@bruz3r
The feeling sparks up Dr. Manhattan’s skin in static meant to be, with its weak tickling, perhaps delightful, but it has been a long time since he has felt. Space has touched him neither warmly nor cooly, and he learns later that the cool temperatures here had once been hotter than the sun, a point in time to be noted without comment. The remnants of a planet in war, slung lifeless without a neighbour, forces his white-hot gaze to it, studying, his cerulean glow burned into the darkness it would have been in in his absence. If he were reduced to a resident, he would swear he feels the particles vibrating in every nanoangstrom where the Scientist’s wife sends her newborn child past the heavily sunken clouds to the world beyond. And perhaps, despite his fleshly trappings of a god, his own future is predicated. Perhaps whatever the random initial conditions, two islands of opposing actions have met to stop growing at their meeting point, and it was at this moment that he was on the border.
This… is feeling.
2024:
He fills the room, igniting every hair on the man’s body, each follicle too fine to lay still under its own weight pointing towards Him like charity carp hungering in the light of quantum ambrosia. They do not speak, not at first, while Dr. Manhattan stretches the hair-fine moments within time to ponder: ‘ We will meet again soon. ‘
The last words of Clark.
Relatively.
The man he approaches, now at His side (Bruce, as he’s come to know before the press releases and documentaries) peers up from his work to say something as if he does not realise he shares a space with a god who has killed for far less than the men he beats up at night.
‘ You needed help? ‘ Quietly. No more than the anticipation needed to spur his flights of fancy.
