A/N: I am thrilled by all the reviews! They've kept my spirits buoyed all week. But I can't take all the credit. My story wouldn't be half as good if Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons hadn't written such a wonderfully wounded and complex character (and in my humble opinion the best character in the graphic novel). I also have to give a shout out to Jackie Earle Haley whose dark and heart-wrenching performance solidified an already enthralling Rorschach. Okay, love fest over.
I had a tough time figuring out how the heck I could follow up my previous chapter. Then I discovered the benefits of a full 8 hours of sleep! No, I don't remember what I might've dreamt (No, I'm not English; I just think "dreamt" looks prettier on the page than "dreamed"), but my now alert mind finally conjured this. I must warn you, it does get kinda sappy towards the end. Hope you all like it.
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Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of its characters, nor the musical works of Bob Dylan.
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She held Mimi's hand, gazed into her watery eye, watched the light inside it fade. She closed her eyes to blot out the sight of the empty shell that was once a breathing human being and sobbed.
"Chloe."
Her eyes flew open. Standing before her on the other side of the suddenly empty table was Byron, wearing his favorite green flannel shirt and jeans. Mimi stood beside him, her baby cradled in her arms, both healthy and whole. They all regarded Chloe with soulful eyes. She looked at the girl, wishing she could ask her forgiveness in her failure to save her and her child. She looked at her husband, wishing she could tell him how much she missed him. The spirits seemed to understand and smiled warmly. Then their gaze shifted as, from behind her, a pair of hands rested themselves on Chloe's shoulders. A warmth enveloped her; a feeling of acceptance, and with it, peace. Byron nodded gently, his eyes full of love as he gave his silent blessing. Chloe crossed her arms over her chest and laid her palms over the hands on her shoulders, warm and alive. She smiled across the table at the spirit of her beloved, who blew her a kiss. Chloe turned to see who stood behind her--
She woke in her bed. Foggy half-memories surfaced: sitting outside, the street prophet's return, the sensation of being lifted. Chloe stretched and rolled out of bed. She padded to the kitchenette, fixed herself a PB&J sandwich and a glass of milk. After eating she took a quick shower, changed into her scrubs, and walked downstairs to the clinic. The others were already there tending to the early patients. Maria waved her over.
"Well, look who's back." Maria smiled, concerned eyes searching the other woman's face.
"How long was I out?" Chloe asked.
"All day and night."
Chloe gaped. "You mean it's Friday?"
"Yeah. You up for this?"
Chloe nodded, thoughts of her dream in the back of her mind. She went to the vacant nursing station and called over the next patient.
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The previous night…
Shouldn't be here. Didn't see her at the clinic, leaning on the wall. Just see if she's alright, then go.
Window slides open easily. Room is dark and silent. See the shape of her under the blanket. Hasn't stirred. Step close to hear her breathing, slow and even. What does she dream, I wonder. The dying girl with blood and pain? Her husband, lost to her? Cannot tell from her face. Lean in close to see. Her face is relaxed. Her eyes roll beneath the closed lids. Long eyelashes. Lips are slightly parted and her breath moves in and out in a quiet rush.
Should go. Should keep away. Being here's too distracting. Evil takes advantage of my inexcusable absence. It infests the city like a plague. The work, the endless work. Can't stop, just like she said. Don't want to stop. Don't want to go.
She stirs. I freeze. What will happen if she wakes, finds me here? Doesn't wake.
LEAVE. NOW. Turn from the sleeping woman. Out the window, into the cold night. Tell myself I won't return. Won't return.
Know that it's a lie.
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Kovacs reached the intersection leading to the free clinic and didn't turn away. He continued towards it, hating himself for his weakness. But the sight of her there, in her signature blue scrubs and her long curly hair tied back in a ponytail, leaning against the wall as always this time of day, made his heart race and brought a strange fluttering sensation to his stomach. It was the most uncomfortable feeling he had ever experienced, and yet he didn't want it to fade. Was this what addiction felt like? This overwhelming compulsion? Chloe noticed his approach and her face split into a brilliant smile that only intensified the sensations he was experiencing. There were a few more worry lines around her eyes and mouth, a slight stoop to her shoulders, but these were the only visible signs of the ordeal she had suffered.
"Hey," she said, "Thank you for tucking me in. That was quite chivalrous of you."
"Welcome," he mumbled, trying not to meet her eyes.
She patted the wall beside her. "Wanna keep me company?"
