Unlikely Allies
Chapter Two

Rorschach's Journal, November 13th, 1964. 5:52am.

This city is a termite mound, and the vermin swarm around the streets, biting and eating through what little goodness is left. Am I to be the only foot that is crushing these insects? No one else wants to get their hands dirty. No. No one will help. I am alone in this quest. Me and the filth of this cesspool city. Costumed Heroes save lives for fame. Capture scum for glory. Not one of them. I will never be one of them. I see the true nature of this world. The helpless cry out to be saved, and it seems like only I am the only one who will answer their calls. Humankind is spiraling down, and all we can do is hold on and scream.

.][.

The routine of writing in his journal was becoming a pleasant break from the constant pounding of criminals in the alleys. Not that Rorschach ever truly took a break; even when he wasn't wearing his mask, he kept his eyes and ears open, but it was nice to sit and reflect on the nights events. There was something comforting about the brittle creamy paper and the scratching of his pencil and he poured himself into the small leather book. Perhaps the only thing he was closest to was the Journal. It knew him, both in and out of costume. It knew his desires, his wants, his needs, and his hates. No one else did. He made sure of that. He wouldn't and couldn't let anyone else in. No one would understand anyways. He didn't want them to. When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you.

It was a busy night tonight, a welcome change from the past few days. The weather was changing; growing increasingly colder. Winter was fast approaching, and with it came the normal nuisances of the changing of the seasons. Frost now clung to blades of grass and car windshields each morning, melting away only hours after forming. The normally dull city seemed to be even more muted, the colors dim and not as bright as usual. The inhabitants of this rotting cement jungle were changing as well. The innocent and good stuck closer to home. They didn't want to be caught after dark, which fell earlier and earlier. The night was a dangerous thing here. It was an animal that thrived on the scent of fear and naivety.

The filth were changing their habits as well, sticking together in larger groups. Perhaps, though, this was more out of apprehension than necessity. It was no secret that costumed vigilantes roamed the streets, searching for them, hiding in the shadows. Ozymandias was out each night, prowling the organized crime scene, tracking down corrupt politicians and trying to cut down on the many mobs that made their homes in New York. He was daily making newspapers and headlines, his photos and fan-merchandise becoming popular. Criminals feared him, though not as much as they fear Dr. Manhattan. Dr. Manhattan was occasionally seen, though his patrols were less and less frequent. The scum of the city feared blue, and one hint at his arrival and they fled. This would ordinarily be a good thing. Rorschach was skeptical. A man with that much power could not be trusted. Not confined to the limits of humanity. One wrong idea from the transformed Jon (Manhattan) Osterman, and it could be the death of them all.

But apart from the superhuman terror that struck fear into the criminal's hearts, there was one other vigilante that they feared.

Rorschach was the newest horror that prowled the streets. He was a ghost in the night, drifting through alleys like fog, blinding them, overpowering them, and dissipating just as quickly. Those who robbed the innocent of their safety were no longer themselves safe. He would find them and see to it that justice would be served. One by one, if necessary. There was power in numbers, they figured. Too big a group and they would be invincible, they thought. Rorschach didn't think so. He didn't find a group threatening. He found them a challenge.

Rorschach looked around, peering through his mask at the surround area. No criminals nearby, it seemed. A shame. They were hiding, polluting other alleys with their filth and grime. Disgusting. He wanted to eradicate every last one of them. He would never stop until they were all gone. Oh, he knew that there would always be corruption and crime. It seemed to be some sort of beast that lay sleeping in humanity, waking up more and more frequently. The world was dying, being smothered underneath the smog caused by the waste that is mankind. It would be better, really, to just take out all Human Beings. Except for the rare innocent. Those small few who remained untouched by the horrors of the world. Infants. Children. Ordinary people going about their daily lives, giving money to charity and volunteering. The people who genuinely wanted this world to change for the better. They were the ones that Rorschach fought for. And he would fight until his dying breath. They were worth the endless struggle.

