A/N: I'm trying to get a feel for what it would be like on the other side of Rorschach's mask, because I think once I've got a better understanding of the physical the mental will follow more easily and help with characterization for a full-length fic I'm working on. It focuses less on his savageness and brutality, and more on his dark brooding and sort of morbid poetry. Hope you enjoy, though I'll admit that this one is more for me than for you.
The mask was hot. Almost unbearably so, especially given that it was that height of summer. Latex on a sweaty face was generally an unpleasant feeling. Walter had decided that this was probably what it was like to be eaten by a clam, or maybe some sort of fish. Tight, wet, hot, and rather smelly. The full suit and overcoat didn't help with overheating, but he found it put him in the perfect frame of mind for fighting crime. He was wearing three layers, including a scarf, overcoat, and gloves, in 90 degree weather. If someone looked at him funny, he felt eager to just grab them somewhere – anywhere – and just twist and wait for a tell-tale snap, crunch, or squelch. When he caught someone midway through an attempted rape – well, that was something else entirely.
The incessant itching and damp spots where sweat pooled were his constant companions. But he felt it was appropriate to simply feel so dirty. He was doing dirty work with dirty people, and when someone spends so much time brushing shoulders with the unclean, some of the filth is bound to rub off. It wasn't his job to be clean, just to clean up. Yes, it got uncomfortable. It was like wearing a pot-scrubber, and he often stripped down to find his skin rubbed raw by the material of his clothing. But he would never complain. This was what he relished. This was where he lived.
He found now that he could nearly identify individual boroughs based entirely on their smell. The Bronx was easily the dirtiest. The only thing that smelled more strongly than the raw sex from prostitution was the zoo, and that was often lost amidst the gunpowder, drugs, blood, and sewage. Residents complained that the Bronx having the filthiest crime was a stereotype, but Walter could testify that this was a stereotype based in fact. No place made his temper flare or his mood sour like the Bronx. Generally he steered clear of Manhattan if he had no specific purpose there. The "high class" crime the borough was wrought with was for the doctor bearing its name to deal with, but Walter was reasonably familiar with the smell of Manhattan: the park made it simply smell fresher than the rest of the city, but there was also the distinct tingle of natural gasses, a side effect of testing of new fast, safe, prototype airships. Walter didn't like it. It burned the nose and smelled like wealth. Brooklyn was little better, but with less clean air and more smog from factories. The waterfront's proximity to the ocean gave the region a refreshingly salty tang. Queens smelled of grease and, given its proximity to the Bronx, fear. It may as well have been burning leaves. Crime between the two boroughs often spilled over. It gave Walter satisfaction to know that here, "Rorschach" and "terror" were synonymous. Staten Island had no place with the rest of the city. A place for petty criminals, smelling of well-kept lawns and barbecues.
This was, of course, after he managed to pick smells beyond his own distinct odor. Walter was perfectly aware that those around him tried to be polite by not going any further than wrinkling their noses in disgust. As if he didn't know he stank. But his life was fast-paced. His job required him to work 10 hours a day to make rent, and he patrolled for an additional 8 every day as well (he hated to be cliché, but crime really didn't ever sleep). The remaining four hours necessary for sleep prevented him from washing except when it was necessary to hang on to his job. In between then, he did his best to drown the smell in cologne or aftershave, but it really just smelled like someone had spilt perfume into a pile of compost. But he would never complain. This was what he relished. This was where he lived.
The sounds of the city were like a symphony to Walter's ears, sequencing through highs and lows, implementing different sections in different parts. There was the traffic, cars rushing past, strained brakes singing their songs, horns blaring in chorus. The steady whine of their electric engines. In some regions there was laughter, often from children to young to realize that they were being brought up to be as disgustingly self-betraying as the merciless wretches who spawned them. In others, the gasps and moans of sexual stimulation, legitimate or otherwise, which Walter felt was akin to shoving something the small and pointy in to his ear. It was horribly uncomfortable before becoming extremely painful, and yet somehow he couldn't keep from at least cracking an uncomfortable smile. It tickled, somehow. In still other places, it was shouts of anger, greeting him like an old friend. And of course, as the city grew black, it began to choke and cough up the first screams of terror. All of the sounds were dumped into the blender of the city and frappéd into menagerie of noise.
It was distracting. Of course it was distracting. Walter was getting better with it, though. On quiet nights, he'd just sit atop roof, or just inside an alleyway and practice blocking out certain sounds. He could almost tune into a sound a busy city-block away now. But it was still a horrid thing to bear. He was plagued by headaches and migraines. When he tried to concentrate sometimes, the sounds would all mesh together and outright overwhelm him. In the day, his cover would nearly break a thousand times as he would hear a scream, or gunshot, and almost turn to defend the innocent when he would catch himself and remember why he would not. Why he could not. The rest of the day would be self-deprecating torture. But he would never complain. This what he relished. This was where he lived.
The sight from behind the mask was an entirely unique experience, and admittedly unnatural. He had almost gotten sick his first night behind it. He was unsure of the science that allowed him to see through the front of the mask that prevented others from looking through the other side. He could only look through the side with the swirling patterns, but that was like seeing the world through a twisted carnival mirror. The liquid, thankfully, did not distort anything. However, the pattern that fluxuated before his eyes was enrapturing. The dark and light patches shifted constantly, unendingly, but the world beyond could be seen past it. The constant motion, however, made it seem as though his head was swimming or that the world itself refused to hold one shape. Light and dark danced before his eyes without any regard for beat, or tempo, or any part of the music. It held its pattern for only a second before immediately dissolving again. And yet it was perfect. The world was always changing. Crime was always unpredictable. He would be unpredictable, too.
Unfortunately, his eyes were the only thing more distracting than his ears. In opportune shifting of his mask had resulted in more than one otherwise avoidable fist to the jaw. The factor of simple motion sickness from watching the blobs for too long had left him longing for an early night many times. The pattern simply took his attention too often. He had learned to see past it - eventually - but he still hadn't really got the hang of it just yet. It was hard, living behind his mask. But he would never complain. This was what he relished. This was where he lived.
Walter rose from the roof where he'd sat perched. He'd spent enough time lost in thought - he really ought to start keeping these sorts of musings in a journal or something - and he'd promised to meet Daniel. He gave a mock salute to Lady Liberty, trying so desperately to offer her torch to the city. No one could be blamed for trying. Then he turned, jumped from the roof, and plunged into the city. Plunged into the fear and anger and depression and hatred. It would be another long night of wiping the streets clean.
But he would never complain. This was what he relished. This was where he lived.
A/N: So, there it is. Feel free to leave your thoughts.
Oh! Now that I think of it, I'll use this opportunity to pose a question to the Watchmen-knowledgeable community. Those of you with your copy of the GN handy, grab it. Now, turn to Chapter IV, page 6, ninth panel (last on the page). Take note of the caption that reads, "A pulse flutters in her belly, beneath my cheek." Now, turn ahead to 14 and look at the third panel where Jon is shaking hands with JFK. You can clearly see Janey standing in the background, just to the left of JFK. You can also see two young children standing with her.
Are these supposed to be Jon's kids? If so, why do they seem to be far too old to be (assuming normal gestation period) 1 and 2 years old? Are they aging faster, or was the gestation period unnaturally short? Will they experience any side-effects as a result of being Jon's offspring?
Or am I just reading into this too deeply? Leave your thoughts, either on this little one shot or on my theory here, and thanks for reading!