The man left alone in the living room of Daniel Dreiberg's four story brownstone was not Rorschach. In that void, silent and dreadful as a tomb, only Walter Kovacs remained. It was as if Rorschach, victorious in overcoming both Daniel and Walter, had disappeared to celebrate his triumph.

The antique clock in the corner was the only sound in the empty room, its hollow wooden ticking marked each second, long as an eternity, vacant as death. Walter's gaze was locked on the space where Daniel had stood only minutes earlier. His friend had been furious in a way Walter had never seen, his kind brown eyes fractured and full of livid fire. Betrayed.

"I'm sorry Daniel…" Walter finally managed to choke, his voice so weak that even in the near perfect silence it was all but drowned out by the ticking clock.

"I'm sorry…" He was crying softly now, a small crumpled thing on the floor, his thin arms wrapped tightly around his body as he began to shake. His throat clenched and he gasped helplessly for air. He tore off his mask, and as he did he paused to look at the beautiful bleeding patterns of ink on latex; Rorschach's face. But for the first time ever it looked demonic, more black than white, The face of a man who hurt Daniel, who had committed unforgivable treason, and destroyed the most precious thing he had ever known.

Walter thrust Rorschach's face away, unable to stare into the emotionless patterns any longer. He turned back to where Daniel had been. He tried to picture his departed friend standing there, a smile like sun after the rain, eyes like the dawn after a nightmare, extending a gentle hand to lift his sore body from the floor, to pull him close and tell him it was all forgiven and he still loved him. The vision came to his imagination in precise clarity, summoning up an uncontrollable fit of sobbing, for he knew it was a lie. Daniel would never look at him that way again. It did not matter how pathetic he was now, that he wept like a battered and abandoned child, he was entirely alone, the sole witness to all his shame. This was not Rorschach, this was Walter Kovacs, a sorry shadow of a man, kneeling before an empty space as if it were an altar .

Daniel is gone. Hates Walter now. Hates Rorschach now.

Hates you.

Hates you like everyone else does.

Ugly, wretched , whoreson. Only useful as Rorschach's disguise. Not good enough for Daniel. Never good enough for Daniel. Better this way…

"No!" Walter coughed up a strangled moan, biting back against the reasoning within his own brain.

"No…not better…"

"I…"

"I…need…"

"…him."

Walter pitched forward, curling into a ball as the full weight of what had just transpired finally came crashing down around him like an avalanche. Daniel was gone. No matter how much he needed him, Daniel did not want Walter anymore.

A sudden queasiness pooled in his stomach, and Walter desperately forced his aching body to its feet. He had committed enough treachery against Daniel that night, he would not be sick all over his floor. He staggered as fast as he could manage towards the kitchen, warm, foul tasting saliva filling his mouth. He stumbled helplessly across the slick tiled floor and frantically flung himself at the counter. He vomited violently into the sink, his entire body lurching forward, each spasm beginning deep in his belly and rushing up to the very tip of his tongue. Every time he gagged his ribs felt as though they would break again, the searing pain driving him blind as his weakened body threatened to turn itself inside out with each heaving convulsion. He threw up everything inside himself until all that was left was bitter yellow bile, and even then he continue to retch and cough, gasping for air between his body's merciless contractions.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the spasms in his gut subsided and Walter slumped down against the sink, panting. His muscles felt like jelly, and it took all he had to keep himself upright as he lifted a bone-white, trembling hand to the faucet, turning on the cold water. He rinsed away the mess he had made before leaning forward and tilting his head sideways so that the water ran into his open mouth. When he had washed away the vile acidic taste as best he could, he allowed himself a moment's pause. He looked around. Everything in the house echoed Daniel, and he suddenly felt the desperate need to flee. He had to get out. He was unwelcome now, an ugly stain on Daniel's life.

At first Walter considered making swiftly for the front door, running out into the chill night just as he was, barefoot, and dressed only in light pajamas. But a small fragment of reason remained in his swirling consciousness, and he headed for the spare bedroom instead. After the fight with Daniel, and the subsequent sickness that followed, he was scarcely strong enough to drag himself to the second floor, requiring a long pause at the top of the stairs to catch his breath before proceeding to the room that he called his own for nearly three weeks.

