Rorschach's journal, 18th of July.
A man has chosen to help me. Unlike any other, on his free will. That's unusual. Name is Marv, that's about all he's sharing. The people around here recommended him highly. Some kind of big figure in the community, will ask him further about it later. Right now, the clock is ticking. The children count on us. The two of us.
Made it to the place in time, the place where bad things happen. Learned plenty about this city in such short time spent here. They always show their true face in no time. This one doesn't ecen try to cover it.
Crooks and mobs run this town like a chariot o hell and back. Police is even lower than the one back home. Go no morals, coupled with a disturbing disregard for public safety and service. Most of them bought by the ones with the power already. Will investigate further, when there is time to.
Staring at the filthy scenario as we make it closer. Must be heavily guarded if something is about to go down. Like a demonstration and then sale of the stock. Scoffed at the thought.
Children, ripped from the arms and gazes of their parents, deprived of their present and future, left with only the past to look back to as their doom comes in. Sold like mere objects of pleasure for inhuman scumbag, men of wealth who dress and talk like kings, yet act like slum dogs. Part of the big plan of an agenda, which is fine with opening the doors to serial offenders, who shield behind their status and name to avoid the consequences. They might get off the clutch of the system, but not mine.
Men may get aprehended. The excrement gets flushed. Must be there to pull the chain and watch them drown.
Marv drives well, smooth, shows the years of knowledge of the streets he's got. Must have seen a lot.
But a site like the one we plan to raid can't be as unprotected, have no hopes. Would make no sense, not when they already went through the big expenses of hiring people to handle the kidnappings.
A good look at their windows reveals some dim but noticeable lights behind the glass, and a hundred promises for trouble if we get reckless in our job. They're being vigilant to any moves being done against them. Vote for playing quiet and smart.
Marv parks at a safe distance, having eyed the filth on sentry duty at the site. We keep quiet, get in position, where we can analyze the structure with detail before we make a move.
"Alright, I'm all ears. How'd ya plan to raid the place?" He asks, ready to take orders more than suggestions. Seems to trust my wits, enough to let me do the thinking part.
Good. It's all that's needed.
"Can't risk being seen this soon and this far. Need to find a way to get close and strike fast. Lucky guess on their numbers?" Marv squints, thoughtful on our subject. Must have done this plenty of times already, too many to not know the process by heart. He gets a good idea.
"If there's a watchman for each window, I'd say nine to twelve. There's going to be a doorman, likely two. Must be too pansies to expect an attack or be armed properly. That leaves us with the slugs inside, the big fish, some greasy pricks too focused on doing business, nothing that makes them count whatsoever, and then there's the muscle, like a bunch of hoodlums hanging around the kids to watch out until the deal is made, only like four, if experience serves me right. I say if we make our move quick we won't have to worry about them suckers selling the kids, might even get to ambush them if we get our hands on some guns."
Breaks things down well enough. Gives me the odds to consider, and stats for us.
"So around twenty guns there at least. Might be able to take on them, but not all at once."
"I can help with that. Twenty is more than two, but two is still better than one. I've taken on worse, with good enough planning. We're probs looking at amateurs so we've got that thing going for us. Problem is, if we mess up, the kids will get it big time." He reasons, in light of the stakes.
"Won't know we're coming for them, they won't risk losing their assets. Can't be too sure though, more could be done."
"What have you got in mind?" He asks, open to the options.
"Distraction. Take them on two fronts instead of head on." A pull from my coat reveals my grappling hook. Gift from Nite Owl, his best one. Saved my life, and made it easier every now and then. "Can always use this and take them by surprise with it. Break in there while no one sees a thing. You call their attention somehow, leave them exposed, then we crush them from the front and behind. Numbers and guns will work against them once in close range."
Nods in reply, no fear at all, his eyes showing that thirst for blood that I know too well from how much I have looked into the mirror. He plans to storm in and wreak havoc. I approve.