No, Rorschach snarled. Kovacs ignored him, moved to lean his back against the cool bricks. He set the butt of his sign's long handle on the pavement and gripped the top to keep it from falling over. They stood awhile in silence, Chloe relaxed and watching the passersby while Kovacs agonized over what to do next. Should he say something? She'd asked him to keep her company and all he was doing was standing there. But what did he have to talk about? He'd been socially inept his entire life. He had no experience with casual conversation. He peeked at her from the corner of his eye. Was that boredom on her face? Did she already regret sharing her wall with him? Say something!
"You wear a lot of blue." Brilliant.
Chloe turned to him, her expression friendly and open. "Sure. I love it. It's nature's most vibrant color. Like the sky."
Kovacs turned his eyes skyward. The cleansing effect of the storm had passed after yesterday's brightness and the perpetual brown smog had returned. Chloe followed his gaze and laughed. "Well, maybe not that sky. Like…mmm…" She looked around for a better example. Her hazel eyes met the street prophet's and she grinned. "Like your eyes."
Kovacs blinked. "Mine?"
"Uhuh. They're very intense. I think they're your best feature."
He quickly turned his gaze straight ahead, ears burning. He felt a light tug on his sleeve and reluctantly swiveled his head towards her again. Chloe's smile was gone, her eyebrows furrowed with concern. "I know I make you uncomfortable sometimes. I'm sorry."
He shrugged. "'S okay."
"I really do like talking to you. It's nice to have someone really listen without their eyes glazing over," she chuckled softly. "I could really use a good listener right now."
"Okay."
"When I fell asleep against you, after the storm," Chloe swallowed, visibly composing herself, "The reason I was so tired was because…someone died the night before. A girl I knew, she--someone hurt her real bad. The ambulance couldn't reach us in time." Her chin trembled, but she didn't cry. She sighed, shifted against the brickwork. "Bad things happen sometimes. Place like this, it's kind of inevitable. Sometimes it really gets to me. Do you think," she turned to him, "that God made the world this way to test us? Put the pressure on to see how evolved we really are?"
"No," Kovacs answered without hesitation, "God didn't make the world this way. We did."
"Yeah. I thought as much." She pushed off from the wall, checked her watch. "Break's over. I gotta get back. Will you be here tomorrow?" she asked hopefully.
He nodded.
"Good." She flashed a mischievous grin. "Maybe I'll give you another sucker."
He very nearly smiled at that. "Alright." He watched her walk away, her steps lacking their usual jauntiness. But her back was straight and her eyes looked resolutely ahead.
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He rarely dreamed, but when he did they were nightmares. Hellish recollections of his mother, striking him, screaming at him, fornicating with strange men; the meat cleaver arcing down into the child killer's skull over and over; Blaire Roche screaming for her daddy as the German shepherds tore into her flesh. Yesterday he dreamed of the girl Mimi, her death replayed with dreadful clarity, the sounds she made when her baby was lost, and the engulfing despair in Chloe's eyes when she knew her efforts were in vain. He'd awoken with his fists knotted in the ratty blanket and biting into his pillow to stifle the screams.
Today, as the glow of false dawn silhouetted the buildings, Rorschach returned to his foul little apartment hoping his night's exertions might have banished any further dreams. He removed his face, his clothing, and hid them under the floorboards. He bathed, for he was fastidious about personal hygiene, despite what he led others to believe. He used the sink, since his apartment did not include a tub or shower. The bottle of odorous cologne sat next to the soap dish in readiness for when he woke and doused himself. His ablutions finished, he slipped into a pair of faded boxers and got into bed, the tired bedsprings squeaking under him. Lying on the thin mattress with the lumpy pillow beneath his head and the threadbare covers drawn over him, he let the exhaustion overtake him and slept. And dreamed--
--of warm sunlight. He stood in front of the Gunga Diner dressed as Rorschach but holding his street prophet's sign. The passing figures of pedestrians were indistinct blurs of color. One of them stopped, turned, and resolved into a clear image. It was Mimi, her belly protruding, her face and body unmarred by the damage she had sustained that dreadful night. A tiny Mona Lisa smile graced her youthful features. She stepped towards him until there was less than a foot of distance between them, gazed up at him with her dark eyes, waiting.
Rorschach felt the same burning tightness in his throat as he did whenever little Blaire crept into his thoughts. A taste of the hell that awaited him for his failures, of which there were so many.
"I'm sorry," he choked, "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."
Mimi smiled, reached up to grip the bottom of his face. He didn't resist as she slowly peeled it off. He closed his eyes briefly as the latex fabric slid over his eyelids. Fully exposed, he opened his eyes and gasped. Mimi was gone, replaced with Chloe. She gently cupped his ma--Walter's face, her hazel eyes penetrating his.
