Whew chapter 3--starting to get things set up--a lot of exposition though, hope its entertaining. I got to introduce my OC-yay! It was meant to be more of a cameo for now, but then she wouldn't shut up in my head, so we get part of her perspective. I mean I think its cool lol. I meant to respond to Granite Ghost's review but forgot until just now, so I will do so here:
GG - "I don't think Manhattan thought this through enough. Maybe he thought that his future couldn't be changed..." This pretty much sums up my thoughts on Dr. M; he sees a version of the future but never questions it--just follows the path blindly. Rorschach is the exact opposite--questioning everything. It's an interesting mirrored parallel that I'd like to play with.
As always constructive criticism is awesome.
It was well past 2am before Rorschach came near Kovacs's old apartment. His knuckles were bloodied beneath the gloves and there was a red bandana tucked into his back pocket. Kovacs had fallen quiet in the back of his mind hours ago, simply observing and thinking over all they had learned—Rorschach didn't see the point and decided to focus on cleaning up the city. He'd taken a lazy slow sweep through the areas of the city that would always be filthy and dark no matter how many people Veidt murdered.
Kovacs was a bit squeamish when Rorschach had taken care of a group of gang-bangers, but he offered no protest—he knew it was right after all. Despite his weakness though, Kovacs was a useful partner to have on hand—he had suggested they grab one of the red bandanas to serve as a mask until they recovered Rorschach's face.
Looks like the original building is still intact, Kovacs observed as they walked the final block.
Good. Means face still there.
Turning down the alley, Rorschach pulled his gloves off and tied the cloth over the bridge of his nose. It was an easy, familiar climb up the fire escape and, if he kept his eyes on the faded roof as he jogged across, Kovacs could pretend that nothing had changed. Rorschach flexed his hand, causing the knuckles to ache. Nothing ever changes.
He hung onto the side of the building by the fingertips of one hand and pulled the window open with the other. Lucky for tenant we're not scum, Rorschach observed as they slipped inside, will teach them to lock windows. He crouched low in the shadows, taking in the shapes and space of the apartment. It was bigger than he remembered—they had combined two apartments into a larger one. He stood and walked to the wall, pulling a few framed articles down lightly. He paused for a moment when he noticed suddenly that the articles were about Nite Owl III and featured pictures of a young smiling hero and Daniel.
"Hurm.." he muttered, and tossed the frame aside gently, filing the information away for later. Running his fingertips over the surface, Rorschach let sense memory tell him where the hollow section was.
The lights clicked on suddenly and he closed his eyes tight against the flare and spun around, glaring. There was a woman wearing a pair of faded jeans and a white tank top, a bat held at the ready in her hands. She was barefoot and had a dazed, adrenaline fueled look in her eyes. Rorschach had woken her.
"Get the hell out," she said, voice shaking slightly though her hold on the bat was firm.
"Didn't mean to disturb you," he replied in as polite a tone as he could muster. "Just need to pick up personal affects, then will leave." Rorschach turned back around and rapped his knuckles on the wall once, then again a few inches down.
He could hear the woman breathing behind him, "What?" Rorschach grunted softly and knocked again to the left--there was a hollow sound. She shifted her weight and took a step away from the doorway; he flicked a glance over his shoulder.
"Don't," he growled as his fist clenched. The woman was approaching the phone and she froze, braced for him to attack. "Can call police after I leave." Her face was set but her frame trembled; her eyes moved from what she could see of his expression to his fist. Rorschach turned back, punched through the drywall, and pulled out a bag in one clean motion. It was battered and flattened from being hidden in the wall, covered in dust and cobwebs, but whole.
There was a thud as the bat dropped to the carpet and the woman's hands went to cover her mouth in surprise. "How did--?!"
"Put it there," Rorschach told her. He pulled the bag open and dug through it until he finally found his prize. The black and white fabric warmed and began to move at his touch, still so very beautiful. He almost smiled. Then he turned, pulling the cap and bandana off.
The woman was staring at the mask in his hand. "That…that's Rorschach's mask…"
Rorschach grunted, "I know." Dropping the bag, he pulled the mask over his head with both hands, turning his head so it was aligned properly.
"How could you have…" her voice was weak, and he ignored her. "You shouldn't wear that," she spoke suddenly and then looked utterly surprised at her boldness. Rorschach tensed and turned to face her. The woman seemed to wilt a bit under his stare, and then she tightened her small fists and rallied. "It's not yours. Rorschach was a hero; he died trying to stop Dr. Manhattan from attacking…that..that belongs in a museum."
"Hurm," Rorschach muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head at her slightly. "Lies always hide best behind the truth." She frowned lightly, brows furrowing as she thought.