"Okay then. I'll buy you some time, alright? Just move fast and get to the kids when they disperse."
Gave him a nod, then we make a rundown of the items at our disposal.
A six-shooter, taken off a thug we beat up, his blood still fresh on it. We both wear gloves, the fingerprints won't be an issue at this point if the cops find it. He hands it over, with his bulk and skills he won't be needing it.
It's too noisy as it is for what we consider a stealthy approach. We make some adjustments, attached a plastic bottle we found to the cannon to block the sound a little. Only six bullets there, but that's enough for me.
Then there's a bottle that we weaponized into a molotov cocktail. It would be good for a normal raid, to force the rats out and then scorch them, but that's not the case here. It's a bad move with all the children that are inside and also impractical for a stealthy infiltration like what I'm about to do. Leave it to Marv so that he can improvise a distraction good enough to keep all eyes off me. When the time is right.
Up next is a switch blade. Silent but deadly. Good for stealth tactics and gutting pigs. Marv hands it to me with all casualty, like a toy. At this point, the contrast between us is made clear. He will take the loud and messy approach, becoming a human target, while I'm left to act unseen, sneak past the fiends right under their noses. For that, a silent edge is needed.
Finally, there's the grappling hook. They won't know what hit them, not until it's too late anyway. The key to many places, like the one we're about to break in.
Overall, nothing too bright, but for the task, the tools will suffice.
About to step out, when we hear sirens not too far away. Broke our focus. Red and blue lights stand out in the pit of darkness we find ourselves in. A patrol car comes in our way. Makes things more interesting, but also harder.
Still in the car, thinking and acting quick before the whole operarion can be compromised. He speaks up.
"Cops. What do you want to do about them?" Marv asks as I harden my grip on the gun.
Tense, pretty tense.
A look into Marv's eyes, tells me he's no cop killer. At least not now, some other day maybe, but not without a motive and a good reason. Threre's a reflection. I can relate.
A lot of things come to mind but in the end, a choice must be taken, and that end is nigh. From there on it's natural selection.
Can't kill them, would raise more issues than it would solve. We would be giving away everything, losing the surprise factor and any leverage we may have had plus valuable time.
Can't bribe them, even if together we could put a decent sum of cash to offer them it would be in vain, they must be paid ten times that by the people who's business they're protecting. There is even the chance they are clean and won't want our money.
All comes down to Marv and I putting up a smooth act like law abidding citizens, talking like they want us to, swallowing our pride and bending to their slimy rules, giving them respect they most likely don't deserve.
If it's him doing the talking then I must hide. One man in his car is a thing, two of them in the same parked vehicle at this hour could lead them to an engrossing misleading image.
Not viable, problem is that Marv is a known face here, shady records and past, face has been on too many mugshots. A trouble maker that the blues would no doubt take in as the usual suspect, bomb with questions and accusations to set us back by a lot.
The other option may not be appealing, may not be attractive, may give a sick feeling in the guts and may be a nightmare. Doesn't change it from being the absolute best course of action for us to take. Telling it to him, he scrambles, leaves the front seat to go his own way. Leaves me with my wits and devices.
Now getting in character, resigning and stripping myself of my true face.
This will be hard.
Two cops were on patrol that night, one an experienced officer and the other a relative rookie. They went to pass by the warehouse in the docks, keeping up their normal routine. Just talking, trying to make sense of a wander with no real direction. The city had it's way with the men in blue, and as such, there were hardly any innocents in the department, the few exceptions being known as boy scouts and ridiculed by their shadier partners. A clean slate with them often led to trouble. Two of them had it and they ended up dead by their own guns, after leaving a crime scene behind. That wasn't encouraging to anyone.
The policemen were a few minutes away from finishing their night's job, when in a sudden turn of events they came to a stop, having their first notable finding in the whole shift. They caught sight of a suspicious vehicle parked at a safe distance from the docks.
