Unlikely Allies
Chapter One
Rorschach's Journal, November 7th, 1964. 9:53pm.
I hate this city. Apathy and indifference is in every house and on every street. Someone screams and no one comes to help. Murders and rapist lurk in alleyways, waiting for an opportunity to prey on the innocent. They are society's leeches, draining all the lifeblood from an already anemic city. Why is there so few willing to stand up for what is right? I am not talking about costumed heroes, but regular people helping regular people. A man punches his wife in a store and no one says anything. No one intervenes. Good people are rare and it is up to me to save them. It seems like only I want to help save the world.
.][.
Rorschach shut the journal with a faint 'fwap', slipping the battered book and pencil into an inside pocket of his trench coat, making sure that the button was secured. If lost, the journal could fall in to the wrong hands. His thoughts were for his eyes alone. His mind laid bare in the cramped, slanted handwriting that covered each page. The thought of someone using his journal against him was revolting. He closely guarded his privacy. No, No one would ever be allowed to see.
He looked at the city beneath him. The grimy, rotting factory roof he was perched upon gave him a perfect view of his surroundings while providing him with relative anonymity. The building was one story taller than those directly nearby, which meant he was granted a clear, unhindered picture of New York.
New York. The Big Apple. The pride and joy of the US. Hundreds of tourists flocked to the cesspit city every day, snapping photographs of monuments and staring wide-eyed at the skyscrapers. So enraptured with the pillars of corruption and greed, where politicians and lawyers roll in dishonest money collected by illegal means. The buildings were home to some of the worst sleaze, hiding behind masks of honesty. To them, you are a friend until there is extra cash to be had, and then you are turned on in an instant. The cooperate world where green pieces of paper was the only thing that mattered. Not their family or the city or justice or their job. Just money. They were disgusting. All of them.
This city was a rotting waste dump, full of agony, misery, and horror. The homeless and the poor dotted the populated streets, holding out their hands for a pocketful of loose change. Unfortunate lives. Innocent children born into poverty, forced to grow up too soon in order to survive. Teenage girls becoming prostitutes, sleazing on corners and turning to drugs for an escape. Men hiding in alleyways, waiting to prey upon the naive that were foolish enough to wander into their path. And all the while, the rich and wealthy put on bright, thousand-watt smiles and pretended that nothing was wrong. None of them knew. None of them knew what truly lay beyond the clean streets and shiny buildings that stank of greed like a perfume store stank of perfume.
Rorschach observed his surroundings, his eyes and ears both on alert for any sign of trouble. The night was still quiet, or as quiet as it could be in a large city. Alarms of police cars and sirens or ambulances blared in the distance, and the honking of horns on the populated roads was a constant. There was a constant dull roar of traffic that never faded. No sign of anything out of the ordinary so far. He had stopped briefly to write in his journal, but there was still work to be done. Crime stopped for nothing. He didn't stop either. Not until morning, where the risk of being noticed was too great.
The night was clear and fresh for once. It always seemed to be raining in this decomposing city; a reflection of the murky, depressing misery that lay beneath it. A clear night was a welcome change. He knew it wouldn't last. Weather like this rarely did. Still, he would take advantage of it. Seeking out criminals and drug dealers and rapists was more convenient when the skies weren't pouring. And the screen of pollution that floated above helped block out the light from the moon, so he could slip through the streets easier.
He didn't need to slink around like a criminal. It was a personal preference. Attention was the last thing he wanted to draw to himself. The press was scrabbling for any news of his actions and had sent out photographers throughout the streets in hoped of getting some sort of photo of him in action. So far, he was a complete mystery to them. They had very little to work with, beyond his description and even that was second hand, coming from those he had rescued. They had nothing on him and he preferred it that way. The media was a savage beast that could turn on you in the blink of an eye. He cared little about his reputation, but the less they knew of him, the easier it was to work in peace. The last thing he wanted was to turn into Ozymandias.
The blots on his face shifted into a fierce, angry looking pattern.