"I forgive you," she whispered. She leaned towards him. He felt her breath on his lips--
"Don't talk back to me, you little shit!"
Walter jerked awake. The landlady was screeching at her children again. He lay in his bed letting the noise wash over him, the dream still fresh in his mind. A tear slowly ran from the corner of his eye down towards the pillow.
What was happening to him?
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Nightfall. Rorschach set out. There was a man pushing amphetamines on the streets. Rorschach broke his arm to get the name and location of his supplier. He found the man at Happy Harry's Bar & Grill. Not surprising; every criminal went there sooner or later. It gratified him to see the abject horror in Happy Harry's face as he stepped through the door into the filthy smoke-filled establishment.
"Ruh-Rorschach!" the fat balding man squeaked, "W-what brings ya here?"
"Man, thin, blonde hair," the vigilante rasped, "Drug dealer."
"Well, ah, th-that don't ring any bells, but…feel free ta look," he finished weakly as Rorschach sauntered away from him and deeper into the pervading gloom. Please, God, don't let my insurance premiums get any higher.
The bar had fallen into a hush upon his entrance; the silence of the forest as the tiger wanders through in search of prey. As he passed the seated figures nearest him leaned away, giving the appearance of waves parting before him. Most of the bar's clientele stared fixedly into their drinks as if fascinated by the watery contents. Rorschach noticed one man trying to sidle his way behind an empty booth, tall and emaciated with long dirty blonde hair. Upon realizing he was spotted, the skinny man tried to make a break for it. He leapt over a table, scattering drink glasses and earning him shouted curses. Rorschach was not so hampered in the semi-crowded bar; the people scuttled out of his way the second they knew which direction he was headed. He caught the terrified drug dealer well before he reached the exit.
"I didn't do nothin'!" the man cried. Rorschach twisted his arm behind him and jerked viscously. There was an audible pop as the shoulder dislocated. The skinny man shrieked. With his other hand, Rorschach searched the man's pockets. In one he found a sizable wad of cash; in the other, several baggies full of pills. "Hurm."
"Shit, man. They ain't mine. I was just holdin'em for a guy--auugh!"
"That's what other dealer said. Highly unoriginal." Rorschach kicked the man's legs out from under him. The blonde's face hit the hardwood floor with a loud smack. "Where do you get the drugs?"
The man groaned. "Fuck you."
Rorschach brought his heel down on the dealer's outstretched hand, breaking two fingers. "Again, unoriginal."
"Er." Happy Harry twisted the bar towel in his hands, realizing he was playing with fire. "S-sorry to interrupt, but c-could you" gulp "ma-maybe take this outside? I-if it ain't too much trouble," he added quickly as Rorschach turned his unsettling eyeless gaze on him. The entire bar held its collective breath as they awaited the vigilante's response.
"Hmph. Fine." He grabbed the whimpering man by the collar of his shirt and dragged him out the door. The entire bar let out a relieved sigh.
Happy Harry mopped his sweating brow with the towel. Mother was right; he should've been an accountant.
The skinny man needed little additional persuasion to give up his supplier, a man calling himself Ogre. A small time drug manufacturer. His lab was established in an abandoned warehouse. Rorschach found it easily enough. He approached the crumbling structure stealthily, a scrounged rebar in his hand in case he ran into any trouble. He did. A hulking mastiff lumbered out of the darkness, chuffing like a steam engine. Rorschach dodged its oncoming charge and struck it with the iron bar. The creature emitted a surprisingly high pitched wail and collapsed. It struggled to its feet, its left foreleg curled against its body, and cringed as Rorschach raised his weapon again. Seeing the fight was out of this adversary, the vigilante continued towards his goal. He found a way inside via a large hole in the wall. He could dimly make out a light source farther in. He crept through the darkened interior, carefully avoiding the rubble scattered on the floor, making silent passage through the warehouse tricky.
Tinny music reached his ears; a portable radio tuned to a rock station. Hendrix's Purple Haze. How appropriate. He followed the sound. The lab, such as it was, had been set up in the most structurally stable part of the building. Grimy cooking pans, glass beakers and a Bunsen burner--probably stolen from some high school--hooked to a propane bottle. Hundreds of baggies of the finished product occupied a small folding table. Further along Rorschach found a makeshift living area: sleeping bags on the floor, ratty couch, mini fridge plugged into a car battery. Bare light bulbs cast their sickly light through the room; do doubt powered by tapping into the power grid. A man and woman were on the couch. The man was nearly as short as Rorschach, with blotchy olive skin and long greasy black hair hanging over his eyes. Rorschach couldn't tell what the woman looked like, other than the fact that she was brunette; she was giving the man a blow job. Beneath his face, the vigilante grimaced in disgust. He sidled closer to the distracted couple, rebar at the ready.