The car in question seemed dead silent at first glance. Whoever the driver was, he kept real quiet, and they knew for a fact there had to be someone in it. No one would leave a car parked in a place like that. It was an open invitation to being robbed. Despite having a few reserves, the cops decided to go along with the procedure and run a quick check that could lead to a deeper inspection. They drove closer.
It was dark in there, pitch black except for the lights of their patrol, thanks to which they confirmed that the car still had a driver behind the wheel. The man didn't react to their presence though, looking rather asleep with his face on the wheel, resting with no mind paid to his surroundings.
He must have been suicidal.
The cops parked with a fair warning and left their car with a couple of flashlights, then carefully walked over to the driver's window. The driver looked completely wasted, spent from driving too much, probably. They knocked on the window, rapping their knuckles on it to wake him up and get his attention. The officers had their reasons to be jumpy, wary of anything that the man could have tried. There was a seed of fear being planted into them by the murky aura the man gave off.
The driver woke up lazily, sparing a surprised look at the cops. He lowered the window in a worried manner, his features growing more and more visible.
"You partying hard or something, boy?" The older officer asked as his partner brought a flashlight to the man's face. And just like that, the dark illusion broke.
Any fears they may have had about the man were dispelled when they took a good look at his mug.
A ginger haired man, likely on his 30's, but ugly enough to look older. From what they could gather, he was scrawny, slim and unthreatening. He eyed them unblinking and concerned, scared even. Too innocent looking to be a citizen born and raised in Basin City. Both cops had stopped and inspected plenty of people in similar cases, mostly fiends and hooligans.
This simple man though, stood out from the rest as if his ginger hair was the only colored thing in a black and white world.
"Was just getting some sleep." He spoke in a pitiful and weak tone that made him sound even younger than he looked. It was like hearing a dog make words.
"You ain't from 'round here, are ya?" Asked the younger officer. A man like that, at a place and time like this didn't sit well with him at all. Both officers, hardened as they were, took a little pity on the man for being so ignorant to the dangers of the night around him. Statistically speaking, he could have been mugged and shanked before they arrived, or before he could even sleep on the wheel.
The ginger shook his head no, in an oblivious manner, confirming himself as some foreigner. Probably irish from the looks of him, the cops deduced. He wouldn't be the first poor soul to try and escape into the city in search for an easier life, only to get a nasty surprise in turn.
Sin City was where you went with your eyes open, or you didn't come back at all.
"Don't you have a place to stay for the night?" The older officer inquired. The ginger just tapped the wheel as if to make a point.
"This is my place." He said with those weary humorless eyes of his, unintentionally staring into their souls.
Both cops exchanged looks. There was nothing to charge the man with. Being poor and homeless? Many were like that in the city, bound to get killed or survive without dignity. The man's story did add up with his car looking so poor and battered. It must have been all he had, that was it. He wasn't going to be any disturbance to the people at the docks. He would have been utterly fucked if he tried something against them.
With nothing left to be done about it, the cops went back to their patrol car, leaving the man with a warning.
"Try somewhere else safer next time. They could kill you if they saw you around here." The older officer warned before taking his leave.
"They'd be doing me a favor." Replied the ginger, his tired eyes and mug going back to the wheel to rest once again.
A moment passed and the sound of an engine and tires signaled the departure of both cops. A while passed after that for good measure. Then with his eyes still tired, the ginger sprung to activity, his hands reaching for a piece of cloth, a black and white fabric that sat on his lap. He shook it for a bit before putting it on. Not a mask, but his real face. The ginger closed his eyes.
And then Rorschach opened them.
Breathe again. Turn into myself again. My face comes back to me, back in it's rightful place. My hat follows. Good as new.
Back to work, my ears pick a sound. A continuous knock in the trunk of the car, obvious what it means. Marv is free to go. Took long enough waiting there. Suppose the confinement must have been unpleasant for someone that big, but it was necessary. Lucky we wound up with a car with a big enough trunk.