He blinked, looking up. The sky was a mix of soft blue, light gold, and pale pink. Already dawn. It was pretty, if he stopped to take it in, which he rarely ever did. The sunrise of New York was like an gift-wrapped bomb. Beautiful on the outside, deadly on the inside. The array of colors that spread over the city was a colorful mask hiding a deformity. A glimmering smile that hid a black heart. Pretty, but nothing more than a falsification.

Still, the night was now over. The mask, which dominated the darkness, would be tucked away securely, revealing the face beneath it. Rorschach didn't come out in the daylight. He was a creature of the night, a shadow that lurked in the alleys, waiting to swallow up the evil that hid there. There was no use for Rorschach during the day. The streets were too heavily populated and the police more vigil. The day was for the innocent and the good. Rorschach did not belong with them.

Time to go to his broken down apartment and catch those precious few hours of sleep. He had to work later on in the day, and falling asleep at the sewing machine or not measuring correctly due to bleary eyes was something that would get him fired. And work was in high demand, nowadays.

Time to leave.

Brrrrrrr.

Pause. Adjust.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Snag. Adjust.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Turn. Prick finger on pin.

Brrrrrrrrrrrr.

There was something very relaxing about the loud humming of the sewing machine, as it traversed the thick fabric, creating lines with ever so perfect stitches. The noise seemed to drown out the rest of the rotten world, muting everything else but the pleasing, gentle hum of the device. The city was like a concert hall filled with hundreds of different instruments, all playing different songs at the exact same time sounding nothing more than fingernails on a chalkboard. People screamed and shouted and talked all at once. Cars honked their horns and sirens wailed down the road towards the nearest crash. Sometimes he thought he would go deft from the constant noise. At night it was better. Most of the city's inhabitants were sleeping, creating a temporary hush that blanketed the streets and houses.

However, the loud hum of the sewing machine blocked it all out. The table vibrated beneath his hand as he gently guided the fabric towards the thrumming needle. The small light shown on his work, highlighting the small stitches and the pattern marks. Truly, it was something that he could focus on with all his concentration, able to, for once, ignore the rest of the world.

Walter Kovacs came to the end of the sleeve and reversed the stitch once for durability before removing his foot from the pedal. Finally. Perhaps, if there was nothing left on the queue, he could go home. He was tired and if he left soon, he could squeeze in a few hours of sleep before his nightly patrol. Fighting crime on little sleep was a risk he wasn't willing to take. Already he was dangerously behind on his rest. Just the other day he had caught himself dozing at the machine, nearly sewing through his finger.

Cutting the thread from the disgustingly pastel-blue dress (something a drug-dealing hippie scum would wear), Walter stood from the set and stretched, reaching his arms above his head. He heard a satisfying crack from his back, which was aching from hunching over the sewing machine. The long hours slumped over the ill-adjusted table caused his back to ache something terrible, upsetting previous injuries he sustained during his nights. He never noticed those injuries when he was in costume, strangely. He could go for hours while bleeding and only notice the pain once the mask was taken off. He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. It seemed that he was becoming more dependent on his nightly persona to keep him going. Walter was pushing his true self to the back to make room for this new, infallible vigilante.

Crumpling the dress in his hands, he made his way to a table a few meters away from him. A co-worker, a man by the name of Gerald Christophen (Who he suspected of cheating on his wife. Despicable), sat on the uncomfortable wooden chair, bent over his own work.

"Order 27." Walter said, holding up the dress, glad to be rid of the offending article. He loathed making the clothing that hippie filth bought, but a job was a job. He needed to keep his current apartment as it was particularly ideal for his unusual nightlife. The place was mostly run down, with few respectable families, and all of them kept to themselves. His neighbor was partially blind and deft, and thus never took notice of Rorschach's comings and goings. It was a rare situation, and one he intended to make last.

Gerald looked up from his hemming and scrutinized him closely.

"Already? Hell, man, you work fast."

