Hey, guys, I'm back again with Chapter 2, which is longer than the previous one. This chapter is almost entirely one-perspective, but lots of stuff happens. Hope you guys like it.
Note: I'm probably walking on a borderline M here because a few instances of the dialogue is very explicit other than the curse words. I hope to never cross completely into M territory, but who knows.
Chapter 2: A Man Alone
Rorschach's Journal
January 31st, 1984
Was remembering days when traveling was easier. They poison our streets. They mock our system. They are a cancer. Cops won't do anything to stop them. Too apathetic. Only want paychecks. What world is this where the guardians do not guard? Where the watchmen do not watch? Must promise that darkness shall not win.
They are everywhere.
The journal was interesting. It was a window into the life of the infamous vigilante, Rorschach, who had disappeared more than 20 years ago. This journal was practically the only thing that kept his memory alive. It was strange, really, as the words, old as they were, seemed to jump right off the page at him.
The man sounded obsessive. Almost psychotic. From browsing alone, it looked like it covered about two years, chronicling every few days in the life of the vigilante. Maybe this was just one of many journals, and if this one fell into Seymour's hands 24 years ago, then it must be the most important one. Ironically, Dan found himself agreeing with most of Rorschach's points, about society and its ills. Today's society was just harder to analyze and diagnose. It still had the same problems, of course.
Dan put the journal away as his boss strolled into the office. A fat man whose large belt looked like it was the only thing keeping him from spilling all over the place, turning into a droopy pile of waste. Today was his off day, but the boss had called him into the office anyway. Since Dan did not have much to do, he agreed to come in and see if he could get extra pay.
"There you are," the dispatch said. "Lenny got into an accident, and the company is suing the other driver for it. Look, I need you out again tonight."
Dan shrugged. "Extra pay?"
"No," replied the fat man. "You'll be given another day off the job sometime into the week. Look, just do this for me, alright? And stop bustin' my balls about extra pay and all that shit. You practically swim in funds right now because you barely spend any of it."
"Surely, extra effort costs a bit more?"
"What the hell are you being paid for? You're getting normal rate! Jesus, if you stop your bitching we might get something done around here."
Dan nodded in submission to the aggression of his boss. "Okay, alright. Fine."
"Oughta kick you out. Jesus Christ," the boss sighed. "All right. Get outta here. We'll sort out the rest of your schedule."
Giving another nod, he walked out the door, only to hear his boss mutter a few derogatory statements.
"Fucking chinks always want more money," he mumbled lowly. "Better off hiring a spic."
And he had to take it. Dan was given plenty of trouble for his race in the city. Out of sheer hate or self satisfaction, others didn't mind making fun of him because he was rarely ever responsive. Whores, especially, would make coarse, racial (and sexual) remarks when he ignored them on the street, and thugs would make allegations that they would kill him with their "guns" when he wasn't looking. Those street punks have probably never even held a gun in their short little lives. Dan knew the power behind an M4A1 carbine. He knew what it felt like to fire from a perfectly new USP. He knew what it could do to lives.
Sighing, he kept the journal in his pocket and continued to his cab. Upon looking at the cabs for selection, he realized that his wasn't here. Had someone accidentally borrowed his? He looked around, not knowing what to do, and then stared down at his keys. The boss had given him someone else's keys. For the moment, he was frustrated and disgruntled, wondering why the boss would do that to him. It made him feel like a doormat.
He matched the number on his keys with the car number and walked over to the taxi. It was unkempt, the leather seats having horrible tears in them and the inside having a musty stench. Sickened but willing, he opened the car door and entered inside, feeling as though he had just stepped into a germ pool. He wasn't too crazy about keeping clean, but this was too dirty for him. However, before he could get out and clean the vehicle, the dispatch began yelling at him through the radio.
"What the hell are you still doing here, Lee? You're supposed to be gone by now!"
Dan inserted the keys and started the car, the engine sputtering like no one had even looked at it for months. As he left, he picked up the radio and asked some questions.
"Where's my cab?"
There was a long pause before dispatch responded. "What?"
"Johnson, where's my cab?" he asked almost lifelessly. "It isn't here."