Inside he found the clothing Daniel had bought for him. He hesitated. A part of Walter did not want to take the two perfectly tailored suits, or the beautiful leather trench coat. He did not deserve such gifts, especially now. However, another part of him could not stand to leave them, they were from Daniel, all he had left of his only friend. Haphazardly he changed into his one pair of blue jeans. He could not risk looking like Rorschach, there was no way he could defend himself against the criminals that were surely on the hunt for the ink face and violet pinstripes. He pulled the coat on next, and then found his shoes and hat. Clumsily he gathered up the few articles of clothing he had, and stuffed them in one of the garment bags with the suits.

The last thing he reached for as he headed to the door was the creamy cashmere scarf, folded neatly on the dresser. As Walter's fingers touched the feathery fabric his chest constricted and he sunk his teeth into his lower lip. His insides twisted as he wrapped the scarf loosely around his throat. The gift was like a manifestation of Daniel, soft, warm, comforting; far too fine a thing for the likes of Walter Kovacs. In spite of the bitter guilt he felt at taking it with him, it was more then he could bear to leave it behind.

As Walter made his way down the stairs and toward the front door, he was unable to reason whether or not he had forgotten anything, all he knew was that he had to get out. The garment bags were heavy, and in his exhaustion they would be difficult to carry the many long blocks to his deplorable apartment. On the coffee table near the sofa there was a crumpled wad of cash and some odd change that Daniel had emptied from his pocket earlier. It was hardly anything, but it was enough for cab fare. The thought of stealing from Daniel was disgraceful, but Walter knew his former ally wanted him gone, and would've likely thrown the money at him just to accomplish this. Reluctantly, he took the bills and shamefully shoved them into his pocket. Last of all he retrieved Rorschach's face from where he had cast it off on the floor. He could not bear to look at the sacred object as he stuffed it unceremoniously into his coat and made for the front door.

The damp night air was freezing when Walter stepped out onto the slick sidewalk in front of Daniel's brownstone. A light misty rain was falling, and the street smelled of damp leaves, wet concrete, and decay. He lifted a shaking hand to hail a yellow cab, something he had not done in years. When one finally slid up along the curb, Walter allowed himself one last look at the home that could have been his. Daniel would return soon, and Walter would be gone.

***

The hundred year old tenement building where Walter rented a tiny one room apartment was as foul as it had ever been. Enormous black cockroaches skittered out around his feet as he ascended the four flights of warped and crooked stairs to the top floor. All around him Walter could hear the choir of the damned singing from behind the crumbling plaster walls. A screaming child, the deranged ranting of a sick old woman, two men arguing about drug money, a woman moaning in a way that could either have been from pleasure or agony or both. Walter shut his eyes, and swallowed hard. He could feel a bleakness settle deep in his heart. Hell opened its gates and welcomed his return.

Where I belong.

By the time he made it to his apartment door Walter's vision was blurring, pain and exhaustion fogging his senses. As he turned the key he could hear quick, angry footfalls approaching him from behind. He winced. He knew what was coming.

"Kovacs!" An awful shrill voice rang out. "Where the hell have you been?! Your rent is late! I was ready to have your sorry ass evicted!!"

Reluctantly, Walter turned to face his land lady, Ms. Shairp. She had recently taken over the building, when the previous landlord, her father, past away. She was a nasty tempered woman, and Walter, probably because of his quietness, was a favorite target of her aggression. She was dressed as distastefully as ever, and despite the fact that she was visibly pregnant, she held a lit cigarette casually between the fingers of her right hand.

"Was visiting…family…" Walter lied, his voice just barely above a whisper.

"Rent? Do you have it?" She spat and took a long drag off her cigarette.

"Just a moment." He replied and pushed the door to his apartment.

Walter set his things on a battered wooden chair beside his tiny kitchen table before limping laboriously over too his closet. He had to stand on his toes to reach all the way to the back of the top shelf where he retrieved a worn shoe box. Inside there was a crumpled wad of cash. Walter did not bother to count it. He knew that he'd be lucky if it were sufficient. He returned to his doorway and extended the money to his disgruntled landlady, hoping it would be enough to spare him her ranting fury. He watched with tired, dead eyes as she impatiently counted the bills, her face twisted up in disgust at how wrinkled the money was.