"Hnn." Walter grunted, not in the mood for conversation. He never was. "Take the dress, I am clocking out."

The man twisted his mouth into a rough smile, taking a drag from his cigarette. It wasn't allowed to smoke on the job. No one ever paid any attention to that rule. Except Walter, who never had and never would touch the vile things. Gerald took the dress, giving a wolf-whistle at the perfect sewing job.

"Christ, you're a goddamn machine. I don't see how ya' do it." He grumbled, blowing a perfect smoke ring. It sailed through the air, and Walter wanted to bat it away, but he was forced to keep a positive working relationship with his co-workers. He would not lower himself to being rude. A curt politeness was all that was needed. "Huh, see ya' tomarrow, eh Kovacs?"

But Walter was already walking away. He wasn't one to converse with his fellow co-workers often, and if forced to, he kept his words short and to the point. More often than not, he would simply communicate with a series of grunts or nods. Or he would simply leave and say nothing at all. He had heard speculation from his fellow workers (who gossiped like middle-aged housewives) that they thought he was mentally retarded or had some other disability. His steps were always slow and casual. One would think that he was stoned, with his blank, slightly out-of-it expression and rather sluggish steps, but if one cared to really look into his eyes, they would see a deadly intelligence and a constant alertness that screamed of awareness.

He couldn't afford to be caught off guard. There was always a chance, a slightest chance, that one of the residents of his apartment building had seen him as Rorschach and made the connection between his constant comings and goings. It was a stretch, yes, considering the fact that most of the residents were on heavy drug use and were too wasted to notice anything but the next hit of the pipe. But the chance, no matter how small, was there, and he always had to be on alert.

Still, if his co-workers thought him stupid or slow or mentally incompetent, all the better. He encouraged their opinions. None of them would think that he, Walter Kovacs, a dawdling idiot, was secretly a dangerous and feared vigilante. It was amusing, almost, how far their opinions were from the truth.

The staff room was cramped, as always. The room was far too small to even be called a staff room, really. More like a medium sized utility room that held a coffee pot , a few chairs, a table, and an old TV, which was more static than picture. The room stank of stale smoke and alcohol and the stench of unwashed sweating bodies cramped together. Walter's lip curled as he jostled his way towards the time charts, his stomach clenching as his body came in contact with others. Sweat and cigarette smell clung to their sweaty skin, which brushed against his shirt and arm. He shuddered in revulsion.

Conversation spilled around him, a blur of gruff laughter, growls, mumbling and coughing. Voices were indistinguishable from each other normally, and he hardly bothered to pay attention to the meaningless babbling of the masses. However, as he reached the time charts to clock out, his ears automatically picked out one particular discussion from the sea of co-workers.

"—Rorschach. I heard that 'e keeps outta the papers as much as possible. All the good it'll do, huh? Media is fuckin' ruthless. He's all they can talk about anymore."

"Him and Ozzy-whats-his-name."

"Huh, Not anymore. New costumed freak, boys."

"Goddamn, another one? They keep fuckin' appearing, don't they? Who's it this time? The Blender or some shit like that?"

"Nah, some bird guy. Heard a few guys mention it's in today's paper. Pushed yesterdays game to page three, can you fuckin' believe that?"

"No shit? Damn costumed bastards."

Walter quickly clocked out and turned, browsing the room. The pages of the paper were scattered throughout the occupants. No chance of finding the front page in all this clutter and chaos. He would have to buy his own. Snatching his threadbare coat from the hooks on the wall, he pushed and shoved his way out of the room.

The air outside was colder than normal, and it promised that the nights would be even more chilly than they had been. Snow would be falling any day now, which would be horribly inconveniencing for him. His day coat was little more than rags by now, as was the rest of his clothing, and offered very little in the way of protection from the elements. All except his costume, which was always quite warm. He made a note to go to the second hand store on his next day off. While he had next to no money for anything more than his rent and a few groceries, it wouldn't do to freeze to death. His one room apartment was very drafty and it was only slightly warmer than outside. He would have to stock up on warm clothing, despite his lack of money.