"Oh," Johnson replied. "Well, see…Lenny was the one who had his shift this afternoon. And his car wouldn't start so I gave him yours for the day."
A sinking feeling submerged him. His shift was already starting off horribly, and he could not imagine it getting any worse.
"And he crashed it, didn't he?"
"No, he got crashed into," the boss asserted almost threateningly. "And that'll be enough from you, kid. I've got enough shit on my plate for the night, and I don't need you adding more to the pile."
Dan sounded calm as he exited the garage and headed out into the streets. "That was my cab, Johnson."
"I'll get you another one! Just stop your bitching! You never bitch at me and now you're breaking my balls about every little thing. Just shut up and do your goddamn shift."
December 15th, 2009
My taxi is gone. Lenny borrowed it and fucked it up. I tried to get some closure with Johnson, but he was unresponsive, and even shooed me away like I was some kind of nagging child, or a small scavenger that had to wait its turn to get food. Johnson assured me that it was an accident, but I doubt it. Lenny was a heavy drinker, and he was a buddy of Johnson's. I must be getting the short end of the stick because I wasn't a friend.
This taxi smells. It stinks of drugs, sex, and even blood. Just like New York.
Read the journal today. It documents an entire two years, from 1984-85. It belonged to Rorschach, the vigilante who terrorized crime in the New York streets for years. It was men like him that kept the scum afraid. Fear is the only motivator here, and if a criminal could not fear death, then he must accept it. Maybe this is another sign. I can feel it growing. It sleeps within me like a time bomb. It hibernates like a predator waiting to wake.
"Sir, head over to 125 South Union Avenue, please," said a middle-aged woman, probably a day worker, headed home to the kids. It was a middle-class neighborhood, so he wasn't getting any trouble from the natives.
He nodded. "Okay."
Dan had not shifted in his seat ever since getting in it. The vehicle felt very alien because it wasn't his, so he felt an irritating discomfort loom over him every few minutes or so. The entire time he was tense, and all he looked forward to was the end of his shift. He wanted to read more of the journal.
"Oh my God," the woman suddenly said. "Please stop here. Please stop."
Confused, he pulled over to the sidewalk to the honks of other cars and looked over his shoulder to the woman. She looked very disturbed for some reason. After she muttered to herself a few times, he sighed tried his best to help her.
"Can I help you?" he asked, offering his assistance.
She looked at him, surprised by his seemingly out-of-the-blue question and gave him a repulsed expression and threw a few dollars in through the window. "Here. Just take this. I have to go."
Her words were hastily spoken, though he couldn't register why. Why was she in such a hurry to leave? It didn't make sense to him that people would just leave the cab so easily when he could drive them to their destination.
"Just tell me what's wrong."
"I'll tell you what's wrong," she said. "Bringing your shitty cabs up from whoretown, that's what's wrong!"
She left the cab and slammed the door, obviously sickened with herself that she had entered the cab earlier. He was still bewildered and confused, now suddenly frustrated that these people were so rude. Dan watched his customer march onwards toward her destination, losing him the only fare he's had tonight.
Curious as to why she was so angry with him, he drove the vehicle down an alleyway behind some apartments and stopped, hoping to get a look at the problem in the backseat. Lenny never did take great care of this car, anyway, and now he was getting the punishment for doing so. He opened the backseat door and upon glancing at it for the first time, he felt sickened. There were heroin syringes resting on the bottom, bloodstains on the seats themselves, month old food well-preserved just under the seats, and even a used condom on the floor, looking as though it had just been used yesterday.
Dan backed his head out from the cab to get a whiff of fresh air. For a moment, he felt like he was going to puke. The stuff didn't smell because Lenny probably sprayed his vehicle with aerosol formulas all the time. When he took another moment to catch his breath and composure, he looked around and decided that these seats were too ruined and scarred for just cleaning. Lenny had given up on it months ago, it seems. He looked around for another moment, and when he was eyeing the front seat again, he noticed a bump on the floor of the passenger's side. Moving his inspection from the backseat to the front, he placed his hand on the bump and tapped it a few times to make sure that it wasn't a part of the car. It seemed to be somewhat solid.
