This is the first, and most recent, piece of fanfiction I've ever written. It's also my first story on the site. A bit of a serious one. I began working on it a long time ago, so it's strange to think that I'm here years later, polishing and trimming it for upload.
Basic concept: The beginning of Watchmen Chapter 6, alternating between the perspectives of Rorschach and psychologist Dr. Malcolm Long
Let me know what you think!
Never before had I seen a man of such striking, intimidating, yet altogether bizarre appearance.
His bushy red eyebrows were an unkempt mess, with a shock of fiery short hair just above them, more choppy and dirty than any mane in the prison. The man's skeleton-hollow cheekbones and toned muscles formed an unsettling contrast. At the center of his features was a haggard mouth, with pale, thin lips, almost mocking in their apathy. Whether he was unusually ugly or just uncommonly strange I could never decide. Freckles draped his taunt skin like a flock of scattered sheep drowning in a lake of purple bruise. But more memorable than his entire look and demeanor combined were those eyes, piercing brown orbs haunted with the mere suggestion of the horrors they'd seen.
This was Walter J. Kovacs.
Distracted taking him in, I fumbled with my suitcase, fishing for inkblot prints to test a seemingly untestable man. Did he see me flinch? For all the world I hoped not. My eyes darted to the statue seated across from me. Those eyes! They bored into me as if he were the examiner, I the test subject. The thought was stomach-churning, and I swore to myself not to dwell on it.
"Will you look at it Walter?" I prompted politely as I could manage. "Will you do that for me?" Watching him pull the inkblot uncomfortably and unnecessarily close to his face, eyes bulging intensely, my thoughts did a double take. Was this case solvable? No…of course it was. Surely more practical than tackling that first crop of crime-fighters back who-knows-when! I pitied the psychologist who attempted to fix them. Besides Veidt, these "vigilantes" were all loose a few screws, just as backward as their underwear. But they sold papers, truckloads. I quietly hoped that a victory here would seal my career. The struggle was worth it, even that stare…
But there wasn't time to contemplate. A monotone, emotionless drone woke me from my reflections.
"A pretty butterfly."
It was an appalling voice to be stirred with, enduring like a bad taste, refusing to fade. His tone almost demanded a response to compensate for what it lacked. I twirled my pen in my hands. My palms were sweating.
"Let's try another one, shall we?" I directed, too cheerfully for my mood. Nerves were getting to me again as I passed the next inkblot to his course hands. Tonight I'd stop by the pharmacy on the way home. I needed the pills. It must have been my heart, the stress of the job maybe. Kovac's expression was completely unchanged, his eyes stoic and cold when he replied.
"Some nice flowers."
The response, it was clean again, mentally sound, even healthy. It was everything I could have hoped for. If flowers and butterflies were on his mind, how could my endeavor here be any less soothing! Perhaps I wasn't so far from my goal after all. My encouragements to him were of only the confident variety, in the tone of a man enthralled with his proximity to success. Yes, I was enthralled, if dangerously so.
"I really think there's hope, Walter. Don't you?"
But he only stared again, his features morose molded marble. Was there a crack in the stone? As I left the room, taking one last glance at my guinea pig, I could have sworn hints of sarcasm now lingered in his eyes, traces of mockery in his mouth. Or maybe it was just the light.