"You're five dollars short, Kovacs." She narrowed her eyes and glared disapprovingly.

"Apologies…will have it next month…" He replied softly.

"You better, Kovacs. You're a filthy, lousy, tenant, you know that? I should'a had ya evicted…Dirty son-of-bitch…" She grumbled irritably and stalked off, puffing away the last of her cigarette.

As soon as she was gone Walter dead bolted the door and stumbled over to his narrow, cot-like bed. He fell onto the dingy gray sheets, and pulled a ratty knit blanket over himself. It was cold in his apartment, the window frames were rotted and drafty, and the glass was cracked. He curled up tightly and hugged his one lumpy, flattened pillow to his chest, and buried his face in the musty fabric. The springs in the thin, worn mattress dug into his sore flesh, and he longed to be back in Daniel's guest bed, so warm and decadently soft. His body ached terribly, and the pain was enough to keep sleep from coming, regardless of how exhausted he was.

Lying awake in his cramped, foul smelling, frigid apartment, Walter tried to think of nothing. He tried to empty his mind and allow himself to drift away into a black and dreamless void, but it would not happen. Against all hope, all desperation, there was only Daniel in his tormented mind.

He curled tighter, squeezed his eyes shut. His shoulders quaked. Tears burned under his strained eyelids.

It was the merciless end of a good dream. Walter was wide awake, the bleak reality of all that was and all that never would be bleeding out before him like black ink onto pure white paper.

***

Morning came, but the sun did not. Walter woke after what could not have been more then two hours of fitful sleep. He could hear the rain pattering against his window. His room felt as it always did in bad weather: damp and bone-chilling. He shifted under the sheets. He felt weak and drained, his joints ached and he was certain he was running a fever. He rolled over and pulled the blanket around himself tightly as he could. There was no need to get out of bed.

***

It was late afternoon. Walter finally relented to his body's urges and staggered out to use the bathroom. When he returned he was freezing, desperate to get under the covers again. He knew it was cold, but not that cold. He was undoubtedly running a fever, wracked by chills, all at once sweating and shivering. As he paused to get himself a much needed glass of water, his eyes fell on his trench coat, hanging over the back of a chair where he had left it. On top of the leather was the scarf Daniel had given him. His dull eyes fixated on the object. He lifted it with a white, icy hand and wrapped it about his neck before crawling back into bed.

Daniel…

He'd be making me tea now…

Blackberry…

With honey…

Forcing me to take medicine…

I'd be annoyed…

He'd be persistent…

He would take care of me…

He would fix me…

He would be patient…

He would be gentle…

Everything would be alright…

Not now…

Rorschach ruined everything…

…I ruined everything…

***

Another morning came. Walter was staring up at the ceiling, outside he could still hear rain. It was his single comfort. The sky, it seemed, saw fit to weep with him, the only witness to the desolation of his ruined heart. Fixating on the gray-green ceiling above him, Walter felt like a ghost, a dead thing forced to suffer among the living, denied release. He reminded himself that he had died along with a little girl months ago, and if by chance any shred of him survived, it most certainly was murdered by Rorschach when he betrayed Daniel. So it was that Walter was damned, deprived of freedom, still lingering in the spaces between, a conduit for the emotions Rorschach did not need or want, but nothing more than a phantom of a man.

"Where are you, Rorschach?" He wondered aloud.

He wanted only for the black and white entity to return, to claim him as he did when he murdered Gerald Grice, allow Walter Kovacs to close his eyes, disappear into the abyss. He was forsaken, a spirit denied life or death, betrayed by the omnipotent puppet master of his existence, wrecked and unable to function.

"Why have you done this to me?" Walter whispered, his voice faint and pleading.

"I have been everything you have needed me to be…I have forced my body to do things one of its size and capacity should not be capable of…I have killed…discarded my humanity…existed only as a disguise…bent to your every ideal…and remained silent as you committed unforgivable treason against the only person I love…and still…you leave me to decay in the wake of your actions…"

Walter closed his eyes. There was no answer.

