. They've already dissected the afternoon's experiments several times over during the trip back; a few minutes, and then he'll make his excuses and leave.

He's thinking longingly of the cool quiet of his own study as they start up the staircase, and it's a rude surprise when the way is blocked by Dreiberg's landlady, her hands firmly planted on her hips, her lips pressed together in a tight line.

"Your friend's here again," she informs Dreiberg, her eyebrows drawing together. "He's been waiting close to two hours. Told him you were out for the day, but he flat-out refused to leave."

"Uh, thanks," Dreiberg says, glancing past her and biting his lip. "I'm sure he didn't mean to trouble you."

"Sure." The landlady doesn't sound convinced, and she lingers on the landing as they make their way up. Dreiberg is frowning, and Adrian decides that inquiring as to the identity of this troublesome friend while she eavesdrops would be bad form. But when the door opens and he sees the diminutive, red-haired individual who is standing in Dreiberg's front room -- arms folded, scowling and smelling faintly of fish -- he decides that her distaste is perhaps not unjustified.

Apparently, the feeling is mutual: on sight, the red-haired man shoots Adrian a fierce glare, as though he's the one who has appeared uninvited. Then he looks back at Dreiberg.

"Apologies for delay in calling on you," he says. "Some difficulty in getting here. Do not recommend coastal bus from Arkham."

"Sorry to hear that. I was starting to wonder where you'd gotten to." Dreiberg gives him a sympathetic look. "Uh, I don't think you know Adrian Veidt?"

"Have heard of you," the red-haired man says, with a curt nod in Adrian's direction, and in a voice that suggests he would really rather he hadn't. "Walter Kovacs." His arms stay folded across his chest.

"It's nice to meet you," Adrian says, and it's impossible for him not to arch an eyebrow in amusement. He recognizes the name, though not Kovacs' face, and after a second he remembers where from.

He's read plenty of obscure periodicals since his return to the US, information on the occult and the more specialized branches of scientific research being difficult to find in the mainstream press. Some time ago, one of them ran an article by Ambrose Martins -- an English writer, and an occasional correspondent of Adrian's -- concerning his researches into what he called the 'Old Religion'. There were a number of vocally unhappy responses from the conservative element of the journal's readership in the letters page of the next issue, the controversy (such as it was) eventually continuing for some months. Accusations of blasphemy, of encouraging corruption and unnatural practices, even suggestions that Martins himself must be a devil-worshipper. Adrian had read them with some amusement. Kovacs, he realizes, was one of the letter-writers -- a particularly rabid example, if memory serves.

Well, the open hostility with which Kovacs is eyeing him is no longer cause for surprise. He's having more trouble working out what on Earth must possess Dreiberg to associate with a crank of this sort.

"Need to talk to you, Daniel," Kovacs is saying, shooting another sharp look in Adrian's direction. "Privately."

Dreiberg heaves a sigh. "Adrian is my guest," he says. "We've been working together. I'm not about to turn him out of my rooms just because you don't want to hold a conversation in company."

Kovacs gives a displeased-sounding grunt. "Would prefer to keep details to those who have proven themselves trustworthy."

"Really, Dan, it's no trouble," Adrian says, spreading his hands. "I should be leaving soon, in any case."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Adrian. Walter, I just don't see what can be so important that you need to be rude to my visitors over it--"

"Fine." Kovacs' scowl deepens. "Something came up during my visit."

"Oh -- is it your mother?" Dreiberg gives him a worried look, but it's met with a contemptuous little headshake.

"No. Same as always." Kovacs fishes in the pocket of his overcoat, and comes out with a tightly-folded piece of paper. "Discovered this. At the home of one of her... friends. Deciphered some sections; not all. Hoped you could be of some assistance."

He unfolds it, and hands it to Dreiberg. Adrian pauses for a brief second, then decides that, given Kovacs' apparent lack of concern for manners, he'll prioritize his curiosity over politeness for now, and peers over his shoulder.

It's a note, mostly written in crude cipher, but with a few characters that don't quite fit the pattern. They're more elaborate, more archaic, in design. Adrian knows immediately why these are familiar. He's been worrying over them for three years, ever since he first saw them at Giza, carved into the base of that horrible little figurine.


Chapter 4