Ozymandias. A costumed glory-whore. He didn't sell his body, but he sold his image. A whore was still a whore. Ozymandias had been working up a name for himself in the last five years, posing for pictures and giving interviews left and right, soaking up the attention like a giant sponge in a sea of admiration. The press was awed by him and he had a fan base a mild wide. He seemed to be every teenagers dream boy. The Sean Connery of the costumed heroes. But despite his publicity and fame, he was someone even Rorschach wouldn't want to go up against. The man, who must've been in his mid twenties, perhaps one or two years older than Rorschach, was a force to be reckoned with. He was fast, dangerously so, and was incredibly strong and graceful. Like a gymnast or athlete. Rorschach had excelled in gymnastics and amateur boxing, but nothing near that of the skill of Ozymandias. The man was a deadly enemy, though a vain one. He was everything Rorschach wasn't. Smooth-talking, liberal, attention-seeking, social, and completely in love with his image.
How strange it must be to enjoy the face that looks back at you in the mirror. He had never known what that must be like. Not for all his twenty-four years of life. Without his mask on, Rorschach couldn't stand to look at himself.
He wasn't an attractive man. No. Orange hair and freckles on a blank face that didn't show expression except rage and disgust. He always looked much older than he really was. Ugly, really. He didn't care. There wasn't time to take care of his features and in any case, he was not a vain man. He showered perhaps twice a week, in order to keep his job. Sometimes more, depending on the level of filth and grime that covered him after each night of crime fighting. Women didn't look at him with anything but revulsion. He didn't want them to look at him at all. The thought of eyes roaming over his body was repulsing. He went out of his way to avoid the cheap whores that lined the sidewalks, who would screw anyone for a handful of cash.
The only part of him he was at all sensitive about was his height. It had always been a sore topic with him, and had been the grounds for much of the taunting he had experienced through school. At only 5'6 tall, he hardly struck a threatening figure without his mask on. His shoes, much to his embarrassment (though he would never admit it), were padded to give him an extra inch and a half. It hardly seemed to make a difference.
The press was building him up to be some larger than life character that slinks through the dark alleyways searching for crime. They way they wrote, he might as well be some heroic vampire, devouring any and all wrong-doers in his path. Not far from the truth. He lacked fangs, though. Despite his dislike of the media, their description of him was increasingly helpful to his reputation. Criminals and rapists who saw his mask many timed tried to flee. They knew who he was, and just what acts of violence he was capable of. He could always count on press to exaggerate.
Rorschach's head snapped towards the left, attentively. He had heard a scream. It was clearly a female's voice. Not the filthy cry of sexual release. He had learned to distinguish between distress and delight when he first began as a costumed hero. The adrenaline began to race through his veins, lighting his blood on fire. That rush, that feeling that he had before each confrontation was something he craved. The knowledge that justice was approaching and that he was to be the one who would deliver it. Evil must be stopped. Greed, corruption, and crime must be put to an end. They thought that they were untouchable. That by lurking in dark alleyways, no one would come to help. Police were on patrol, yes, but too often did criminals slip through their fingers. Police could not be everywhere at once. Scum thought that they would not be caught.
He would show them.
Silently, he dropped onto the fire escape, climbing down it swiftly much like a cat. Graceful and yet precise, the only noise the quiet clink of his boots on the metal grates. He was in his element. Mankind was a vicious and disgusting thing, full of horrors not to be found in any other creature. Capable of the most extreme acts of violence. All of it was unnecessary.
In the wild, animals fought for land, or mates, or food, or self-defense. Never mindless killing. They always had a purpose, even if it was harsh. It was natural instinct. Needed to survive and had to do what was needed. Human beings had no justification. Many criminals had food and shelter. Their lifespan was long enough in order to not require a mate. Filth did never had the excuse of self-defense. They always preyed on the weak. Animals never stabbed you in the back or mocked you. Never whored themselves on street corners. They didn't steal your money or rape you against a wall and leave you for dead. Humans were more savage than even the wildest of beasts.
The alleyway as one block over. He was lucky tonight. Any farther and he may have been too late. As it was, he arrived just in time.
Three men pinning a struggling teenage girl against the wall, tearing at her clothes. She was twisting weakly, trying to avoid a knife at her throat. How revolting. Justice would be served. The thugs didn't even see him before he was on top of them. He lunged, landing in middle of the group, scattering them like insects. They recognized him instantly. The men's roles were reversed. The frightening became the fearful. One tripped over his own feet and stumbled. Another clumsily dropped switchblade to the ground.