Out of my focus though. I open the trunk, looking down at my companion as he contorts back to freedom. Help him out too. He smirks as he looks at me, pleased with the results of our charade.
"Took off the mask, didn't ya? Must have fooled them." He assumes.
"Negative. Put the mask on, then took it off. You're looking at my face." Told him the truth. He nods in understanding.
We go back to our plan and stare at the nest of heathens in front of us, waiting for us to burn it, slay the rats and rescue the innocent. At least that's the idea.
We exchange looks, looking to discuss the plan of attack, draw the line to take separate ways and play our parts each.
No time to waste.
Marv
Rorschach takes the high way through some nearby buildings. Gonna use his grappling hook to break in and secure the children before I charge in. I give him some time to do it and sit down on the car's hood, studying the fortress. At his signal, I'll haul hell over to their doorstep and watch them burn.
This whole mask and cape business is still new to me but hell if it doesn't show results. I've never seen myself as a vigilante to be fair, just a fella offering a public service, wether the public likes it or not ain't my business. I crack the skulls that need and deserve to be cracked, the city is better that way. I sometimes get afraid of the man I might become, a psycho killer, a killing machine that can't be stopped, only aimed. Now I look at Rorschach and stop to think what makes us tick.
Says he doesn't wear a mask, says that's his real face. I'm no one to judge, he might as well be right. This dark world wants to change us into things we're not. They can try, but only that. What do I know? Maybe this place would be safer with more guys like him and me running around. But I guess we're all there is, unique as we are.
We are alone.
I take a lighter and enjoy a good smoke while I wait for the sparks. I ease up the tension and let go of my worries. The man's a pro, he'll have his way with the pigs. He always does.
Rorschach.
The clock's still ticking. Ran at top speed through an old abandonned building, close enough to the real target. Cut some distance in the stairs by using the grappling hook. Dreiberg's tech was always of use when applied to the right things. Pity him, so unaware of what he could be doing for the world if he dared to stare at the abyss, if he had the heart to fight the corruption. Such a waste of potential.
Some closed doors here and there stop me. Ran a quick check, they're locked up. Could have pulled my kit and picked the lock, chose not to, not enough time. I shatter the wood with one kick and move in, faster than before.
The logistics of the mission are a nightmare, but one I can wake up from. I go to the edge of a room, facing the docks through a closed window awaiting to be used there. I force it open and look out, taking aim with the grappling hook to whatever opening there is in the structure that I can exploit.
Got a clear view of the windows, found that there were plenty unguarded. From what I gather, they're operating on the second floor. Means I have to drop on the third one. I take the shot and watch the hook bury into the concrete, giving me good trajectory. The tool does it's job, it pulls me through the air and for a few seconds I feel free, without any footing, free from the sickness of the streets, the ill and rotten people plaguing our world and the trouble they bring.
Then I cross the gap between the two buildings, slamming into the wall and holding onto the window, rememberinh that it won't be so simple. This place needs to be cleansed first, and thanksfully I'm here to do just that.
Hold myself still, crawling on the wall, climbing and trying to open the window. It gives in. I pull the grapple back in place and head inside, shifting weight and reducing the sound of my footsteps to their minimal state but trying to not slow down.
Taking in my surroundings, seeing through the veil of night and darkness, I find that I'm in some sort of janitor's room. The shelves full of chemicals and tools say as much. Seizing an advantage, I fix my eyes on everything at display. There are some spray cans, highly flammable from what I see. I pick one up. Combined with Marv's lighter it could make an improvised flamethrower. Will have to be careful with it though.
There's an empty plastic bottle, good enough to fit a gun's barrel. Can be a silencer, will only get one shot before it breaks though. Have to make it count. Will do.
My next pick is a broomstick. Doesn't look deadly. Not until I've snapped it in half on my knee and carved it's edges, earning a sharp weapon for melee purposes.
