Requiem for an Illusion

A.N; *sigh*, I never actually intended to do a sequel. But, I've fallen in love with these two, and i couldn't just leave you all hanging. Wanted to, but after a while, i decided, well what the hell? right? haha, So, here is what i have. I appreciate any reviews, as always.

Disclaimer; I own nothing Watchmen related. bla, bla, bla.

Updated and slightly revised (03/1/11). I hope you enjoy. ; )

Prologue:

"Time discovers Truth." - Seneca

Time: A relative figure.
Einstein's theory of special relativity states that two events, simultaneous for one observer, may not be simultaneous for another observer if the observers are in relative motion.
I was a child when he became famous. I was following in my fathers footsteps; going to be a watchmaker. I knew I was talented–each challenge my father gave me intrigued me–I've never been so familiar with the way something works than I was then.
It's different now. The same concept, though, all things fitting together in a certain order. Time works that way. It can only go forward. It can never go backward. Relativity–space and time conjoined.
I know that time works in a straight line. And yet–to be candid–I can see forward and backward. My fate, unlike others, is not a blind struggle, it is laid out before me to observe and to determine my route from there. I have a choice. A choice that no one else can understand, one that no one else can make.

I do not know why I did it. Perhaps Rorschach's words struck home on some chord. Perhaps if I had cared from the start, none of this would have happened. But its not the past I can change. Not human nature. Only the future. Only my future.

I stood there, looking at what I had done; staring at the snow. I felt no cold air–no wind or snow upon my body. I did not feel such things, such human sensations.
I did not feel regret as I stared at the empty snow before me. Rorschach's felted hat fluttered to the ground, resting finally by my feet: I followed it with my eyes, entranced by its simple euphemism.

Daniel had cried out upon Rorschach's disappearance, as soon as the repercussion hit him. I had known he would. I expected it.

"Christ, Jon." He lamented. "He had a life to go home to." Daniel–still on his knees in the snow–shivered, but not from the cold. "He had a child on the way." He whispered, a tear falling from his eyes. "I promised I'd bring him home to her." The words barely escape his lips as he stared at the spot where Rorschach had last stood. He thought I hadn't heard. But I did. I hear everything. I may not have understood everything, but I didn't need to.
Daniel was sudden then, uneasily wavering before he rushed back inside. I remained in my spot. I had been there before; seconds before. I was used to the déjà vu by then.

So much blood was spilt that day. So much destruction in my name. Perhaps it was all I could do to spare a single entity.

Time. It was a relative figure. Simultaneous for one, while for the other, was tediously inconsistent.

Chapter One: Awakening
(November 1st, 1985. 12:04 pm)

The pain subsided, the shattering feeling easing from his bones. Walter let out a breath of relief as he opened his eyes. A wave of nausea swept over him as it took seconds for him to realize what had happened. Huh? He glanced around, his limbs weary as they relaxed their clinched nature.
Walter checked his left hand; the hand that had last held his face. Rorschach's mask was missing. He must have dropped it before Manhattan had raise his large, blue hand. Manhattan. What did he do…?
His eyes did not linger on his cracked, weatherworn hands, but trailed to the people that had gathered around him, staring. Walter blinked at them.
He was in the middle of a park. There was a slight, warm breeze, and the air was humid: he was standing–no longer in an inch of snow–but in a quarter of grass.

Manhattan had transported him. He cursed under his breath. That naked, blue communist had transported him.
Walter frowned as he gazed around, he didn't recognize where he was at. He didn't recognize it at all. The sound of an ocean lapping against the shore came to his ears, seagulls cawing at passerby's: This definitely wasn't New York.

He began to feel uncomfortable as the nausea lifted. Walter didn't like everyone staring at him like he was some animal in a zoo. He forced his feet forward, pushing his way through the small crowd. He ignored their curious inquiries of his sudden arrival.
How dare that little blue… Rorschach trailed off, cursing. His hands clinched together, his eyes darting to each landmark within his sights: just where the hell was he? Rorschach was starting to get angry. Why didn't he kill me? Walter came suddenly to a road, and he didn't look before jutting out onto the pavement. A red truck slammed on the breaks to keep from hitting him.

The driver–enraged–leaned out of his window. "Watch where you're goin' you, friggin' loon." He yelled, shaking his fist at Walter.

Walter rushed across the rest of the street, eyeing the driver of the truck before frantically searching for a road sign: He needed to get back to New York.

Maybe Manhattan had realized that Veidt couldn't get away with what he was doing. Maybe it was all a show; making it look like Rorschach had died. But if he was some part of this master plan, wouldn't the blue communist send Rorschach somewhere Manhattan could easily get to him? Not some wide open park… The worse that any possibly organized plan sounded in his head, the more he worried.

As soon as his eyes laid on the nearest street sign, his stomach dropped: 42nd avenue. His–Teri's–newsstand was located on 42nd street in New York. His throat tightened; that part of the city had been destroyed in the blast…Teri had been working her shift there that afternoon.
Against his will, his eyes started to mist. He ducked into a back alleyway between two short–yet sickeningly colorful–buildings. Resting his back against a dumpster, Walter made sure he was out of the public eye.

Teri was gone. It didn't matter where he was, because he'd never get to see her again. He slid down the dumpster, his feet skidding on the damp ground. He couldn't stop the wrenches in his chest. Rorschach wanted to scold him for such weak feelings, for being so pathetic, but he held back. He knew better. He knew that they had both lost someone that meant more to him than anyone else had.
Walter placed his head into his gloved hands; they smelled of that detergent that Teri had used. His shoulders shook as he fell further into despair. A few stray tears rolled down his cheek, but he didn't sob. As the emotions started to pour out of him, the only sound that came from his lips was unrecognizable from a dry cough.

