*Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen in any way, shape or form. Only the plot and OC.

Author's Note:

This little story has been a chip on my shoulder for a while now so I decided to type it up. I'm not a hundred percent sure on where it's headed at this point so we'll just see where it takes us. Plot suggestions would be greatly appreciated and although I can't promise to get everything in there, I'll try my best and I'll consider everything! Remember, comments are GREATLY appreciated and definitely keep me going. Plus the way I work is, you comment me and I'll comment you right back! So without further achoo, here is my little Rorschach/OC story. Hopefully it doesn't suck balls, but you'll be the judge of that. Thank you for reading my little author's spiel!

P.S. I know a lot of people aren't too crazy about Rorschach hetero love stories, but I honestly don't give a shit. This was a hell of a lot of fun to write! Read at your own discretion ;)

Rorschach's Journal, September 8, 1985

Rorschach's Journal, September 8, 1985: "Roaming the rooftops, attempt to distance myself of the accumulated scent of sex, drugs, and deception that has festered and now lingers through the endless streets, but to no avail. A futile attempt at best, now realise. Descend among salt of the earth, the scattered human effluence that laces the grimy streets. Leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Whores hocking their diseased bodies, offering cheap, dirty pleasure decorate the streets like broken ornaments on a dead Christmas tree. Almost physically sickening. Simply ignore them, along with their subsequent appalled profanities in my direction. This city is a poison unto itself, a fatal disease, a plague... Night has now fallen completely over streets, a dark sheath to hide its degradation. However, so-called 'sheath' tends to emulate the dilapidated remnants of nobility. Sadly ironic..."

Rorschach trudged on through the dark streets, ears keen to the slightest sound of peril. So far, it was an oddly quiet evening. He'd be lying if he wasn't slightly disappointed. "Hurmm..." he muttered in his usual thick, ragged tone as he attempted to listen more intently, shoving his gloved hands further into his pockets. And there it was. Right on cue.

About a block and a half away, a trash can had been kicked. Hmmm...Perhaps some retched low-life taking out his petty problems on an inanimate object. Could also be assault...or kidnap. And with that, he quickened his pace. The thought of kidnap made Rorschach's bowels churn in revulsion. It reminded him of all those years ago, back when he took on that first case. Blair Roche was her name...so young. He felt a dull pang of sorrow deep within his chest. It had been years since he last thought of that night...the night Walter died, after which there was only Rorschach. He became fully aware of how inhumane mankind could be...he finally understood that day, and dealt with it. God was not to blame for society's issues, but rather society itself. Blaming a higher power was far easier than taking responsibility for one's own wrong doings and it was up to Rorschach to bestow unto the unjust the punishment they deserved. Then another thought came to his mind.

He had nearly forgotten about another kidnapping; one he'd managed to foil. It was several years ago. He had come across a group of thugs in an alleyway, attempting to make off with a little girl. She was a sickly looking thing, battered and bruised, most likely caused by domestic abuse. She reminded him so much of a young Walter, one whose mind was still naive to the ghastly reality outside his own hellish childhood. After taking care of the thugs with ease (learning close to nothing about their motives in the process, at least nothing he could work with), he turned to leave, assuming the young one had already fled. He was slightly startled to hear a hard thud, and spun around to see her still form on the ground, clearly a failed attempt to get up. If he'd left her there, she would most likely be found once more and be 'taken care of'. Normally, victims in these situations especially at this hour were adults, and could take care of themselves after his interventions. But she was a child; an unconscious one at that. Something had to be done, this he knew. It would be a great burden going against his instincts, which were simply to leave as quickly and quietly as possible, and an even greater burden to see to it that she was in a safe place.

