While at first meant to be a stand-alone one-shot, I could not help but add small elements from my one and only other Walter/Rorschach fic (Always Ask Why). But I really don't feel that it's necessary to go read that in order to understand/enjoy this piece. Although do feel free... haha

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If only his face wasn't in the way, he would spit out the thick copper liquid collecting in his mouth down into a drainage pipe to be swallowed up with the vomit mopped from bars and the semen-filled condoms from whorehouses. But there were people around, most trying to find a purpose past midnight; others were lost. He choked back the fluids and coughed like an old man. There were size three hookers pulling at the taught knots of businessmen's ties, slick red-tipped fingernails scraping along five o'clock shadows. The size fives were smoking, eager to lose those extra couple pounds that were in the way of competition and more cash for more condoms and booze. The older overworked and underpaid businessmen with wives whose breasts hung to their bellies chose the size fives because they were willing to try anything to feel alive down there again. The younger men whose girlfriends cheated on them every night with the more attractive coworker chose the size threes because they knew they were better than that.

Rorschach felt a desire to spit again and finally turned to the side with a finger lifting up his face just enough to be rid of the red and yellow. He had caught an infection recently. No one knew. He would be fine.

He wanted to spit at every woman who ever called after him in the dark ('Don't tell me you don't want a little somethin'!'), every cancer-ridden whore and desperate middle-aged wife who thought that he had saved them. He never saved. He only dealt out heavy-handed retribution to those who deserved it, deserved it like a kid deserves gifts on Christmas and men deserve blowjobs for being faithful. After they were beaten, hurt, bloodied, the women expected that their savior would seek reciprocation in the form of a rough fuck or a kiss through hypnotizing mask. 'Now, darling, come into my arms.' No, this was not a movie set, not a drama with a happy ending. They were whores, every single one of them and he hated them all. They were nothing more than succubi, trapping weak men with soft gazes and fluttering eyelashes, bright rouged cheeks and long fingers to scrape at flesh and trail along parted lips. They walked the streets, passed through parks and bars, waiting to be picked up by the next man in line to drag their drunk asses home. The women were just as guilty as the men; their crimes were on par and often the woman deserved what she got. And although there was good and there was evil, the evil were punished but the good were never rewarded. The good never received praise; they never felt a hard slap on the back for a job well done, but that was not his business.

Sharp rain and ice pelted his back as he turned into an alleyway to sit on an overturned milk crate in the shadows of a decrepit brick apartment complex with pencil and leather-journal in hand, scribbling the day's crimes in simple sentences and harsh vocabulary. Tonight, he had prowled alone, had demanded to let his fists and the soles of his shoes take care of the night. His grappling gun was stained and he hadn't peeled off the bit of flesh that still hung from one of its hooks. The gun lay at his side now, the precipitation trying its hardest to wash away the dried blood and bodily bits that clung to its grip.

Time had condensed and blurred over the years and he couldn't recall when his partner had given him this piece of equipment. ('Careful with that. I am not making you another one!') He couldn't remember the last time he had seen his own face in his medicine cabinet mirror that was covered with trash bags and paper and tape. The nights blended together and every criminal reminded Rorschach of every other criminal, just as every woman reminded him of every other woman … and his mother. Any exceptions to these categories took too much effort each time there was a necessity to remember.

He flipped back to the beginning of this volume when someone else had written in it. When he was still Walter Kovacs, still young, still learning, still understanding without all of Rorschach's insight but his shame had never wavered. The passages were shorter and even his handwriting was different, not characterized by harsh and uneven letters that came from writing in the dark of alleyways and under leaky bridges. Early entries were vague and confused, messed with code words and messages to himself about others. One other.

Memories were too far gone, buried for good in a pit of hatred and regret that had welled out of necessity as the years passed since the kidnapping. He had made sure that they did not see each other during the day as he walked in a dirty green suit and fingerless gloves wrapped around splintering wood and tall warning sign. Since quitting his day-job as a menial worker in the garment district and evolving into full-time hero or vigilante (different people had called him different things), he had no access to new materials or sewing equipment. He was not willing to steal for his personal needs for that would go against his morals, as much as he believed that everything in that shop was his and his old boss wouldn't even notice that anything was gone. He had enough stored away to patch himself up and his partner took care of his wounds in desperate times. There was no problem with money, he did not need any. He was immune to a growling stomach and bleeding wounds from nighttime battles and gang wars.

Scratching at a fresh wound on his neck, blood leaked through his face onto his fingertips, droplets falling onto the corner of a page of his notebook. He shook his hand to the side and swiped away the blood on the page with a leather-encased finger, flicking his wrist again at the concrete beneath his feet. Holding a palm up to the wound on his neck, he recalled that this was the night he was supposed to go there. To a room that had once been a second home, to a figure in the darkness whose face was only clear during a full moon.

In the late fall of 1977 she had held so tightly to his fingers during her sleep that he had to pry them away without waking her. In the winter of 1978 she almost said something as he left but kept silent. Smart woman, he had thought at the time. The only person he ever considered a friend during the day was his partner, the second Nite Owl. Good man. On these rare occasions that Rorschach told himself he would go there, he considered never stepping through that window again. But a decision had been made years ago that must be kept. Kept go matter the consequences because she was an element of good.

A canine barked from the opposite alley, disturbing his slip into meditation on his previous life, a life before he silenced hungry dogs and discovered bloody meat-cleavers that were not used to butcher livestock. Hands that strangled underbosses at six minutes to midnight were still able to relax on bare flesh when no longer encased in stained leather. The last time that Rorschach breathed was eight months ago; it was a scent that was not the familiar smell of unwashed costumes or the Owl's Nest or rusty iron swirling down moldy bathroom sinks. His familiarity with one scent had disappeared to the point that he could no longer recall it on command; instead, Rorschach came to know stenches that the majority of sane people would not choose to inhale every night.

He shivered as he sat on the crate, hunkered forward to watch the rain pool at his feet. The water traversed its way along familiar crevasses to the sewer which had been emitting a horrible misty odor for the past hour. He pocketed away the journal and pencil stub and stood, shaking his feet in hopes that the water sloshing inside would seep out. No such luck. Shoving hands deep into pockets containing now-disintegrated sugar cubes and other assorted materials necessary for his nightlife, Rorschach emerged from the alleyway.

Cars sped past, sending up torrents of frigid and polluted rainwater to pelt unsuspecting pedestrians huddled together for warmth against winter chills.

"Ironic."

Tonight, Rorschach would not deviate from his routine of killing blows and stumbling through doorways with gun limp at his side. He would obtain the remainder of the necessary cuts and bruises to call this a successful night out before a short and restless sleep.

Tomorrow, he may reconsider who to see and when to leave his sign behind.