A/N: Don't ask me how I came up with this, 'cause I don't have a clue. I just wanted to write my own little tribute to the two Bernards (who got totally screwed over when it came to screen time in the movie). Every time I get to their death scene in the graphic novel or the movie I tear up. I love those poor guys!
BTW, I'm using the movie-verse's energy bombs rather than the GN's squid monster. I just liked the bombs more.
*************************************************************************************
Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters; they belong to Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Nor do I own the marvelous Discworld or its characters, which belong to Terry Pratchett.
*************************************************************************************
"Nothing ever ends." --Dr. Manhattan
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bernard got to his feet, looked hazily around him. He no longer recognized the city that he'd called home. Everywhere was scorched rubble and spattered bodily fluids. The energy bomb had eradicated everything standing, leaving nothing but a smoking crater.
"Jeez, wadda mess."
QUITE SO.
The old newsvendor spun. "Shit! You shouldn't sneak up on a guy like that. Ya wanna give me a heart attack?"
THE CONDITION OF YOUR HEART IS A MOOT POINT. The gaunt figure, draped from head to foot in a loose black robe, loomed over the pudgy bald man. Clutched in one skeletal hand was a long pole topped with a curved blade, the edge of which glowed an eerie blue to match the twin pinpoints of light in the vicinity of the unknown person's eyes.
Bernard frowned. "Y'know, buddy, Halloween's already over."
AS IS ALL SOULS DAY, the shadowy apparition concurred, THE DAY WHEN THE DEAD MAY WALK THE EARTH. ALTHOUGH, OF COURSE, THAT IS MERE MYTH…IN THIS UNIVERSE, ANYROAD.
There was something weird about the stranger's voice, Bernard thought. He didn't hear it so much as feel it echo in his mind. For some reason it made him think of empty coffins. Bernard shuddered.
"Hey! What just happened, man?"
Relief washed over the old newsie upon hearing the familiar youthful voice full of angry teenaged attitude. The boy who had wiled away the hours sitting against the hydrant beside the newsstand and reading comics, who's name also happened to be Bernard, materialized from the surrounding gloom to join the two older individuals.
"Dunno," Elder Bernard answered, "One second there's this wall o' light comin' at us, the next…" He shrugged and swept his arms to indicate their current surroundings. "Guess the Ruskies finally nuked us."
NOT EXACTLY.
"Who the hell's this?" Young Bernard scowled up at the stranger, craning his neck to do so.
I AM DEATH.
"No kiddin'!" Elder Bernard's tone and wide-eyed expression was of the sort New Yorkers utilized on the many loonies who roamed the streets in hopes of placating them long enough to make a swift getaway.
I ASSURE YOU I AM QUITE SERIOUS. The tall figure turned ever so slightly and suddenly the two Bernards were able to see his face; or rather, skull.
"Holy shit," Young Bernard breathed (metaphorically speaking).
"So," Elder Bernard gulped (again, metaphorically), "this mean we're dead, then?"
I AM AFRAID SO, Death intoned solemnly.
"Oh." There really wasn't much else to say to that. Elder Bernard exchanged disappointed looks with Young Bernard.
I APOLOGIZE FOR HAVING TO RUSH OFF, Death said, BUT I DO HAVE MORE THAN THREE MILLION OTHER SOULS TO COLLECT IN THIS CITY ALONE. He turned, took several steps towards a patiently waiting white horse that neither of the newly departed had noticed until that moment.
"Wait!" Young Bernard reached, but hesitated in attempting to grab any part of the walking myth. "What're we supposed to do now? We goin' to heaven or hell?"
Death paused. THAT IS ENTIRELY UP TO YOU.
"It is?" This was news to Elder Bernard. He'd always assumed it was up to higher authorities, as were all major decisions which impacted on his life (when he had a life to impact, that is).
INDEED. YOU MAY GO TO HEAVEN IF YOU WISH, OR HELL IF YOU FEEL YOU DESERVE PUNISHMENT FOR ANY SLIGHTS YOU MAY HAVE COMMITTED, OR YOU COULD EVEN CHOOSE REINCARNATION.
"Ree-yin-car-nay-shun," Elder Bernard tested the word, "That's when your born again as somethin' else, right?"
YES.
"Cool! I wanna be a tiger." Young Bernard crouched and bared his teeth. His hooked fingers clawed at an imaginary gazelle or whatever it was tigers ate. "Grrr!"
Elder Bernard cupped his chin in his hand as he pondered the boy's choice. "I dunno. I mean, ya gotta ask y'self, how great can it be when ya gotta use your tongue for toilet paper? 'Course that's just my opinion," he shrugged, "For what it's worth, inna final analysis."
Young Bernard wrinkled his nose. "Gross."
Death shifted impatiently, too polite to ask them to hurry up and decide.