He grabbed the bag and took a step forward and the woman moved back pressing her back against the wall—almost like she was trying to make herself smaller. "What are you going to do?" her voice was laced with fear, but there was a trace of iron about her. She was prepared to fight for her life. Walter respected that, and Rorschach begrudgingly agreed.
"Leave. City's still filthy and sick under the shine; needs to be cleaned out from the bottom up." He grabbed the bag and pulled it over his shoulder and across his chest; while the woman watched with her wide green eyes, he crossed the room and straddled the open window. Walter crouched a bit and looked at her one last time. "Remember to lock your windows."
Then he was gone, slithering back up to climb over the edge of the roof. Walter made them linger long enough to hear her slam the window shut and lock it tightly, and then he explained to Rorschach the beginnings of a plan.
Samantha Grace Knight, 34, was exhausted and tired of repeating her story, but the two young officers from the DMH had not heard yet, and it wasn't their fault the police hadn't bothered listening enough to brief them.
"He wasn't very tall, baggy clothes but he was strong—one punch through the wall!" she said gesturing uselessly at the hole and dust left behind. The blond agent nodded as he took notes. "Blue eyes…that's all I saw of his face. Red hair though…Christ I thought he was going to kill me," Sam paused as she relived the events and the agent looked up in surprise.
"Was it natural?"
"It could have been…his skin was pale, looked like freckles on the back of his neck."
"He say anything specific about his plans?"
She shook her head and ran a hand through her hair, before crossing her arms protectively around her. "No, just that he was going to clean out the city."
The agent nodded then glanced over to his partner who was holding a framed article, reading it quietly. The blond agent snapped his fingers in annoyance at him and the other man glanced up sharply. He looked sheepish and reverently set the article back down and walked over, adjusting his glasses. "I think that's all for now Mrs. Knight," the blond agent told her. "We'll submit a report to Director Dreiberg, but it's probably just another copycat."
Sam opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it and just nodded, "Of course."
The agents turned to leave and were nearly out the door before the one in glasses turned on his heel and walked back suddenly. "I'm sorry to bother, Mrs. Knight," he said hurriedly, "but I met your husband at the DMH when I was just a recruit…he was a real class act, ma'am. And I know you must hear this all time, but he inspired me to stay. And…I'm so so sorry we lost him."
Sam smiled tightly and nodded once, "Thank you."
The blond agent made a pained expression and moved over to grab his partner and direct him out firmly, mouthing 'I'm sorry' to her as they left. Sam couldn't fault any of the people who felt that they had to say something to her about Joshua—he had that affect on people. He was a hero. He died a hero. Nite Owl III belonged to all of NYC, and the city still grieved, but on nights like this, when she was alone and scared, she just wished people would stop bringing up her late husband.
Heaving out a breath, she bolted the door and threw the chain, then triple checked that all the windows were locked. The adrenaline was long gone and all that was left was a frightened woman alone in an apartment that no longer felt safe, and several hours to go before dawn brought its comforting illumination. Sam walked back over to the damaged wall and lovingly began to pick up the dropped frames. She brushed the plaster dust off of them, and hung up those she could and set the others on the bookshelf. Her eyes lingered on a picture of herself and Joshua on their honeymoon; she blinked and turned away before the knot of hurt could reach her throat.
Sam grabbed a blanket and parked herself on the sofa—there would be no more sleep tonight. Flipping through late night drivel, she frowned and ran a hand through her hair again—it was all well and good for the agents to write off her burglar as yet another Rorschach copycat.
Seemed like a new one came out of the woodwork every few years—Psyche was the most recent, and had been pulled out of the river, two week's dead. There was no matching the original, but this man came the closest. He was the right height, and build, got his hair the right color, and had the voice down from what she'd heard when the Long Interviews had been declassified for her thesis work years ago. None of that proved anything of course, but how had he known that Rorschach had stored his spare costume in the wall right there? The sheer fact that this had been Walter Kovacs's apartment was highly classified.
Was it possible that the vigilante lived? No, no Mr. Dreiberg had witnessed his death in the Artic first hand. Unless Dreiberg lied…What had the burglar said about lies?
Why did she even care? Why was she more bothered by the fact that the burglar had known exactly where that artifact was than by the sheer fact that he had broken in? In fact he'd shown no interest in her at all really—aside to prevent her from hindering his escape.
Sam closed her eyes tightly and shook her head. She wished Joshua was here—he was so much better at taking a problem apart to examine the pieces and figuring it out than she was. Rubbing a hand over her face, she sighed again and stretched out on the couch, letting the infomercials lull her to sleep as her mind kept replaying the night's events.
"How did—"
"Put it there."