With a weary "Hurmmm..." he made his way over to her to make sure she was at least conscious. Perhaps if she had the strength to stand, she would simply run away from him out of fear. But as he knelt down, she made no movements, save for laboured, shallow breathing and heavy flickering eyelids, most likely due to some previous over-exertion. He hesitantly reached out to grab her shoulder and shake it lightly to nudge her awake. It was making him extremely uncomfortable, and he felt it was border lining inappropriate. If she hadn't woken up a moment sooner, he would have turned to leave. She slowly opened her eyes, looked at his face for a moment and gave a slight gasp. Perhaps her fear will trigger some adrenaline rush and she'll run, he thought hopefully. "Safe now...they're gone", he spoke in an attempt to coax her out of her daze. Her face went from shocked to grateful as she whispered: "Thank you..." and fell comatose once more. It was a pretty big shock that she hadn't been frightened of him. In fact, her look was almost...idolizing.

He quietly shook off any minute feeling of pride and hauled her over his shoulder. He didn't like this. Not one bit. But the sooner she was safe, the sooner he could try and forget about this whole ordeal. For a girl of her age, though (ten or eleven was his guess) she was very light. Abused and malnourished. She'd probably been trying to run away from home. Even if he had known where she lived, he couldn't take her there. He needed help with this one, and he turned to the only person he thought could help him at this point.

Of course, Dan Dreiberg was a little more than shocked to see Rorschach with a child slung over his shoulder standing at his doorstop. "Well...just gonna stand there gawking...or are you gonna help me?" he demanded curtly more than asked. After reviewing the situation, they thought it was best to leave her at an orphanage, somewhere outside the city to deter any search attempts. The process took less than an hour thanks to Archie, and in less than two hours, Rorschach was back on the streets, pretending that night had never happened.

Actually, he had done a pretty good job of doing so. Several years, and this was the first time his thoughts were pulled back to that night. He really needed a distraction. Then, he remembered exactly where he was going and remembered why he was going there. And with that, his mind was clear, and he broke from his walking pace into a sprint, gathering enough momentum to leap to a fire escape above. He climbed to the roof, walked to the other side, peered down to the alley below, and sure enough, he was right. Kidnap.

'September eighth, 1985, my first day in the city in nearly eight years. And although I am completely alone in this metropolis, it seems...friendlier somehow. Well, considering the last time I had scurried down this very same street, bathed in the flickering glow of these same streetlights, any loathsome hellhole seems like a "friendlier place". In retrospect, keeping a diary, I mean, 'personal journal', isn't such a bad idea...it certainly gives me something to do sitting in this old, forgotten apartment. Exactly how long forgotten? I'm not sure. Certainly long enough that I need a piece of paper with the address scribbled down to find my way back. The day I stepped foot out of here was also the last time I had seen any of the people in it as well, save for two or three visits from Ben my older brother, which could have led to more frequent visits, along with an invite to move in with him once he moved out of here, but any hope of that happening was completely extinguished when I found out that he'd been shot seven years ago. I was twelve...yet another routine, drive-by shooting, and yet another innocent caught in the crossfire. No funeral was held, but I'd always pray for him, despite the fact that religion no longer held significance in my life. I mean, what 'God' would let all this happen, all this carnage and debauchery to consume this city? I lost faith years ago, but I've always held my brother near and dear to me, even in death. He was the only one who I loved and whom also loved me in return. He's the only one whose face I can remember vividly. He was my protector, my best friend, my hero, and in many ways more than the real ones were, my mother and father. Seeing me back in this city, on this block, in the apartment of this very building, well...he'd probably be furious, but I'm sure if he knew the circumstances, Ben would forgive me...'.

Renée Arnaud closed the little diary with a disheartened sigh. "Enough for tonight, I suppose" she silently breathed with a faint smile of reminiscence, slowly getting up from the corner she was sitting in to walk over to the full body mirror, each shoeless step giving way to a mild groan from the creaking floorboards. She stood in front of it, her eyes wandering from the small cracks in the corner, to a dark green stain, and finally resting on her own reflection. She stood at a short 5' 4, to which she gave an annoyed huff. She always kept a slim figure, not that it was up to her or anything. Spending one's childhood in an orphanage didn't necessarily call for gourmet meals. Or three squares a day for that matter. Had it not been for genetics, she would have been a short, pale stick figure. She had adopted her french mother's light beige skin tone and fair curves. She had always been ostracized by the other girls at the orphanage for her 'perfect body'. It stopped bothering her after a while, but they'd never know that she would trade what little she did have for someone who would love her for her inner beauty. Scanning over her face, she looked over her symmetrical features. The bright green of her eyes in contrast to her chestnut brown hair was breathtaking. Despite her gifts of aesthetic beauty, she didn't care for any of it. She didn't wear make-up or wear fitting clothes. The last thing she wanted to do was to give the other girls a real reason to bully her. Besides, it wasn't like there was anyone around to teach her that beauty was something to be nurtured, not to be ashamed of. As a result, she would shy away from anyone who would compliment her looks, politely thanking them, but inwardly burning with trepidation.