The largest went down first, Rorschach's full 140 pounds tackling him. He was muscular, but bulky. Too slow. He was cut out for brute force rather than hand to hand combat. Didn't have the flexibility that Rorschach did. He didn't have a chance. The thug was cussing and screaming, throwing punches and trying to swing the costumed vigilante off of his back. He was panicking too much for his movements to be anything beyond a minor inconvenience. Rorschach's elbow was raised and cracked down, hitting area between neck and shoulder. The jab struck the pressure point and the man was out for the count.
One of the scum had come to his senses and had recovered knife. He slashed at him. Rorschach threw himself backwards in order to avoid it. It was a close miss, grazing his dirty brown trench coat, ripping a fine line in it. He hissed dangerously behind his mask, dropping into a spin kick, knocking the other man's feet out from underneath him. Adrenaline pumped through his body, his brain working at high speeds. Every action of the thugs seemed to be slowed down, as if moving underwater. He had ample time to move out of the way of each punch and kick aimed towards him. His mind was screaming with the burning desire to see these men suffer as their victims had suffered. They were all that was wrong with the world.
Rorschach brought his foot down with strength his small stature didn't seem to suggest. The crack of ribs echoed, shortly followed by a piercing shriek of pain. Straddling the body of the man to restrict movement, he brought the man's head down onto the rotting concrete. Two down, one to go.
Chh-chhck!
The last member of the trio of filth had a pistol aimed, the barrel of the gun only a foot from Rorschach's head. Stupid. He should have noticed. He would pay for this mistake if he did not do something. The would-be rapist's hand was shaking, and yet was holding the pistol steady enough to get in a straight shot. His finger was over the trigger, prepared to press it given the slightest provocation. Rorschach's eyes moved rapidly, taking in his surroundings. He would have to improvise.
"Don't you fuckin' move!" the greasy, hoarse voice spilled from the man's mouth like oil; polluting the silence of the night.
Rorschach felt numerous small pebbles beneath his gloves, digging into the leather. There might be a chance. He had nothing to lose anyways. Slowly, so that his movements would not be mistaken for an attack, he raised his hands into the air. It was a sign of peace. Of surrender. His fists were clenched, but there was no mistaking his intentions.
The man seemed to hesitate. Uneducated to the point of stupidity. He didn't know what to do. He was only a follower. Leader had already been taken out, and he was useless without orders to follow. Hadn't ever used a gun. And he stank of fear. Obviously he recognized Rorschach from the crude drawings that were constantly being published in the newspapers.
For a second, just a split second, the thug lowered the pistol, unsure of what his next action should be; whether he should shoot or not. Any other man would not have even noticed that brief wavering. But Rorschach did.
A flick of his wrist sent the handful of pebbles flying, hitting the man directly in the eyes. The thug screamed, reaching towards his face. There was an opening, and Rorschach took it. His hand flung out, grabbing the barrel of the gun and pulling to the side. If it was fired now, he wouldn't bet hit. Bullets were a pain to remove and stitch up.
With a kick to the stomach and the slamming of the man's head into the wall and it was over.
Justice was served once again.
"Hnn…"
Rorschach turned towards the girl, who surprisingly was still there. He had expected her to run away the moment she had the chance. He opened his mouth to remind her that walking the streets alone was a bad idea when he took notice of her outfit.
A bright blue leotard with an attached black mini-skirt covered her, (though it did a poor job, as it was torn to shreds), and her legs were covered by black thigh-high boots. Her arms were clothed in black gloves. Of course, there was a cape on the ground with a blue and black a pattern that resembled feathers, as well as a black domino mask.
The girls face was tear-streaked and grimy from being pressed against the brick wall. She seemed too frightened to move and just sat there, slumped against the bricks, staring at him with her pathetic baby-blue eyes.
