Title: Decay
Author: Chackers
Characters/Pairing: None (slight Roschach/OC)
Rating: T (due to mentions of drugs and prostitution)
Disclaimer: Do not own Watchmen.
The area was a hell-hole, a thriving hive of crime and debauchery. All adorned by the mosaique of the obscenely coloured neon lights, which Roschach could see through the mesh of fabric. He made his way along the street, ignoring the crushed empty beer cans or the iridescent puddles beneath his feet.
A pimp in front of him screamed vulgarities at a passing car. A dealer passed on discreet little packets of fine white powder. A gunshot was heard in the distance.
The city was a museum of sins, showcasing its decaying wares with no shame or humility. Roschach notes, observing with cold and detached eyes. He is astounded by the normalcy of the proceedings, that people were had grown used to them, like one would grow to tolerate an old, festering wound which would not heal.
He draws the trench coat tighter around his frame, and strides onward. He is stopped by a young woman, in her mid 20s, who blocks him with the air of someone driven to desperation.
"Sir – "she pauses, slightly taken aback by the myriad of patterns on his face.
"50 dollars, sir, for a whole night --" she pleads, voice breaking slightly, her throat probably raw from encounters with men who paid and did not give a shit "or 40, if you like."
Vermin, he thinks, he condemns without further thought. Stepping aside to move away, the prostitute grasps his arm and presses herself to his back, with all the tenacity of discarded gum.
Roschach feels the sick! reed-thin body against him, smells the sick! odour of sex and filth and sweat and shit. The hand on him was like a vice, far too reminiscent of his mother when she pulled him along like a dog on a leash.
"I'll make it good" she rasped, head tilted at a grotesque angle, looking like a broken doll rather than an invitation. Her nostrils flared, the way his mother did just before she hit him.
He backed away as her features began to melt and swirl into something distinctly malevolent and monstrous, Sylvia Kovacs reached for him.
He pushed her and ran, like the little boy he was 20 odd years ago. Feeling a mixture of fear and a streak of desire and a burning need for revenge, he wants to take out the revolver in his coat and blast the prostitutes and the Sylvias and the pimps and the Charlies to oblivion.
All the women were behind him, barely dressed and shrieking at him. He could not comprehend them, their collective voices coming through as a shrill, high-pitched noise. And for a brief moment of paranoia, he thinks they are out to get him, to get him and push him into the gutter like the filth and oh god the filth.
Roschach stumbles into an alley and resides against the graffiti-covered wall, he bends and feels a burning sensation along his gullet and tastes the acidic bile in his mouth. He pukes, the vomit staining his face.
But then he knows, it was clearer then ever, that he needs to do this. For there was right and wrong in this world, as clear as the black and white patterns on his face, constantly revolving, shifting, but always there. The world needs to be rid of all the filth, and he needs to confront the demons that haunt him still.
A/N: Hey. I'm very new to fandom and this is my first fic. Please review!