When he noticed that the mat could be detached, he pulled it over and when the entire mat was pulled off, all was revealed to him.
Kilos. Five, to be exact. Five kilos of heroin in the taxi cab. Suspicions zipped through his mind like bullets, and he was wondering if his own taxi company was a front for a heroin ring. It had to be. Though he wasn't sure, he was shocked to know that the corruption was so close to home. It wasn't in the back alleyways of Harlem or the dank streets of Brooklyn. It wasn't inside the biker bars or strip clubs or restaurant fronts. The gangsters didn't need that anymore. It was everywhere.
Rorschach's Journal
February 5th, 1984
Saw Dreiberg in the streets today. He couldn't see my face. He was ever committed enough. Never forceful enough. Couldn't last. Cops in the city just the same. Can't find location of missing woman. Have put several criminals in hospital. Will put more. Until they give in. Until they compromise.
I fear for us and for our existence. We are needed. Only ones committed left are me and Comedian. Works for government now, with all those slimy political pundits and their selfish agendas. Thought entire world is joke. Fought anyway. Fought for us. Never gave scum a chance. The world needs men like that. Men who never blink, never compromise, and never surrender. Must set example for others to follow.
He was going to drive to the New York Times and have a chat with Seymour about the journal. He needed the opinion of a man who knew one of the best concealed secrets in history.
December 15th, 2009
I'm driving to the NY Times right now. I have come close to this city's sins. Uncovered several kilos of heroin in the cab today. I feel dirty, like I'm some sort of courier for the drug lords. I must research. If I am to take action, I must be smarter than a vicious criminal. I must have patience. I must be tactical. I need more time. Not yet.
The traffic was slightly heavy, and Dan had switched on his "off duty" sign. He grew impatient after a few short minutes, realizing that the Times would be closing soon. Taking a turn towards a different route, he drove fast. But, it was likely too fast, since after that turn, sirens behind him sounded off. Cursing to himself, Dan pulled over to the sidewalk and waited for the cops to give him his ticket. The daylight was dying. Buildings cast shadows over the city streets, illuminated by the streetlights down below. He had to hurry.
"License and registration, please."
Dan did as he was ordered, though he was impatient and eager to leave. The adrenaline pumping through his system didn't help as he tried to calm himself down to avoid any unwanted attention. But he did nothing wrong, right?
"Sir, I'm gonna need you to step out of the vehicle."
Surprise. "What?"
"Because you're a taxi driver, you will have to answer a few questions regarding street safety as a part of the 'Veidt Safe' regulations. And please, be entirely honest. We need you to voice your opinion. That's all."
It sounded ambiguous, but Dan nodded and agreed to the cop's orders. He stepped out of the car with his hands up, but the cop told him not to do so, since it wasn't an arrest. It was, according to the cop, a "service questioning session." However, as Dan headed to the police car, the cop's partner stepped out and headed toward his, with flyers in his hands.
"It's a part of 'Veidt Safe,' sir. You have nothing to worry about."
Suspiciously, Dan nodded. "Alright."
The cop stood so that Dan would have to keep his back to his own vehicle.
"So, first question," the cop started. "What do you think of the environment you work in? Do you think there are any problems? If so, please list them."
For the moment, Dan felt the right to voice his opinion more than any other time he was able to do so. Was this cop really going to listen to him?
"Well, yeah, I think there are tons of problems," Dan said, in a more sociable manner. The cop, who seemed to be cautious of Dan's silence beforehand, was now more relaxed.
"Like?"
"I mean, you guys should be down here at the streets more, you know?" he told the cop. "There are many things wrong with this city. I drive around, and everything…it stinks, like this is a home to savages or something. All the gutters and alleyways are full of whores and junkies and dealers that no one really seems to care about. They're leeches off the fuckin' society, for God's sake. And I'm not disrespecting the NYPD or anything, sir, but it's really fucking humiliating when I have to wash the cum off the backseat after dropping off some horny druggie who couldn't get any pussy that night, believe me. Someone should just clean it all up and make sure the streets are safe again. And when I drive these scum lowlifes around, these sick, venal vermin, these…these fucking parasites…I feel like I'm just spreading the disease."
