.U.
Rain started to caress the city in a fine mist, the way one does a lover in the late hours of the night. Niteowl was on patrol when he saw her. The resemblance was uncanny.
A young girl stood at a tall five foot five with flaming red hair curling out from under her crumpled fedora and over the collar of her trench coat. Bright white high-tops and feminine charm were all the difference between Rorschach and his child. When he had said 'the kid,' he had meant it. She couldn't have been any older than eighteen.
Big blue eyes stared up at the floating contraption that was Archie, and a smile crossed her face for only a moment. The hatch opened, and Niteowl leapt to the ground. Her smile disappeared, but he knew it had been there.
"An old friend told me to give you this," he handed her the journal, and her eyes brightened, though they still seemed sad.
"Thank you, Mr. Niteowl," she murmured, her voice cautious and smooth, like a pool of water just before a drop dispersed its ripples, destroying the surface.
Daniel glanced at the girl, and noticed the rain was starting to come down harder. "Um, would you... would you like to come into Archie? It's warm and dry in there."
Her started expression was that of someone who was just asked to hug their favorite celebrity. "I can go in there?"
"Yeah, sure." Daniel shrugged, and the girl smiled, revealing perfect teeth.
"Thank you so much!" she extended her hand towards him. "I'm Ink-Song by the way."
"Niteowl." he returned, shaking her hand. He lead her into the flying machine. "How old are you anyway?"
"I'm seventeen," she replied, plopping into a seat in Archimedes. Niteowl couldn't help but notice it was the seat that Rorschach always sat in. "Do you mind if I start reading this? I'm trying to gather information about my roots. Rorschach is my idol."
It surprised Daniel that Rorschach never told his daughter that he was a vigilante, but not terribly so. Walter never did talk that much. "Go ahead. I'm gonna run a few errands while we're out, so stay in here, okay?"
"Mmhmm."
.U.
Rorschach's journal. February 15, 1965.
I've been at this for a little less than a year now, and I've learned a few things in that time. Never trust bystanders. They either get in the way, or they'll attack you themselves. Today was a perfect example. Saw a woman, humming to herself on the street. It was late, too late for women to be walking alone. A group of thugs started following her, and I observed closely. She turned into the ally, swishing her hips like a prostitute. The thugs sped up and dashed into the ally. Then I heard screams, but not those of a woman. One of the thugs ran back out, but a dagger launched from the ally into the back of his knee. He went down quickly, and I felt no pity for him as the woman walked out of the ally.
It was then that I realized what she was wearing. It was not the clothes of a whore, but durable, well fitting clothing, designed for rough movement. She was a mask. Her voice reached up to me, and I caught little words of the song she sang. It was 'I got you babe'. No accounting towards taste, she was odd. As she ripped the dagger from his leg, she broke the other one, then kicked him into the road. She took a tube of lipstick from her pocket and proceeded to write 'rapist and mugger' upon his skin, a brand of his crimes.
She looked up at me and gave me a smile and a wave to come down. I refused and left. I had seen enough. I'm sure I'll see her again sometime if she's serious about this crime fighting business, though I doubt she is. She's too... cheerful. Beautiful, even. I regret refusing, but it was necessary.
.M.
Rorschach was tired when he wrote that night. It was barely a year into his title of Rorschach, and he was already becoming such a cynic. Then again, he never was that cheerful. He tried to get a few winks of sleep in, but thoughts of the woman he had seen plagued his mind. The way her dark hair slipped though the air, following her movements as smoothly as his eyes had. Her smile, a flash of white in the dark, had been free of any lipstick, though she carried it on her person. He wasn't able to see the rest of her features clearly, but he wished he had.
He shuffled off to work in the morning of February 16, 1965. He was Walter Kovacs once again. The taste of mint toothpaste was bitter on his tongue as he stepped into his place at Mr. Greer's dress shop. He hated his job with a passion, but it was work, so he did it. The place was a shit hole, what with it's terrible location, it's faulty lighting, the stained carpeting. And yet, several women came in every day to get a dress fitted or purchased. Today was no different.