***

It was night, what time, or how many days had passed since Rorschach had forsaken him, Walter did not know, but it was dark and relentlessly cold. He awoke huddled against the wall, his body wracked by uncontrollable shivering. In his sleep he had pulled the blanket tight around his shoulders, consequently exposing his feet, and now he could scarcely tell he had toes. He curled his knees to his chest, balling himself up the best he could, and released a long shuddering sigh. He felt his stomach twisting up inside himself. He had not eaten in days, and he knew he was still badly anemic, but there was no money in the box to buy food, and he was far too weak to apprehend a criminal to get more. He swallowed hard as another agonizing spasm ran though his sunken belly. There was no end to this torture, and there was nothing he could do, no way to get money, no way to get food. He would rather die than beg, still wanting to keep what little dignity he had left. It was then that the realization slowly crept out from the periphery of his consciousness: this could be the end.

Withering here…

Alone…

Pain…

Only pain…

Am merely Walter…

Small and wretched…

Rorschach has left…

I can't…

Can't do this anymore…

I…

I just…

Want it to end…

He clutched the cashmere scarf to his chest and wept piteously in spite of himself.

Just want it all…

…to end swiftly…

***

Walter was standing on an old railroad bridge that spanned the distance between northwest Queens and Randall's island. The structure was known as the 'Hell Gate Bridge'. It was named after the passage of water it spanned, given its ominous title on account of a swift and unforgiving current. Walter no longer believed in Hell, or Heaven, but he appreciated the poetic irony of the name considering why he was there. It was the perfect place to bring closure to a wholly lamentable lifetime. The bridge was not made for pedestrians, so there was nobody to bear witness to his act. He could leave the world as unceremoniously as he had entered it.

It had taken every scrap of energy Walter had left to make the journey from his apartment to the bridge, first riding the subway out to Queens, then tracing the railroad tracks until he was positioned at the center of the structure. It was evening, and the sky was perfectly clear, fading from deep azure blue to milky twilight yellow to burnt fiery orange behind the soaring skyscrapers of Manhattan that stood starkly silhouetted to the west.

Walter sighed. His blue eyes scanned the horizon, and he felt strangely detached. The pain was still there, his heart still felt like a lump of lead heavy and unyielding in his chest, but he was sedated in his reason. It would all be over soon.

Just need…

It was unseasonably cold for October, and the water below him was high from the recent rain. Walter knew there was a possibility the fall would not kill him, but if he survived it, the frigid river would finish the job. He was far too sick, starved, and depleted to handle the icy current. Still, his pale eyes scanned the Manhattan skyline.

Need to see you…

A train rushed behind him. The beams quaked beneath Walter's feet, and he clung to a massive steel support to keep from being shaken off his perch. The deafening roar throbbed in his ears as he braced himself against the chill girder. Black water rushed ominously below, beckoning him.

No...

Not yet…

Just need…

one last look…

Finally the train was gone, leaving blissful silence in its wake. Walter opened his eyes and released his hold on the steel beam. He stepped out as far as he could before risking a fall. The wind rushed about his slender frame, causing the leather of his coat to flap loudly about his legs, and his scarf to flutter in and out of his line of sight. The fierce wind burned the skin on his face raw, but still he waited. His icy irises were focused on the east river and the darkening sky above the island city, searching for a familiar aircraft. Once he looked upon it, took in its glowing orbital eyes, gazed unseen from afar upon the only person he loved, he would be ready.

One last time…

Just need to see you…

One last time…

The moon was rising over the island, and the metropolis glittered with a beauty that masked all its sin and hopeless depravity. The diamond lights reflected in Walter's dead eyes, and he was a mirror of the city itself, the same soul twisted up and buried in the broken vigilante's tragic heart. In the pocket of his coat he held his hero's face. His fingers curled around the fabric, but Rorschach remained silent. Still no answer. Walter sighed as the breeze ruffled his rust colored hair, and he waited.

-

one last time...

-

all I need.

-

-

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Author's Notes: Only one more real chapter left! :O There is going to be an epilogue chap though! Anyhow, hope this chap did not absolutely drown you guys in angst. I was fighting for air in the angst pool writing it that's for sure! Alright everyone, remember to hug your favorite ginger-hobo today. Wally needs it.

-Jackie