"'Sides, I'm not sure I wanna go through all this crap again," the portly newsvendor continued, "For th' most part, this world's been kinda disappointin', y'know?"
YOU NEEDN'T REINCARNATE HERE, Death responded, THERE ARE ANY NUMBER OF WORLDS AND ALTERNATE DIMENSIONS TO CHOOSE FROM.
Young Bernard, who's entertainment preferences made him more familiar with the concept, was intrigued. "Really? Like where?"
Death's sigh was like a breeze stirring the dust in an ancient tomb. WELL, THERE IS ONE THAT IS MY PERSONAL PREFERENCE. He went on to describe it.
Elder Bernard's eyebrows rose towards his nonexistent hairline. "Whoa."
"That sounds awesome, man!" Young Bernard gushed, "I wanna go there."
The old newsie nodded. "Yeah, I wouldn't mind givin' it a try myself. I mean, what's th' worst can happen? We die again?"
THAT IS ALWAYS THE INEVITABLE OUTCOME, REGARDLESS OF WHERE YOU GO, said Death. SO, YOU ARE BOTH IN AGREEMENT?
"Sure. Only, how'd we get there?"
Death told them.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
An indeterminate span of time later (or earlier, depending on which way you're looking), in another, odder dimension of the multiverse…
"We oughta have the wizards fireball Klatch and let the gods sort it out," the portly, balding dwarf said to no one in particular, slouched in his stool behind his kiosk where he sold various newspapers and periodicals. The ever-bustling crowds of Ankh-Morpork paid him no mind, nor did the youthful human wearing the thick eyeglasses seated on an old crate reading the latest edition of The Heavily Illustrated Goings-On of Cohen the Barbarian.
"I'm a newsvendor, godsdamnit!" the dwarf continued as if some unseen individual had taken issue with his last statement, "I'm informed on the situation! We oughta shower 'em with magic till they glow!"
The bespectacled youth sighed, turned the page. A series of poorly rendered woodcuts depicted the title character beheading a gigantic crocodile with his equally gigantic sword; in fact everything about Cohen, according to the artist, was gigantic--save his loincloth, which was barely large enough to serve its function.
The soliloquizing salesman waved a philosophical hand. "'Course, that's just my opinion. For what that's worth, y'know? Inna final analysis."
A shadow passing over his face distracted the newsvendor from his monologue. He squinted up at the new arrival and just barely managed to suppress a groan. Him again.
"Good afternoon." The cultured voice belonged to a thin man clad in a well tailored suit, his hair greased smartly against his scalp so it resembled a chestnut helmet. Hanging from his neck by a piece of twine was a hand painted sign which declared in no uncertain terms: IT'S ALMOST OVER. "Is it here yet?"
"Your copy o' the Conniver's Review? Sure, it's here." The surly salesman yanked the five-page periodical from under the counter. "I keep it for ya everyday, don't I?"
The dapper man pulled the appropriate change from his pocket and dropped it into the vendor's outstretched hand. He then took the day's issue of the Review, folded it with care, and placed it into his suit's breast pocket where the top edge stuck out like a cheap hanky.
"So," the balding dwarf sighed, resenting the salesman's obligation to engage the customer in small talk, "how's the enna the world comin' along?"
"It shall occur on this day," the tall man nodded decisively, "I have witnessed the appropriate portents."
"Uhuh. Like what?"
"A two-headed cat was born in Sator Square."
The newsvendor snorted. "So? Unseen University's there, innit? Prob'ly just more o' that magical wossname. Leakage."
"Today for certain," the man concluded, ignoring the other's statement. He stared down at the dwarf with unsettling gray eyes. "You will keep my paper for me tomorrow." It wasn't a request.
"Yeah, sure. No sweat." Crazy bugger.
The tall man strolled off on his daily rounds, sign swinging from his neck in time to his steps.
The newsvendor sighed. "Whole city's gone mad. I took this job to meet people, y'know? Sane people. Yet the only ones seem to wanna talk're the loonies." He turned to the silent youth. "You, fr'instance. You seem okay, 'cept for you're choice o' literature. You been comin' here weeks readin' that junk an' yet I haven't heard you say two words. I don't even know your name."
The youth responded without looking up from the page, "My name's Bernita."
"Well, I'll be horsewhipped!" the dwarf exclaimed, "Same's the missus!"
"So? Lotta people named Bernita, man," her voice dripped with the extraordinary combination of scorn and apathy that only teenagers can achieve, "Don't signify for anythin'."
The newsvendor sighed. Kids these days.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The massive circular plane that was the Discworld spun on, resting atop the backs of four massive elephants, riding the gigantic shell of the cosmic turtle Great A'Tuin, swimming through space towards an unknown destination…
And from afar sat the Creator on his throne of stars, his naked blue skin aglow, who watched it all and smiled benevolently. "Nothing ever ends."