There was a long silence as the pencil scribbled on the page.
The cop seemed to be taking this down, and he swallowed, seemingly overwhelmed by the minor rant that Dan had given him. He took another moment or two to finish up writing, and looked up at the driver, who seemed to be a lot happier now that he had time to express his opinion.
"So, did you get all that?" Dan asked with a deep breath.
"Y-yeah," the cop nodded. "I did. Thank you for your cooperation, sir. These streets will be 'Veidt Secure' now that you have given us your opinion. Have a nice evening."
The cop's partner had returned and Dan was free to leave. Voicing his opinion felt good, though he guessed that the cop was somewhat overwhelmed by his response. It took a few moments of satisfaction to realize that he had to meet Seymour at the Times. Dan glanced at his watch and hurried back into his vehicle. When he got in, he removed the fliers that the cop's partner had put in and realized that something was different. Something was wrong. He lifted the mat on the passenger's side and, to his suspicions, the heroin was gone.
He was getting close to the Times now.
Dan drove past the Veidt University Apartments, and it made him think of that woman who got into his car the other day. He never asked for her name. It had occurred to him that she actually seemed interested in speaking with him. Judging from that thrilling moment with the cop, he suddenly felt like he could take more risks. He felt like breaking that social bubble that he always put up. All it would take is a step, right?
Alas, after thinking it through, he shook his head. Nothing would change. Leaping forward would be stupid, and he had more important things to worry about, like the missing kilos of heroin inside Lenny's cab. When he thought about it some more, he was sure that the cops had something to do with trafficking that heroin. Was the entire system being used?
He thought about the heroin being chopped up and packaged and sent to all corners of the city, each one bringing a druggie his next sensation and the another one bringing a child his first high and another one to his landlady who often scratched her arm. No one deserved this.
His thoughts, however somber they may be, immediately ceased when he saw her again, walking with a group of her friends, and chatting like the world was a heavenly place. For a moment, he forgot about the murderers, and the cops who did nothing to help the innocent. He forgot about the anger inside his heart and instead watched her.
When the traffic halted because of a red light, he sat there, watching her walk by. No one could touch her. No one could understand how alone she was, except him. But he couldn't tell her that. He had a mission.
Then she saw him. He thought he had turned to face traffic, but he was still gazing at her. She waved and mouthed, "Hi," to which he returned with a shy wave of his own. Her friends looked at him judgmentally, but he didn't care. They were not like her.
Car beep. Green light. He had to go.
"Wha…? Where the hell did you get this?" Seymour asked, nearly spitting out his coffee. Dan sat in his chair and watched his reactions accordingly, as if calculating something.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!" Benitez shouted.
Dan took a sip of his beer, sitting in the ruined table that just managed to lay standing in the aftermath.
"What?"
"What the hell are you doing over there, man?"
He put one of the cigarettes into his mouth and searched for a lighter, ready for a smoke in the hundred degree desert heat.
"Those my fucking cigs?" Benitez asked.
Dan nodded. He searched around, but couldn't find a light. It was hard to find one in this desolate place.
"Hey, come on, yo, I found them!"
Dan took a steady sip of his coffee and shrugged. "You dropped it. I picked it up."
"Jesus Christ, Danny…" replied the man. "This stuff is dangerous, even if it's written by a psychopath. You could probably get killed by Veidt himself if you accused him appropriately. You know how much Rorschach's image was crucified after New York was rebuilt? Do you?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't his image already broken enough?"
"Even so, people who were loyal readers to the Frontiersman had hopes in men like Rorschach. The general public didn't like him. But, those who knew what he stood for comprehended why he existed."
"So what happened?"
"According to the journal, Veidt was behind the murder of the Comedian back in 1985. He triggered the shitstorm that obliterated half of New York, too. I was only a teen back then, and I worked for the Frontiersman. When I read the journal, the boss told me to put it away and swear not to speak of it ever again."
Dan watched people go by, and observed their interactions and intimacy before speaking again. "Why, though? There's freedom of press, isn't there?"