A gold tooth gleamed in Ogre's mouth as he grimaced. "That's right, baby." He tilted his head back. His eyes opened to see a man without a face standing over him, arm raised to bludgeon him. "Oh shit!" The drug manufacturer rolled off the couch as the rebar smacked down where his head had lain. He landed hard on the floor, his woman beneath him shouting in protest. He scrabbled to his feet, pulling up his pants, and reached for a handgun sitting on the cable spool that served as his coffee table. Rorschach moved unbelievably fast. In a blink he was beside the frantic criminal bringing the metal bar on his reaching arm. The forearm bent where he'd struck as if possessing an extra elbow. Ogre shrieked in horrified agony. The rebar struck again, this time across his mouth. There was a sickening wet crunch as teeth were shattered from gums and the drug man fell back with his mouth a ruined bloody pulp. Rorschach brought the rebar up to finish him off.
"Motherfucker!"
Rorschach ducked just in time to avoid the wildly aimed bullet. The woman screamed obscenities at him as she struggled to wield a ridiculously large revolver clutched in her petite hands. The vigilante darted forward and kicked her legs out from under her. Her head struck the corner of the mini fridge with a terrible crunch, leaving blood and bits of scalp on the white enamel. She lay sprawled on the floor, twitching, as blood pooled around her head like a crimson halo.
Rorschach turned from this grim sight to discover Ogre trying to escape, dragging himself with his unbroken arm while blood and saliva oozed from his gaping mouth. Rorschach calmly walked over and drove the rebar through the man's back like a spear. The impaled drug maker gurgled and writhed like a worm on a hook, then went still.
Rorschach set about cleaning up. He trashed the small lab, took the filled baggies and piled them onto the ratty couch. He then dragged the bodies to the couch and dropped them onto it as well, Ogre on top of the woman in some grim parody of their previous activities. He found a bottle of whiskey and poured half the contents over them, put the half empty bottle in his overcoat pocket for later use, then dragged the propane bottle over and turned the valve. There was a hiss of escaping gas. Satisfied, Rorschach started to leave when he heard a faint sound. Puzzled, he went to where he believe it emanated. There was an old milk crate in the corner. He peered in, felt the bile rise in his throat.
It was a baby. Naked, save for a diaper which hadn't been changed in some time, judging from the smell. Its exposed skin was covered in gooseflesh. Rorschach's gloved hands balled into tight fists. That heartless whore. If he'd known about this he would not have made her death so quick. He quickly scrounged through the living area until he found a sweatshirt to wrap the baby in. He carefully lifted the infant from the crate, its head lolling on its weak neck, and gently placed it on the waiting garment. He wrapped it in the makeshift swaddling and lifted the tiny bundle into his arms. For a second, the image of Mimi and her baby flashed through his mind. The baby didn't make a sound, just stared at his shifting face with heartbreaking apathy. He carried the baby away, not even sparing a glance for its dead, inadequate parents.
Outside, Rorschach carefully placed the bundle at his feet; he would need both hands for what he planned next. He took the half full whiskey bottle out of his pocket along with a handkerchief. He soaked the handkerchief with the alcohol, stuffed it into the bottle's neck. The pulled a box of matches from another pocket, shook one out, struck it on the heel of his shoe. He lit the soaking handkerchief, then hurled the Molotov cocktail through the hole in the warehouse's wall.
FOOM!
The sound frightened the baby. A thin wail emanated from the bundle at Rorschach's feet. He gently lifted it into his arms, cradled it. "Hush."
He reached into yet another pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper with his symbol scrawled on it. He set it on the ground, weighted it with a stone, then turned and walked off into the night.
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Night of the Living Dead was playing on late night TV. Chloe was curled up in her chair eating Chinese takeout and watching the reanimated dead shamble across the 13-inch screen. It was nearing the moment when the car exploded and the zombies gathered around to eat the remains of the hapless couple; the best part of the movie. Chloe leaned in, chow mein dangling from her lip.
Tap, tap.
"Goddammit," she groaned. Chloe swallowed the mouthful of food, set the carton on the coffee table, and rose from her seat. Eyes still fixed to the TV, she edged over to the window and lifted it open. She saw from the corner of her eye the by now familiar coated figure climb inside and shut the window behind him one-handed. He was apparently carrying something.