He felt himself scowl and knew that the blots of his face were shifting furiously. Stupid, stupid girl. Foolish. The girl was perhaps only 15-years-old, short, and without the muscles that came with frequent exercise. Her costume was now dirty and torn, but it looked to be new otherwise. Obviously this was her first time out on the street. Stupid girl. How naive to think she could handle thugs thrice her size. And her outfit was awful. Something a whore would wear.
"T-thank you." Her voice was small. Likely, her mind was trying to process all that had happened. It would come to the conclusion that she was in over her head.
He blinked behind his mask.
"A girl was gutted last month." Rorschach told her, his voice harsh and ragged, sounding much older than his actual twenty-four years of age.
Her eyes were impossibly wide as she grabbed her cape from the ground and covered herself with it.
"Wh-what…?"
"17-years-old. Costumed. She called herself The Rose Thorn. Her first time out as well. She was gutted by a gang of five men. The Rose is wilted now."
He could tell she had gotten the message.
"A payphone is two blocks away. Call the police then go home." He dug in the pocket of his trench coat and found a handful of spare change he kept for cases like these. Police needed to be informed and send car over. He was too far away from the police station to drag them there himself. Dropping the coins on the ground, he made to leave. "Take the gun. Use it if the men wake up."
Pausing, he picked up the black mask on the ground. It was one of the cheap black masks they sold around Halloween. He pocketed it, giving her a harsh glare that he knew she could feel even though she could not see his face.
"I will be taking this. You're not going to be out here again."
It wasn't a suggestion any more than the rape attempt had been a hug.
He could feel her eyes staring at him as he skulked down the alley, leaving her and the thugs behind.
The next night was even quieter than the one before. The chill of November was setting in, fast and frigid. Already there was frost in the park grass in the early mornings. Breath misted in the air when one exhaled. People were bundled up in coats and scarves and hats in order to stave off the cold. It was the coldest night of autumn, and even the criminals that usually polluted the streets were making themselves scarce, hiding in whore or crack houses. Seemed would-be victims were choosing to stay inside tonight, instead of walking the streets and making themselves vulnerable. That was good. Innocent must be protected. Evil must be punished.
It was 2:46am, and Rorschach had only stopped one mugging and one drug dealer. The knowledge that there was bigger crimes taking place and he wasn't there to stop them was maddening. But one could only get so far in New York on foot. It wasn't like he could just hop in a taxi and get a lift to the nearest criminal hot-spot. His mask was far too recognizable. Sometimes, when the night was busy, he would take the ink-blotted mask off and quietly get on the subway, his trench coat, hat, gloves, and suit jacket tucked securely underneath his arm. It wouldn't do to be recognized through his clothing. He was always ignored, keeping himself in the most heavily populated train where the crowd would help to hide him.
On this night, however, not many were out, and the risk of being noticed (no matter how slim) was one he wasn't willing to take. The criminal hotspots he had visited seemed to be relatively deserted. The usual gangs were obviously taking shelter elsewhere from the cold. It was…frustrating.
Rorschach slipped into another alley, his footsteps faintly crunching on the small pebbles and trash that littered them. Empty. Of course. No muggers, no drug dealers, no gangs, no rapists…
The incident from the previous evening was still fresh on his mind. It brought a scowl to his face. Stupid, foolish girl. Thought she could become a superhero by dressing up in a whorish outfit and lurking down dark streets. Ridiculous. The only thing that would come of it would be her death. She had looked like jail bait as it was, with her high heeled shoes and tight fitting costume. To the scum that littered the streets like trash, she was only too easy. She might as well have come onto them, with the way she was dressed. Her costume screamed at the thugs for them to take her, even if the girl was screaming for a very different reason.
He had encountered many of them, in the last few months. Teenagers trying to get attention and glory by becoming costumed heroes and fighting crime. Most of them were boys, who he found bleeding and dying at the hands of some petty thief or drug dealer. They always had very little experience with the actual fighting part. They somehow seemed to think that just by dressing up in a costume and a mask that they could take down anyone. That criminals would see their disguised face and instantly surrender. Or perhaps the kids thought that they actually had what it took to take down someone and save the day. The newspapers didn't help, always printing about the glory of superheroes. They way they had it, it was a beautiful and noble career, worthy of praise and admiration. Teenagers stuck in depression and self-doubt would be attracted to the idea of people looking up to them. Naïve and young, all of them. Too caught up in their own imaginations to see reality for what it was.