She gave another dejected sigh before running her fingers through her dark hair, removing any stray knots. She straightened her shorts, pulled down the hemline of her loosely fitted long-sleeved shirt, gave her hair one last smooth-over, and headed for the door. Or she was about to, when she looked out the window and noticed that night had fallen over the city. She gave an exasperated sigh. She really needed to go out for some fresh air, but she knew as well as anyone else who lived here that walking through the streets at this hour was a death sentence...under any other circumstances, she wouldn't even glance in the direction of the door at this hour, but it was different. This place had been hell on earth for her from her ninth birthday until the day she decided she could no longer stand it. There were long gaps in which she couldn't remember anything from her childhood; something her psychiatrist would tell her was called a 'repressed memory'. She certainly had quite a few of those. One thing she could never forget however was the very last day she had spent there. The day she decided to run away from it all.

She remembered grasping the door knob, throwing the door open, and simply running. She ran out of the building, turned on the sidewalk and ran down the street as fast as she could. She remembered the burning in her lungs, the aching of her sides, the feeling of wanting to throw up, tears impeding her vision, her calves going numb out of sheer exertion...but it didn't mean a thing, as long as she was out of there. She also remembered being chased by an older man, most likely her father, but he soon grew tired, and it was simply her and the soft caress of the streetlights against her running form. She had run until she had no idea where she was, and then...She passed out. Even in the evening, with dozens among dozens of people scurrying to bus stops and train stations in a rush to get home, nobody stopped to look down and notice an eleven year-old girl on the ground, motionless on the city street huddled against a brick wall. Well, it was either that, or they just didn't care.

Later that evening when the streets were clear of any people, a gang of thugs happened upon her still body. By now she was conscious, but simply in pain from all the exertion. She could do nothing to stop them as they hauled her away. She couldn't kick, she couldn't scream. One man looked at her as they were taking her into an alley and simply said with an almost pitied look on his face, "Sorry about this...Just tyin' up loose ends." Another gang member quickly shut him up, but she couldn't hear what they were saying anymore. She was terrified. Why did she have to run? Why today? She didn't have to run so far, and now because she did, she was going to be killed for it! It wasn't fair! It just wasn't fair...

Tears streamed down her face as she inwardly scolded herself, but she was abruptly pulled out of her misery when one thug took a sharp blow to the back. He let out a deafening cry of pain and fell to the ground, letting go of her left leg. It was the one who had pitied her. The other gang members dropped her in unison as they put up their guard to face the invisible threat. She fell with a hard thud, and groaned in pain. Acting on instinct, she rolled herself until she was against the wall and hid behind a garbage can. Whatever this new threat was, she wasn't going to wait and see if it was on her side.

And then she saw him. Ever since his re-emergence after the Keene Act, her and Ben had kept every newspaper article about him, any mention of his name, his pictures, were all added to her scrapbook. She had two heroes. One was her brother, obviously...and the other was him, her saviour. Rorschach. She had only dreamed of ever seeing him in person, and now he was saving her life. Renée was over-whelmed with happiness and gratitude as she watched her masked defender descend gracefully from the fire escape to face her captors. She wasn't worried about him, oh no. She knew he could defend himself and then some. She was simply ecstatic to see Rorschach in action! She watched intently as he anticipated every move, matching it with a hard blow, followed by cries of pain from the gang members, until there was all but one left. It was the one who had spoken to her, now standing on wobbling, terrified legs as Rorschach approached. She watched giddily as she waited for that final inevitable punch to the gut.