"It could backfire on the 'utopia' that Veidt was going to rebuild. We were going to get a lot of spending money. And we did. So my boss saw it as the ultimate bribe, and he shut up. Told me to shut up too," Seymour told him. "I'm probably the only one in the world who knows about that journal."
"You sure about that?" Dan asked.
His comrade chuckled.
"Here," Benitez offered, pulling out his lighter.
Dan passed one of the cigarettes to his friend and they both shared the small bit of piece in the chaotic day. They were sweating like track athletes, but it was considered cool at the moment. Stripped of his gear, Dan was enjoying his rest break from the day's operation, and so was his colleague.
Benitez spotted a three-legged dog hopping its way across the street. Indistinct shouting in Hebrew emerged from stores and homes, but they weren't there to help anyone. The operation had passed, and the people were safe to come out. The Mexican man laughed, pointing at the dog.
"Yo, look at that, man," he said. "Dog can't even walk. Let alone fuck."
The dog limped on, as if it had to keep going. As if it needed to suffer until someone came along and put it down. Someone had to do it, but no one really cared.
"The dog has to limp on until someone kills it," Dan replied. "Or until it's dragged down by its handicap."
He could feel the dog's whimpers as it came past them, likely searching for food or a safe haven. Maybe one of the journalists would be humane enough to take care of it.
"Everything is crippled," Dan added. "By a disease."
"And you don't care about it?"
The taxi driver chuckled. "No. I do."
"You shouldn't be wasting your time with this mumbo jumbo. You should be out with friends, you know, getting laid, getting drunk, having fun. You're a kid. You should be having the time of your life, not spending your life in depression."
At a time like this? At an opportunity like this? Dan wasn't going to buy Seymour's reasoning.
He put his hand on the journal and stared Seymour right in the eyes. "Seymour. This isn't right. It's wrong. I might have killed people in the war, but I would never risk the lives of the innocent to influence the guilty. I would never do that."
"Walter Kovacs didn't, either," Seymour said. "And he's dead."
"So you don't believe that the truth should be revealed? You don't think so?" Dan asked. "Look, I've seen this city. Nothing's changed much. Everything's just harder to find. The game hasn't changed; only the rules. Theymust be punished," he asserted. "Those…those conniving assholes and their self-righteous plans. They were wrong, and they must pay."
Seymour sat back in disbelief and seemed to squint at him. Dan felt his eyes pierce through him and he leaned back, as well, trying not to look in the man's eyes. Suddenly, Seymour felt that there was something different in the boy. It lived in the deepest spot in the pit of Dan's stomach, where it was dark and dank and sinister. And it was hungry. Perhaps even more so than most of the vigilantes that Seymour had known.
"What happened to all that 'world is unchangeable' talk? Didn't you say that it was the only thing that keeps you going?" Benitez asked. "Like you don't care or somethin'."
Dan sighed, halfway done with his cigarette. A woman carrying her child, who was blown to pieces by artillery fire, cried through the streets and eventually passed out while no one came to help her. He only watched.
"I thought I didn't," Dan said.
"If you did, then you'd help out that woman over there," he countered Dan.
"This place is beyond salvation," he replied. "I would rather kill the wicked to save the innocent. Not save the innocent and spare the wicked."
Benitez laughed and wiped the sweat from his forehead, swinging his M4 over his shoulder and turned around to face the store. It hadn't been obliterated yet. He went through the open door to get himself a drink, while Dan only sat outside, finishing his beer and tossing the bottle against the brick wall nearby, shattering it utterly. The dog was still limping. Was it bleeding? Benitez emerged from the bar and sipped on the cold beer while shouts from inside followed.
A rather old Arabic man came out with begging gestures at Benitez, who would rather enjoy his drink than help him. His little daughter stayed at the doorway, crying as though she had been crying for the past five hours. She couldn't have been more than five years old. The man was still begging Benitez.
Dan turned around and walked up to the little girl, squatting down to meet her face-to-face. He reached out and grabbed her, lifting her up and embracing her as though she were his little cousin. Reaching for his pocket as he assuaged her, he pulled out a lollipop and showed it to her, giving her that reassuring smile, not wanting her to feel an ounce of pain for one moment. Benitez finally faced the man and gave him some money for the beer he had taken.