Rorschach climbed a fire escape ladder and onto the roof an abandoned storage facility. The surrounding area was one that was usually populated by scum. He would be better off waiting for the screams in the center where he could quickly investigate than walk around and be too far away to help. Never knew when another kid would try to take on seasoned criminals.
It was all Ozymandias's fault. The man who talked about crime-fighting like it was a walk in a sunlit, flower-covered park. Perhaps it was, for him. He, who was in the peak of physical condition and had the muscles to effortlessly lift a man above his head. He, who paraded around like he was a celebrity. It was no wonder that kids were turning to the costumed lifestyle. They were inspired by delusions of grandeur. They all wanted to become the next Ozymandias.
They only seemed to end up raped, hurt, or killed instead. Like 17-year-old Katie Meyer, who donned the persona of Rose Thorn for her last night alive. Pretty girl. Suffered from depression and harassment at school. Had thought that she could make it go away by fighting crime. She wasn't experienced and tried to take on one man mugging a woman, unaware of his four friends that were to meet him there. The woman escaped and called police while the group of five cornered Meyer. Then police had arrived too late. 17-year-old Katie Meyer had been beaten, raped, and then gutted like an animal. She had been left in the alley like trash.
Rorschach has been the one to find three of the five, Ozymandias and the police finding the others. Never before had he hurt another man so. All three were in the hospital, one of them suffering extensive spinal damage that came from being thrown down a twelve-story fire escape. One of them was reduced to a mental-vegetable, without the hope of ever waking up. All three of them would never walk again. The woman who had been mugged had identified them as part of the gang who had killed Katie Meyer. The police had released the fact that Rorschach had left his signature '.][. ' on the criminals and the newspapers had been running the story for days and days. They claimed that though he had been horribly violent and brutal, he was still deserving of a reward. No one was very sympathetic to the disgusting scum's injuries. The parents of the girl had released a statement thanking Rorschach for doing what they had wanted to do. They were grateful.
The criminal underworld, however, was scared. In one night, Rorschach had gone from just another costumed hero into someone's nightmare. Ozymandias beat up his criminals, sure, but not like Rorschach did. His were always sent to the emergency room, needing surgery for internal bleeding and casts for multiple broken bones.
A shriek of pain pierced the night sky, and Rorschach's head snapped towards the direction of the noise. Not far at all. Only four alleys down. The buildings were close enough together that he could jump them.
His body was already moving as he thought that, his paces long and swift. The gap between the buildings was a good twelve feet. He gained speed and leapt across them easily.
Another cry in the air, followed by the sound of fighting. Curse words were being thrown and what seemed to be the clanging of metal. That was strange. It was obviously a male voice that was screaming in pain. Perhaps it was another teenager who was in over his head. If so, Rorschach wasn't in the mood to molly-coddle him.
He jumped the last alleyway and landed on the roof, his body automatically dropping into a roll. His hat fell onto the pavement, crumpled from his body weight, but he ignored it. He would retrieve it later; he had more important things to do. Quickly, he leaned moved to the edge of the building's roof and leaned over to assess the situation. He had learned, when he had first started out, that it was better to appraise the circumstances before he charged in. It didn't take long, only a few seconds, and he came off much better in a fight because of it. He did more bad than good by jumping into a fray without evaluating it.
His eyes quickly took in the alley. For a moment, he thought that perhaps his suspicions had been correct, but then another screech of distress proved him wrong. The scene below him was one he hadn't witnessed before, and he had seen almost everything.
It would have been a common scene. There were four men, and from the open briefcases on the grounds, it was obvious that they were drug dealers. However, that was not what was so unusual. There was a fifth man present.
One dressed in costume.
He had thought that it was one of the misguided teenagers, trying to save the day, like Rose Thorn and the girl last night had. And at first glance, that was what it was. A kid in a costume was fighting with four fully grown men. A normal situation, if an aggravating one.
Until you took a closer look and noticed that the kid was winning. It had been the criminal who had screamed.