Rorschach on looked with furious eyes. It wasn't only Teri's death that made him irate; it was half of New York's. He sat back, anger and resentment in his eyes.

Veidt wouldn't see him coming. Rorschach would strike fast, maybe even recklessly; but Rorschach didn't care, he wasn't just going to sit by and watch while Veidt rebuilt New York–while he denied knowledge of Manhattan's apparent destructive abilities.

Walters coughs of melancholy slowed. He started to breath easier.

Rorschach's eyes caught on something within the alleyway. Perhaps a disease-ridden rat. He guessed it didn't matter where Manhattan had transported him; one way, or another, he'd still get to Veidt. It wasn't like the purple-loving millionaire was just going to disappear off the face of the planet.
Rorschach smiled, internally. Even if Adrian did vanish, he would still find him. Veidt wouldn't get away with what he did, and Rorschach was going to make sure of that.

(November 25th, 1986. 10:00pm)

Rorschach's Journal, November 25th, 1986.
Finally reached NYC. Took nearly a year to get back. damn blue atom bomb transported me all the way to the west coast. haven't figured out why. will investigate further.
don't like the memories that came back. my eyes scan the surrounding damage and rebuilt structures. Teri's body within soon forgotten ruins. her blood spilled upon the filthy, dirt ridden sidewalk. spilled like a dog to be put down. spilled with everyone else's.
Veidt still working to rebuild gaping hole within NY. sad, really. naïve little children are watching his commercials, reading his books, each so easily sucked into his lies. into his corruption. I wont. I wont fall for his nonsense. not sure what I will do.
don't have a costume. face destroyed at Karnak. coat barely survived. face was irreplaceable. doesn't matter, will find a way to break down Veidts foundations, to expose his lies. will let the people of the world see his bloodied hands. city still disgusting. city still in rubbles, even after so many months. Veidts plan didn't work as well as he thought it would.

Rorschach shook his foot free of a fly-away newspaper, letting it flutter away from him in the chilly night air. December was nearing once again in the shuttering darkness; nearly two years since Teri and him had met.
Teri. Her name still resonated within his skull; a dull, thudding pain in that never seemed to cease. The on-going grief of her death had mostly passed, leaving his soul as it was before they had met, if not a little emptier inside. He'd refused to let his thoughts linger on her death. Something had to be done with Adrian, and if Rorschach didn't do it, he was afraid that no one would. It wasn't easy–trying to forget her–but in the end, it would happen. He just needed a little more time.

Rorschach pocketed his hands in the worn, second-hand cargo jacket that he'd picked up on the journey here. It had seen better days, he knew, as he fingered the small hole in the left pocket.

With a pang of regret, he remembered running that very hand over the memorial wall that Veidt had put up in the center of the gaping crater of New York City. His rough fingers had traced over the engraved names, eagerly searching for Teri's. He wasn't sure why he was so frantic to find her name there; it would only serve as a reminder of her death. And yet, not finding her name was no less comforting. Had no family. No one to know she was here. No one to put her name on that wall…
Walter had then proceeded to flip through the phone book, impatiently thumbing through the blotted yellow pages, through to the 'Hursts'. His heart had sunk even deeper in abyss when not even a single name presented itself to him.
He had no doubt that Teri had died during the blast–but that single representation of hope had echoed through him when he arrived in NYC had truly died when he found no trace of her existence.

Rorschach sighed, his warm breath fogging the air as he passed it. He absolutely had to come to terms on her death. It would mean the difference of how he dealt with Adrian.

A person walking by, roughly brushed against his shoulder. Rorschach pivoted in his step to briefly look at the man; he offered no recognition of Rorschach. He blinked, continuing on into the night. Rorschach had been in NYC exactly 5 hours and not a single person stopped him on the street–not a single police officer threatened him. He knew they had not forgotten him, as he'd seen several copy-cat costumes in the last hour–people portraying him, all choppily dressed. But why hadn't they recognized him?

Rorschach frowned, walking through lamplight on this moonless night, his shadow dancing across the adjacent building walls like a flame to its wick. His name and picture had once been plastered all over every newspaper in the city; had people truly gotten so caught up in everything else around them to forget who he was? Rorschach absently shrugged; not like he didn't mind, it would make it easier to find a place to stay.
To one day be publicly dishonored and then be overlooked the next, felt odd to Rorschach; but he knew better than to take advantage of this ignorance. He'd have to be careful in his rousing here in New York–someone one day might detect him and then Walter's plans would shatter beneath him.

A figure in the shadows of an alleyway caught his eye. They were lurking–waiting. Rorschach stopped, taking a step back to gaze in the alley. The angle of the flickering lamplight allowed him to see perfectly who it was. His first reaction to the brown trench coat, fedora and mask, was disgust. This was the third impersonator tonight. Rorschach wouldn't have minded, but it was unnerving to see himself standing before himself. It was an funny feeling he didn't relish having.

Walter was about to continue his wanderings–uncaringly–when he caught the distinct circling of the black blots upon the white canvas. He stared, tensing. That face was not some cheaply crafted sheet with marker plastered to the surface: no, that was the real thing. His hands clinched into fists.

That was his face. Someone must have gotten a hold of it somehow.

The person was crumbling something within their gloved hands. Rorschach waited, tilting his head slightly, pondering his next move…He couldn't just let them get away with such an impersonation. He took in their figure: They were shorter than him, maybe by an inch or so, but it was difficult to determine the exact bulk of the person, considering that the trench coat they were wearing was rather concealing.

It was then that the person–presumably male–tilted his head, looking directly at Rorschach. They exchanged glances. Then his impersonator made the first move.