But her face slowly swung from ecstasy, to slight confusion as he took the thug's hand, the ink of his mask warping like a lava lamp. And then, he spoke: "Who put you up to this..." His voice was gruff and hoarse, what she expected, but it was his tone that was unsettling. It was calm...too calm. Her gaze shifted to the thug, who was simply terrified, almost as if he knew what Rorschach would do to him if he didn't talk. "I-I-I dunno ho-honestl-ly...p-please don't, I'm j-just a runt, they don't tell m-me noth-nothin'..." She could not for the life of her understand what had this man so shaken up. Indeed, he was cornered by the vigilante, but the man looked as though he had a gun pointed at his head. Rorschach pulled her out of her reverie for the second time that night, and then she knew...she simply watched with wide eyes and a hand over her mouth to muffle her horrified gasps, as he took the man's finger and broke it with a loud, wet popping sound. "Who put you up to this...", his demeanour just as calm as before. She wanted to run and hide (that seemed to be the only thing she could ever do) but she was afraid of attracting unwanted attention to herself. She watched until Rorschach had broken each and every one of his fingers. It turned out that the man's brother met a similar fate in his meeting with the vigilante. It was also apparent that the man truly didn't know who the king pin of this whole situation was, only that she was to be used as some kind of recompense for her father's doings, or something like that.

But she would worry about that later. Right now, she felt as though she was in a locked cage with a lion...and the cage was getting smaller. She watched in horror as the man convulsed violently for a brief moment, then pain took him over completely and he fell comatose. The jumble of emotions scrambling through her were suddenly wired down to desperation and fear...but no longer fear of Rorschach. The fact that he was walking away made her feel helpless again, unaware of what to do or where to go from this point on. Bet he'd know. With that thought in mind, she got up quickly and wanted to run over to catch up with him, but then felt the shock of pain through her legs. She let out a loud moan of pain, and tried to inch in his direction, but it was no use. The shock that ran through her legs elicited a sharp gasp, and she fell to the ground with a loud thud. The last thing she remembered was his approaching footsteps. He turned her over, said something incoherent, and she blacked out...but not before she got a good look at his face. The image of those shifting blots against his mask, his hat and trench coat, along with the feel of his hand on her shoulder and his knee brushing against her hip. She remembered it so vividly, as if it had happened yesterday. And every time she did, it brought a faint smile to her face.

After that, she remembered winding up in an orphanage in Queens, and that's where she spent the remainder of her life, that is until recently. The building was demolished to make way for a freeway of some sort and she had nowhere else to go. She didn't have much money, and no legal documents or any family that she was aware of, so her last resort was to move back to Manhattan, track down her childhood home, and hope it was deserted. She soon found that that would be a lot harder than she had previously anticipated. She found herself standing in the middle of a side-walk, asking strangers if they could help her find her way around. If there was one thing that hadn't changed, it was the apathy and downright rude nature of most of the city dwellers. Luckily for her, a homeless man she had approached gladly pointed her in the right direction. With a grateful thank you, and a quick upward glance at the big sign that rested on his shoulder, she made her way towards the place she once called home. For once, luck was on her side and she casually moved into the abandoned building with nothing but a backpack and six hundred dollars in cash. She knew that wouldn't get her very far, so she had to get a job. For now though, she would try to get her thoughts straightened out and figure out what she was to do with her life.

She blinked a few times, pulling out of her reminiscence, and realized she had already started making her way down the street. The very same street, actually, that she'd travelled down many years ago. Things had hardly changed, save for a painted door every now and again...and those same four words in succession that plastered nearly every building. She scoffed as she read 'Who watches the Watchmen?' for the hundredth time and decided she was sick of it. But she couldn't help but drift back into memory, back when she had come face to face with her hero. She stopped walking and stood in front of yet another set of graffiti. "I wonder if he's still around..." she thought aloud, her first sincere smile in the longest while.

"For your sake, I hope he is..."

A/N: Well there you have it. The first chapter! The second is already typed up and ready to go, but still needs some revision. That should be up within the next day. But first, I want to know what you all think about this first chapter. Thanks for reading! 3 :)