Have my hands too. Would have been enough some other time, but not tonight. Need to go for the kill quick, can't waste precious time and give the dogs a chance to defend themselves. Stealth is important now.
I make haste. Using my tools to lock-pick the door into opening. Take a few peeks before it's open to make sure no eyes are on me.
Clear.
Moving out, balancing my stealth with the speed I need, in an empty hallway covered by darkness. Plenty of doors around me, but only one of them with the lights on at the other side. Inching towards that one, focusing on what's there, I hear mumbles and footsteps. Someone coming out, about to open the door.
Too late to pull back now, nowhere to disappear. I take it head on, shift my weight ready to push and then start waiting. Waiting for a signal, waiting for an opening, waiting for a mistake.
A hand starts to reach for the doorknob.
Now it's time.
I push and kick, hard and fast. Slammed the door against him harder than he could take and faster than he could react, it sent him flying back. Wasn't ready for the blow, body too relaxed for it. He was in the bathroom after all. Caught him with his guard down.
Still dizzy and stunned from the blow, he shakes his head. He crawls pathetically, like the roach he is. Have that effect on the scum.
Locked up the door and got back to business. The trash tries to get his hands on his pistol and fire at me.
Didn't let him. Disoriented as he was, he could only struggle so much as he was overpowered. I snatch his firearm and hit him with it.
Funny, Marv mentioned on the way that when it came to pistol whipping I had to use the handle. Reason being that the barrels and cannons get damaged, compromising the quality of the gun.
Valuable advice. I take it.
The thug grunts from the force of the blow. I trash him around. His grunts almost turn into screams, but not quite. My hands on his neck aren't letting him. Can't afford having him alert anyone in any way. Hence why I go for the neck and cut off his air supply.
Cutting off the enemy's communications, leaving them in the dark. War tactic, an old one. Very effective.
That is one step. Next is getting them to communicate with you. Give them hurt and watch them tell you what you want to hear, just to stop it.
I scanned the man I'm holding, probing him. Caucasian male, on his 30's, average sized, bald and bearded, not too muscular, not too skinny. Frightened too. I get closer, gaze into his rotten worthless soul and I find fear, useful and exploitable fear. The lube to this sort of interrogation, at the hands of the experienced.
Kept the pressure on his neck with one arm, took a hand and started crushing it with the other. He tries to break free, struggles with ferocity like an alley cat, like a rape victim. Not enough. It never is. Fingernails scratch only the sleeves of my coat, unable to make it past. Too sneaky, too prepared for him.
Going to ask him some questions, have to offer some incentive. I grab the fingers like twigs, then study the reactions.
"The kids." A twisted finger is enough to get his attention. "Where?"
Whimpers for a bit, then starts to talk before I press him any further.
"Basement. Down below." He speaks nervously, muffled but not so much that I can't hear. "Boss wanted them all round up for the customers."
"Continue." I ordered. Has no option, chooses to comply, wisely. "How many guns?"
"Two dozen, I think, counting me. I'm new." Wasted no words, for the sake of his fingers.
"When are they selling them?"
"Half an hour from now. Jesus, man, that's all I know."
"Say no more. Look at my face." I dictate, unpleased with how he looks aside with his eyes closed to not see me.
...
"Look at me." That's an order. He spirals into desperation.
"No, man, it's cool. I didn't see you, I swear." He pleads pathetically.
"Look at me!" I command as loud as I can without alerting anyone outside. My voice makes his blood boil, so he does as I say.
Lucky, he's in a bathroom. He'll need to use it again judging from his fright.
"Now look at you." Grabbed his head, made him stare into the mirror. Opens his eyes again, sees the wounds and bruises, then shrinks in his boots. The prime image of a loser, the one in the dictionary. "Do you want to see my face again?"
He shakes his head no, more like a scared cat than a dog now, but pest is pest, has to be written off. One more pistol whip later, he slips into unconsciousness, out cold. Had it easy compared to the next ones. That's a promise. Put the body next to the toilet where no questions will be raised if someone comes in. Just a sad drunk. Then I loot. Found nothing else worth using. Had enough.