Walter had sent a young woman on her way with her mother with a promise to have the polka dot dress done by that weekend. He honestly wondered why she had picked the pattern for that fabric. The colors were disgusting, and they didn't work well for the pattern. But what should he care? He got paid either way, and he didn't care about dress making anyway.
A young woman entered the shop, making the bell ring with a broken tone. Mr. Greer eyed her and Walter sneered as his boss ran his eyes up her body in a hungry way. He looked at the woman calmly, and had to admit she was beautiful. Her flowing dark hair flowed behind her lightly, touching the small of her back. Her long legs were not on show, but in a pair of grey slacks. Her button up shirt was closed, a purple tie covering the buttons.
She approached him before even seeing the owner. Her smile was free of lipstick or any other kind of lip wear. Freckles dusted the bridge of her nose.
"Hello," she said, her voice soft. The speakers on the ceiling played The Beatles, and in the moment of silence, the word 'help' rang out. "I'm Jamie Cooper. Do you have time to get me fitted for something?"
Walter nodded. He wished he was more communicative, but she smiled all the same, her hazel eyes crinkling in her earnest feelings. He pulled the measuring tape from around his neck and gestured towards the carpeted podium. "Right this way."his voice was rough from disuse and his work at night as Rorschach.
Jamie's steps were light as she made her way to the exact spot Walter had pointed out. Mr. Greer stood nearby, leering at the poor woman. At first glance, Walter would have written her off as a whore, but he had taken a closer look at her, and saw that she was a good woman. He had gotten the tape around her bust, but it slipped, and he had to measure it again. He made sure it was around the widest part of the bust to make it fit, and took note. 34 inches. He slid the tape down to her waist, and she giggled. He looked up at her in surprise, and she smiled down at him.
"That tickles," she explained, and looked up, catching Mr. Greer's eye. Walter noticed that she had become uncomfortable under Greer's stare, and knew that the older man was a dirty pervert. He hated Mr. Greer with such an intensity, he felt sorry for Jamie.
'She's still a whore,' murmured a rough voice in his head. Walter almost dropped the tape, he was so frightened. He had never heard that voice before, and it was as if it spoke right next to his ear. He played it off as nerves and took the measurement of her hips. 40 inches. They were wide, but not squishy. They were just wide for the genetic purpose of procreation. He really didn't care that much, but his mind kept coming up with excuses for her measurements.
"Which fabric would you like for your dress?" Mr. Greer stepped in as Walter wrote down his numbers.
"I was thinking a nice black and white dress would be nice. Satin, if you have it." Jamie rummaged into her pocket, pulling out a drawing on a napkin. "Like this." She handed it to Walter.
He was amazed at how detailed it was. Specific instructions on assembly were written on the napkin, outlining the drawing of the dress. It was symmetrical, like Rorschach's mask, only in satin, stationary in design. It was similar to the polka dot dress in shape, though, reaching mid-thigh and ending in a ruffle that traced the bottom, as well as highlighting the cleavage.
'I told you she was still a whore,' the voice hissed in his ear, and Walter almost swatted the voice away.
"May I ask the occasion?" he got the courage to ask.
"It's for my twin sister. We have the same measurements, and she didn't want people touching her to get them. She wanted a party dress, and she had me design it for her. She wants me to have a matching one, but honestly, I find it distasteful. Too short, too much skin. Not my scene, you know?"
Walter nodded, relieved. He mentally told that voice that it could shut up, that it was wrong about her. She was lovely. Walter wondered why he actually liked her. She was so... cheerful.
"When can I expect it?" Jamie twirled a lock of hair around her finger.
"Next week," Walter croaked, suddenly very thirsty. Why was it so hot?
"Great! I'll see you then," she smiled as she left the shop, as beautiful as when she had entered.
"What the hell was that?" Mr. Greer growled. The song on the speakers changed to the Pointer Sisters, and Walter looked back down at the napkin in his hand. On the corner, she had signed her name. She had dotted the 'I' with a music note.