"Shh," Dan embraced her. She sniffled and hiccupped as she put her arms around him, her little breaths pressing against his shoulder.
The storeowner smiled at Dan's gesture of gentleness. Benitez finished his cigarette and tossed it away. The girl stared into Dan's eyes, her own eyes still red from the tears. She smiled.
"You've changed," he said to Dan.
And for that moment, he looked genuinely afraid.
Dan felt an intensity that hadn't touched him for years, and it surfaced with an appetite. At last, he realized that he had the power to do anything, and everything. He wished that he could put all the scum in this city into his hands so he can crush it. There was so much anger in his spirit that he could burst, but he tried to appear passive about it. It would be no use to him, losing control.
It was only a minute later that Dan found himself backed up against the brick wall, blood spattered all over his undershirt and sprayed across his face. He could swear he felt her brain matter fall on his hands when the bullet hit her from yards away. The father was already down as Benitez dragged Dan along. He was having trouble breathing as he stared in disbelief at the dead girl on the ground, her body lifeless and jagged like a twisted Adrian Veidt action figure, except without the head.
"Dan! Dan! We gotta go!" Benitez said. "We gotta go now!"
The dog was still limping, trying to make an effort to get to safety. Trying to survive as his injury ate away at him like some parasite.
"The girl…" Dan said, coughing from the dirt that had kicked up. "Benitez…the girl…"
The dirt obscured his vision as Benitez pulled him to safety into the large social building where the rest of their squad was located. Dan was still unresponsive while the entire squad shouted and awaited orders, the captain right in front of his face, yelling at him. It wasn't the cruel kind of yell that superiors would give you. It was more of a yell out of urgency. After a little bit, the captain sighed and put his hand on Dan's shoulder.
The words were muffled. The captain's face suddenly looked sorry and reassuring, then seemed to order for him to stay here, at the social plaza. Benitez was ordered to stay. His words were muffled, as well. Dan shut his eyes and all he could remember was the girl's face, forever etched into his mind. Benitez came over and put a hand on his friend's shoulder, a rare brotherhood between the two.
"I don't think it's healthy for you if you keep thinking about it," Seymour told him. "But that's just my opinion. Maybe you're right. Maybe Veidt's plan was injustice. The lives of millions of people, wiped out in an instant. Nothing can justify that."
Dan nodded. He knew that Seymour wouldn't approve of him reading the journal, but Seymour understood. He understood the rage that drove Dan. But there was something else behind the young man that he couldn't put a finger on; something blacker than the darkest corners of the earth. It wasn't Dan's desire for justice, but that blackness that scared him.
Before Seymour left, he gave Dan a worried glance. "What happened to you?"
"It's nothing," Dan said. "I'm fine. Can we just leave it alone, please?"
"You sure, man?" Benitez asked.
Another few hours passed before the gunfire ceased. Benitez seemed to be on his toes the entire time.
The captain then stepped into the large room, still dressed in his desert BDU, looking as though he had just returned from scouting. The battle didn't last long, but Dan felt stupid for not clearing his head sooner so he could join in suppressing the insurgents. A hand patted his shoulder, and he looked up.
"You okay?" the captain, not much younger than 30, said. "I understand what you're going through."
No. He didn't. He would never understand.
"I should get cleaned up."
The captain nodded. "We'll get to the nearest hotel. Hey. Are you sure you're going to be okay?"
"It's nothing," Dan said. "Nothing at all."
"Sure doesn't sound like nothing. You look awfully tense."
Seymour turned around and began walking a few steps, but faced Dan one more time, as though he had something important to say. Dan didn't even look up, like something was seriously bothering him.
"It's rumored that Rorschach died in Antarctica. No one ever found a body."
Dan looked up. "Men like that don't die old and defeated."
"Rorschach never died," Seymour said. "Walter Kovacs did."
"Your point?"
"1423 Mobil Avenue."
And he left. Dan sat alone.
And I'll leave it there. Next chapter should have a more interesting turn of events. Thanks for reading, and leave a review! I'd like to hear your thoughts.