I get the pistol in my hands and then attach the bottle to the barrel, silencing it properly. It goes into my coat, ready for further uses.
Stepped out of the bathroom the same way I stepped in. Going through the darkness, on alert for footsteps and signs of incoming thugs. Nothing troubles me yet. Hoping the same for Marv.
The wooden floor is an inconvenience, croaks too much under weight, got lucky that I'm light weight. The brown of my coat stands out no longer, rather blending in with the surroundings. I scout the area with the silenced pistol, one firm hand on the handle, the other on the top, covering it. Can't have anything fly off the pistol and into the floor, would tip the guards off. So I block it's exit with a palm. Trick I picked up from the Comedian. Always had more of a knack for firearms than me and the other crime busters. They had no gun and no kill policies. I don't share them.
Always saw them as conscious objectors, they thought they were above this, that like many filthy protestants they had the stance that guns alone killed people, that despite being inanimate objects they and only they were to blame for killings and muggings.
Wrong.
Wrong on a skyscrapper amount of levels. Guns should be banned for most of the public, specially the automatic ones and new waves, but that wouldn't stop animals from being animals. Take away the claws and they'd still bite. Take away firearms and they'd resort to more primitive but equally deadly means. Knives, bottles, chains and bats. Can't ban those, can't outlaw them or take them off the streets. I've seen the nature of sin up close, fiends who prey on the weak with their bare hands.
While I can show them hell with my fists alone, a little leverage is always important. When I take a life, I think not of that life, but of the lives I'm saving. Once I do the math, the scum becomes expendable.
The Comedian knew it. I know it. And Marv down there surely knows it.
I take the way to the stairs, only to hear footsteps coming from down below, beating me to the punch. Counted the footsteps. Still got time, must make haste. There's a window close enough, I go for it, open it as fast as I can and keep going.
The curtains flap with the strong breeze outside, andvmy coat too. When the thug comes upstairs, there's no one to be seen. He does notice the open window though.
Good.
He comes closer to it. Caught a glimpse of him. A low life neo-nazi punk, nothing serious physically speaking. No more than the one that I just took down. Come to think of it, if there's two dozen of these minions like the previous one said, that leaves us with twenty-three. A lot, but it can be done. I've beaten more than twelve in a row on my good days, positive that Marv can handle eleven if the odds are good. Taking stealth into account, the odds are good. It will be done.
The punk gets closer and closer to the open window, mysterious to him. The strong breeze doesn't let it go unnoticed. The curtain makes it hard for him to see what awaits on the other side. So he goes snooping where he has no business, an UZI in hand. Not to good for his scenario, too hard to aim properly at close quarters.
Waiting. Each step meaning a signal to me, all building up to my great cue. But the punk gets too carried away, more than initially expected. He goes right into the window, shaking his UZI and aiming like a paranoid. There he comes across...
Nothing.
Nothing up front. Me right behind.
A pistol whip to the back of the head, a disarming twist of the arm, then one solid tackle and he was thrown right out. He soared through the air, like a flightless bird, like a chicken, and then crashed down below, three stories below.
Took the bait, even better than expected. He searched in the wrong place while I hid safely behind one of the doors at the hallway. Must have broken my lock-pick record there. Must have broken the punk's legs too. Of both things, I take pride. Wether or not the punk died, it's uncertain. Don't care. Can't afford doing so. Spared a look down through the window to ensure no one noticed his unconscious shape. All clear, looks like everyone is inside. Sure hope Marv noticed it.
Defenestration. The act of throwing something or someone through a window. Sounds like a beautiful term in this scenario, fair and fitting.
Also leaves Marv and I with twenty-two hired guns to eliminate. Splitting it even, that leaves me with eleven more dogs to put down. Good to know.
With that out of the window, I take the stairs like originally planned. Silence in every step, silence is imperative. Making it to the second floor, I count on Marv to do his part.
