There they are, in a shadowy clubhouse, standing around a map of the USA, just as we'd imagined them. The smoke of the Comedian's cigar hangs in the air as I drink in the details of the scene. Framed old copies of The New York Gazette tell stories of past exploits; trophies glint in glass-fronted display cases; Moloch's solar weapon shines in a dusty corner and over there, on its mannequin stand, the faded costume of the original Nite Owl keeps silent vigil.
Then, a sudden flash of unearthly blue light announces the arrival of Dr. Manhattan and the tableau comes to life. The voices of quarreling heroes rise and fall, a Zippo flares and the map catches fire.
Somewhere, someone shouts "Cut!"
And I'm standing amongst them. Nite Owl shakes my hand. The Comedian slaps me on the back. Silk Spectre smiles a dazzling greeting. I'm overwhelmed by the depth and detail of what I'm seeing.
But more than that. I'm overwhelmed by the commitment, the passion, the palpable desire to do this right.
I'm starting to feel a glow that eclipses even Dr. Manhattan's...