Food could wait a few days if need be. He would take warmth over a full stomach any day.

The walk to the nearest newspaper stand was short, but the frigid wind whipped and bit at his exposed face, burning his cheeks and numbing his nose and ears. It was times like these when he wished he had his mask and scarf on. The latex was rather wind resistant and protected his face from most elements. However, his mask was far too recognizable, even if his actual picture hadn't been put in the paper. They still published rather accurate drawings, based off eyewitness descriptions. He would have settled for his cream colored scarf, an article of clothing that was so common that no one would give it a second glance. But Walter firmly believed in separating his costumed life from his real life completely. He already let them bleed over into each other far too often.

Walter's short red hair ruffled in the icy wind as he hurried the last few steps to the newspaper vendor, who sat on a chair next to the paper racks, smoking drowsily. He scanned the front pages eagerly, looking for a mention of the newest costumed hero. Sure enough, there it was. The headline large and bold, with a scratchy drawing of a man. Walter dug into his pockets and grabbed some loose change, dropping it into the man's hand distractedly, snatching the paper from the rack.

He jogged towards the bus stop and settled on the uncomfortable metal seat. It would be another fifteen minutes before a bus would be coming through, one that would lead him a few blocks from his apartment. Plenty of time to read about the newest vigilante.

The front page screamed out the headline for all the world to read:

'Nite Owl II Fly's In, Rescues Kidnapped Girl'

The article itself wasn't important, as it was more speculation than actual facts. The only one who could provide any true information was four-year-old Regan Murdock, who was too young to give any accurate account of the events. The police who had arrived on the scene were able to briefly see and speak to this so called Nite Owl II, who had apprehended the kidnapper after tracking him for two days. The man had stayed with the little girl to wait for the police to arrive and then quickly gave the information to the officers before he had jumped from a window and seemed to disappear.

It was interesting, despite it's likely inaccuracy, but was what was more interesting was the drawing that was published alongside the article.

A man dressed in a dark blue body suit with a brown cowl that was now obviously meant to resemble an owl. A long brown cloak, with darker brown triangles. Brown boots and gloves, as well as strange goggles that covered the man's eyes. The utility belt around the man's waist was what had caught Walter's eye, however. While the many gadgets were half-sketched due to lack of detail, the crescent shaped disk was very distinct.

Obviously, this was the same kid that Rorschach had seen five nights ago, beating and winning against a few thugs in an alleyway. Hmm. Nite Owl II. Definitely a name that would be easily remember, as well as one that would strike fear into the criminals hearts, if this new vigilante was anything like the Original Nite Owl; the now retired Hollis Mason. A well chosen name. Hopefully, the kid would do his predecessor justice, though if what Walter both had seen and read, there was little doubt that he would and already was.

The city bus pulled up, and Walter, folding up his the newspaper, boarded it.

To Be Continued…

Authors Note: Hello again, everyone. If I remember correctly, I said I would only be about two weeks to get the chapter out. Instead, it takes me over a month. I deeply apologize that it has taken me so long to get this chapter out. I was having the worst time writing it. Walter Kovacs in 1964 is surprisingly difficult to portray and me and him were having a bit of a struggle. Still, In the end, I won. Also, I was very busy sewing and whatnot. I have been working on the Original Silk Spectre's costume from the movie. I only need to make the underbust corset and I'll be done! Also, I have been working on making the entire Watchmen group-- in Plushie Form! They are adorable, especially The Comedian, with his little guns and whatnot. Hahaha!

I know this is a bit of a short chapter, and for that I am sorry. But I want to get it out as soon as possible since I took so long already. In the next chapter, everyone's favorite Masked Sociopath will meet Nite Owl II for the first time. I shall try to get it out in a few weeks, but it depends on whether my creativity will let me. Stay tuned!

Ta!
-Alex
(Alexandra-the-Great91)