Marv.
A guy goes through the window and plummets to the ground. 'Nuff height to break something, I'm sure. Looks like my new friend is having fun inside.
I take some steps towards the entrance, try to not raise any suspicions. My hands are where they can see them, touching a lighter and a cigarrette. I'd have dropped the habit long time ago unhealthy as it is, given that it will supposedly take off entire years of my life. Then I brushed it off because thing is, I don't have long life expectations. No one in this city does, hence why you can throw a stone and you're likely to hit either a drinker or a smoker. No one quits at all, no one thinks they'll make it so long as to think that this will take a toll on them.
The abstract poetry of smoke clears my mind and hardens my nerves as I walk up to the workshop of horrors ahead. I know they're not gonna be jumpy, not in a place and time like this. They think they're above the law, and maybe they're right, but they're not above me.
I'm glad to see familiar faces in the front, makes my job so much easier. Fat Man and Little Boy, couple of criminal nimrods bent on making quick cash out of shit jobs. Tonight they're out to make a dime as guards, and from all the trouble they could have stumbled upon, it just had to be me. Life's got a wild sense of humor.
It's murky around here, so much that my face is covered in the shadows and the blackness of my clothes blends in perfectly with the beguilling nite shade, just waiting for a dramatic reveal. Instant camouflage. They almost don't even notice me as they talk in the light, backs pressed to the wall trying to look as tough as they get, talking 'bout nonsense in that lousy smartass speech pattern they use. It's like their words were different from mine and all others, standing out like a separate style. Lucky me that it was them, precisely them from all thugs. They're as basic as they come.
Fat Man and Little Boy.
Douglas "Fat Man" Klump and Burt "Little Boy" Schlubb did the only thing they could to kill the time and spend their hours of work with their minds on something.
They talked.
About mundane things for the most part. The stuff that two busy men like them would discuss normally. Trivial and simple. The best kind of dialogue. And they did so in the most eloquent way possible. Such were their delusions.
"It is a most intriguing question how we keep taking up on this sort of job offers, no matter how counterproductive they might be." Klump argued, not very fond of the assignment they were given. It reminded him of one over eight years ago that ended with him and Schlubb getting beat up by a cop. Said cop beat them up again eight years later. Both times they were working under Senator Roark's orders to assist his son. He ended up stabbed, castrated and pummeled to death but it wasn't like that was their fault anyway.
"As uncomfortable as this nite ordeal might seem at the moment, mister Klump, it is only fitting, given the explosive nature of our last failure at a task. With that in mind, this becomes a considerably easier job than disposing of a body, being that it requires less time and effort while presenting us with less illicit material to be prosecuted over." Schlubb reasoned in an attempt to keep their heads in the game.
"However fair your assessment on the pros might be, mister Schlubb, there are still some potential cons to it, such as us becoming collateral damage, were this place to become raided, with our lives being at the front line as expendable assets for the employers." Klump refuted, voicing his worries and qualms.
"That is only if the place was to be raided, which I find highly unlikely given the criminal negligence of our local police department and law enforcement. Their indifference and cooperation validates us for this assignment."
Klump shook his head in denial before assuming a different stance.
"The police department is the lesser of my concerns, mister Schlubb. What makes me grow mortified is the possibility of a certain vigilante's presence coming to make our job significantly more diffcult." Klump explained, his mind going to the reports and word out there in the underworld about a costumed outlaw taking justice in his own hands. "No matter how absurd it may come off as, the one-man wave of terror caused by this ink blot test-themed vigilante unsettles me."
"Do not make the mistake of selling us both short. Albeit well funded, your fears should be easily dispelled by our tactical superiority over this delusional adversary. We are packing a better arsenal than in our previous encounters with foes, not to mention the amount of hired guns there inside, that if I may add, are better trained and equipped than us. Such a scenario would make any attempts at heroics from outsiders a mild threat as well as a suicidal move."