A commercial cut in just before the first walking corpses started digging into their meal. Chloe sighed, turned to her surprise guest. "You know, we really gotta stop meeting like th--" Her eyes widened as she realized what was cradled in his arms. "Oh my god."
"Found it," Rorschach told her, "Abandoned."
Chloe touched the baby's forehead. Its brown eyes stared up at her. "Come on." She went to the door, down the stairs. Rorschach followed close behind with the baby.
Among its other services, the free clinic provided basic necessities to mothers who found themselves in a financial bind. Chloe grabbed a package of diapers, wipes, and diaper rash cream while Rorschach laid the baby down on an exam table. Chloe laid the items beside the feebly squirming infant, then went back into the storeroom, returning a moment later with a baby bottle and a box of powdered formula. "Here," she thrust them into the startled vigilante's hands. Rorschach stared at them as if they were some incomprehensible artifacts.
"Go on," Chloe made shooing motions with her hands, "The kid'll be hungry." She turned to her charge, allowing herself a smirk as she heard Rorschach's retreating footsteps.
"Okay, we're gonna get you all nice and clean, then get some nice food in your belly. How's that sound?"
The baby stared.
Chloe peeled the sopping diaper off the infant, wincing at the severe rash she found underneath. It looked horribly painful, but the baby--a girl--didn't make a sound as the nurse gently wiped the reddened skin and applied a generous amount of ointment. She then put on a fresh diaper and wrapped the child in the sweatshirt once again. "There you go. Doesn't that feel better?" She picked her up and carried her back upstairs to the apartment.
Rorschach had managed to follow the instructions on the formula box without setting anything on fire. He carefully poured the white liquid into the bottle and twisted on the cap with its disturbing rubber nipple. Chloe arrived with the baby in her arms just as he was about to go back downstairs. He handed her the full bottle.
"Thanks." Chloe tested it on her wrist, a truly impressive feat considering her other arm was occupied with holding the infant. Satisfied, she then eased the rubber nipple into the baby's mouth. After a moment's pause instinct took over and the baby began to suck. "There we go," Chloe cooed. She carefully supported the baby's head in the crook of her elbow.
"Something wrong with its neck," Rorschach said. His low voice held a twinge of worry.
"Neglect often stunts a baby's development," Chloe replied, "Don't worry. She'll catch up once she's in a good home." She smiled at him. "Thank you for bringing her here."
Rorschach nodded, acknowledging her words both spoken and unvoiced; they had both needed this, a life they could save.
The baby finished quickly. Chloe set the empty bottle on the counter. She pulled a clean dishtowel from a drawer and draped it over her shoulder, then switched her hold on the baby so the girl's head rested on her shoulder. She patted the infant's back, swaying gently. "We're gonna call Child Services tomorrow," she said in a light voice, making Rorschach realize she was speaking to the child and not him, "and they'll come and take you to a nice new home. They'll find you a mommy and daddy who'll love you to bits, and you'll never remember this rough start to your life."
The baby made a noise. "Urp."
Chloe smiled, still rocking the child against her shoulder. She began to slowly pace her little apartment, back and forth, humming. After a moment, she began to sing a slow, poignant song.
"Oh I'm sailing away, my own true love.
Sailing away in the morning.
Is there something I can get you from across the sea
From the place where I am landing?
There's nothing you can send me, my own true love.
There's nothing that I wish to be holding.
Just carry yourself back to me unscarred
From across the lonely ocean.
But I just thought you might like something fine
Made of silver or golden.
Either from the mountains of Madrid
Or the coast of Barcelona…"
Rorschach watched as the woman strolled unhurriedly, back and forth, her face serene. The baby's eyelids grew heavy from the soothing rhythm of her movements and the lulling croon of her voice.
"But how can you, how can you ask me again
When you know it brings me sorrow?…"
He had never seen anything so beautiful.
"…Take heed of the stormy weather.
Yes, there is something you can run back to me.
Spanish boots of Spanish leather."
Against her shoulder the baby slept, and dreamt of warm contentment.
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A/N: See? Sappy. What can I say, I'm a hopeless romantic!
The song Chloe serenades us with is Boots of Spanish Leather by Bob Dylan. The version I heard was actually performed by a folk music band from Ireland called Dervish and its on their album "Spirit." The first time I heard the lead singer's soulful voice sing those poignant words I had that image in my mind: a woman pacing back and forth singing her baby to sleep. It really does sound like a lullaby.
I felt that after what happened in the last chapter, our two heroes needed a small win. I hope it sits well with all of you. I know I enjoyed writing it.