Rorschach crouched, ready to leap in and assist at the first sign of trouble. He was intrigued. The kid was winning, escaping the thrown punches and swung kicks aimed towards him, shooting some sort of… what was that? Was that a net? It appeared that it was, as two men went down, cussing up a storm and struggling with the netting that trapped them. This wasn't normal. Not at all. Normal people didn't have net guns on them.
The kid, though perhaps that wasn't fitting, as he seemed to be only a few years younger than Rorschach, was dressed in a dark, navy blue bodysuit, with brown boots, gloves, cape, and cowl. The shoulders of the cloak jutted outwards stiffly, as did the top of the cowl, which ended in slight upward point. Almost like horns. Large gold goggles covered his slightly pudgy face, which was lit with excitement. Around his waist was a gold colored utility belt, with pouches and holsters for a various things. There was a symbol on the front of it, but as the kid spun, Rorschach couldn't make it out.
He did, however, make out the patterns on the back of the cape. Black triangular darts. They resembled feathers, somewhat. Perhaps he was naming himself after a bird?
The net gun was slipped back into its holster, as the kid ducked, moving just a bit too slowly. He wasn't skinny or in top shape, but he wasn't unfit. His slight bulk made it more difficult to dodge the punch aimed at him, and the fist caught him in the chin. He stumbled backwards, his gloved hand fumbling for something on his belt. Detaching it, he palmed the object and then swiftly flicked his wrist. The object, whatever it was, flew into the air and hit the thug in the head, knocking him out instantly. The projectile fell to the ground with a metallic clatter, and it was then that Rorschach saw what it was. The symbol that had been attached to the front of the kid's belt. It looked like it was some sort of curved disk.
A moon?
Well, it hardly mattered. If the kid was good enough (and it seemed he was, though Rorschach couldn't judge from only one encounter), Rorschach would figure out who he was eventually. Until then, it wasn't worth bothering about. This wasn't some helpless little victim. Obviously he could take care of himself.
The kid was now carefully tying up the criminals, who were still screaming their head off. This would attract attention. It would be best to leave before someone arrived.
Rorschach carefully took a few steps backwards, making sure that he couldn't be seen from the ground. After waiting a moment, he saw the new costumed hero make his way out of the alley to find a pay phone. The cops would show up soon.
Finally, after staring at the kid a few more seconds, Rorschach turned and began his trek over the roofs (Making sure to scoop his hat up as he did so).
Hopefully this new costumed hero would be better than Ozymandias.
To Be Continued...
Some important notes: This story takes place in 1964, when Rorschach was only 24-years-old and has been fighting crime for only eight months. Some of you may have noticed his speech patterns are a bit off, and not like the Rorschach we all know and love. Well, if you read the Graphic Novel (If you haven't, you are really missing out!), you'll notice that in the Flashback with the failed Crimebuster meeting, Rorschach speaks rather normally, using first-person singular pronouns. And from the flashbacks on his past, we can see that he was an ordinary (if extremely serious) person, before he took up the mantel of Rorschach. So I had to have him speak differently than during 1985, when he is 45-years-old. In case anyone is wondering, Daniel is 20-years-old in this story, having been born before August of 1945. I am not sure of the exact date, but I may make it up later.
Authors Note: Hello once more! So, this idea has been rumbling around in my head for a while, and I finally decided to just sit down and write it. Of course, my inspiration, which has been running so wonderfully these last few weeks, decided to fail mid-chapter. Go figure. But eventually, I finished. This story will cover the meeting of Rorschach and Daniel, as well as their future partnership and take-down of Big Figure. I am not sure how frequently I shall be able to update, but you should expect the next chapter within a week or two, give or take. Watchmen is so complex that it takes a while to get anything decent typed. Especially since this story is about a mostly unexplored period in Watchmen history.
Anyways, I shall try to update as soon as possible. Reviews are always welcome, especially if you have any questions, comments, or spotted any irregularities. I am trying to keep the story accurate to the time period, but I know that I will make a few mistakes, as I was not around in the 60's. Feel free to PM me for any reason. I have a Watchmen forum on here for anyone who wants to discuss the fantastic GN/Movie.
Thanks for reading!
-Alex
(Alexandra-the-Great91)