There was some silence evoked in their dialogue when the steps of a man became audible a few meters away from them, albeit disembodied due to their lack of visibility through the growing murk. In slow but firm gestures, both men seized their firearms, trying to not lose their nerve as their eyes worked harder on making a shape out of the darkness.
That was when a couple of huge hands were visibly raised in the dark. A man, a tall and imposing one, with a face concealed by shadows and a hunched stance slowly made his way towards them.
No matter what, neither Fat Man nor Little Boy were allowed to open fire so prematurely, not without some form of confirmation as to who the man was and what threat he represented. He didn't resemble the Rorschach man in question. He could very well be one of the pending customers so they would have to wait and get a better look at him.
The way he walked, coupled with his lack of a vehicle ruled him out as a cop. They inspected him as he came further and waited for a sign of a trouble that didn't come.
"Evenin', fellas." The bulky man spoke with a voice that screamed local and indicated huge confidence. "Need a light?"
The man waved his lighter in the air, so small in his big hand that they didn't notice it in his grip and then brought it to the cigarrette awaiting in his mouth.
Fat Man and Little Boy exchanged looks for a moment, quite unsure about how they should proceed. With their hands still on their weapons, a Beretta and a Desert Eagle respectively, they considered announcing the man's arrival to their employers.
The man then made their decision a lot easier.
"State your business here and reason why we should allow your entry." Schlubb said, pretty sure of himself, with Klump backing him up.
Just a few feet between them and the man now. There was the distinctive sound of a lighter being actioned, by an avid smoker on that.
CLINK.
"Was jus' passin' by." Replied the man with the cigarrette in his teeth, smoke coming out in an ominous pattern. His face was now illuminated by the little flame and with it, the figure embodied the duo's fears. That was the mug that many professionals as well as the duo had seen before being brutally decimated or coacted into surrender.
Klump's concerns were well funded after all.
Marv.
The expressions in their faces were priceless. I'm used to having that effect on them by now. Those who know what's good for them lay off the fight right afterwards. Fat Man and Little Boy for example, know what's good, and so they scramble like they'd just seen a ghost in the night. Not a word about it.
A few feet away, I find the body that landed on the ground. Quick check on the trajectory tells me he fell from the third floor. Well, got pushed off the third floor. Pretty clean too, no window's broken, no glass around, no noise, '. Gotta hand it to Rorschach.
I take that as a cue and get sprintin' around in the blind spots of the site. So far, so good, no eyes on me. I squeezed some info out of Fat Man and Little Boy before they scrambled. Nothin' big, the two were small fry but at least they were told the basics. I also got two fine pistols from them, far from my style and not as comfortable as Gladis but they handle just fine. Better if I don't use them yet though. Snowball in my stomach tells me they'll come in more handy when the real hell breaks loose and I have to face it. Won't be alone though.
Rorschach said he could handle the dark. For his sake, I hope he can, now that I'm about to snuff out the lights. When I get my hands on the utility box and the fuses, all I do is wait and think of how things will play out. They'll get blinded, vulnerable, Roschach will find the kids and secure them, then I've got green light to storm in, bust the guards and turn the place into a slaughterhouse. All eyes, all heat and all bullets will be on me, but that's the way I like it. Like back in Vietnam, whatever hits me is at least not hitting the others. I can take it, I can make it, I gotta.
So I toy with the fuses and then watch the darkness grow, waiting to savor their reactions to it. I get mixed results, hear them voices echoing in the shadows as the guards ramble.
I drag all my bulk through the dirt and grass, keepin' the head low and crawling just below their windows 'til I make it to a viable door. From there on it's waiting, hopefully not long, before shit hits the fan and I have to wreck the party inside. I pray that Rorschach gets somewhere, 'cause the way I see it, we ain't good with the time. But that's okay, I'll be ready. I press against the door, good to push it down when the time's right. It'll break like cardboard, and so will the goons.