Text/Video Journal Entry ☢ October 7th, 2012

[aprettybutterfly]

Rorschach's journal, October 7th, 2012. The skyline is different. This city stinks with the same shame and filth of New York. Canada is only a barren wasteland filled with men in furry hats and maple syrup. Have not tried the maple syrup here yet. Not a fan of baseball, but still arrived on a field, like so many others. The people working there were surprised by my face, and they cringed away from me before sending me to the apartments. There was fear in their eyes.

I passed by a club today, where three fat men in business suits talked while a naked woman danced on their table. There are monsters out at night, they said. I said there are monsters out right now. They should know. They told me about them.

They don't know. Not my job to tell them. It's no longer 1985. They've done something to my journal. There are now buttons inside the cover. I don't like it when people touch my things.

[He presses one of the buttons, and he turns it and faces it, his mask shifting, inkblots moving across a white surface. Nothing can be seen of his face behind the fabric.]

Need to go home. This city can rot; it's already on the path to destruction. They should ask for help, but they won't. I won't give it. If they die because of their own disgusting habits? Good riddance.

[ooc: Here is Rorschach's permission's post, a catch-all for both his new Core ability, and also for the fact that he's very offensive. If you'd take the time to fill it out, I'd appreciate it!]

Comments

Permavideo

[doeswhathewants]

Optimistic sort, aren't you?

permatext

[aprettybutterfly]

[He doesn't like talking, so he gets it to go back to text.]

Optimism is for people who think there is a future.

[doeswhathewants]

And you know there is not one?

[aprettybutterfly]

Nothing left after nuclear war. The clock is close to midnight and we are all left with little time.

[doeswhathewants]

Ah. There is no nuclear war here. Not yet, at least. There might be. Though I think the island would be safe.

[Video]

[treehopping]

How does your mask do that, mister? [The important question to ask.]

[text]

[aprettybutterfly]

[A little girl, here? He's not surprised, but still. Disappointing.]

Special fabric. Fluids trapped between two layers and moved by heat.

[Permavid]

[treehopping]

It looks really neat. I'm sorry you don't like it here.

[aprettybutterfly]

[Hrm.]

Not a good place for kids. Too easy to get hurt.

Video

[the_dead_pool2]

The ends of shoelaces are called anglets, their true purpose... sinister.

Text

[aprettybutterfly]

Don't use shoelaces.

[the_dead_pool2]

Of course not, I just said they were sinister. Only pussies and communists use shoelaces.

[aprettybutterfly]

[Oh really.]

Close enough to Russia, here. A lot of shoelaces around.

[text]

[mouthbreathing]

[The name, the mask, even the date- everything about this person feels as though it should be familiar to him, but the ink-blot motif doesn't ring any bells. If this man is a choujin, miniscule though the odds are, he's not one he's ever heard of, let alone met personally.

As much as his philosophy should and does repel Warsman, meanwhile, he can't help but fixate on my face, the fear in their eyes. It strikes a chord he's never been able to unhear.

He responds, though he knows he probably won't like the conversation.]

I'm sorry you didn't get a better welcoming. It's not that bad here.

Your name is Rorschach?

[text]

[aprettybutterfly]

Not much better then New York. Less cops.

[So, you know. That's a good thing. Cops are annoying.]

Yes.

[text]

[mouthbreathing]

[Warsman misinterprets; it makes more sense to be concerned about the lack of police, doesn't it?] I don't know what New York is like, but there are especially few in the poorer districts. I've been working on picking up the pace myself.

Warsman. It's nice to meet you.

[text]

[aprettybutterfly]

[Sure, if you were a normal person. But if you're Rorschach... But thank you for that, Warsman. He will now stay closer to the poorer districts.] Picking up the pace?

Is that a moniker?

[Audio/answered a day late]

[failedparenting]

[Now that he' been de-womanized, John's going through network posts he missed while he was in hiding. Maybe someone could use some help.

Or a little verbal abuse, whatever.]

If you wanna wax poetic, buddy, take it off the network.

[Audio/answered a day late]

[aprettybutterfly]

[He'll talk to him. There's the sound of crunching, too, like he's eating while he talks. Which he is.]

Didn't write poetry. Don't like rhyming words.

[Audio]

[failedparenting]

Sure sounded like it to me.

Either way, keep that shit to your diary, or whatever you've got. We don't need to hear about your day and how it made you feel

[Audio]

[aprettybutterfly]

Did write it in my journal. [Crunch crunch.] Don't need to listen.

text

[hejhej]

get in line.

text

[aprettybutterfly]

Line to get home. Doesn't seem too big.

text

[hejhej]

this place has a way of making you accept that you're here for an indefinite amount of time.

text

[aprettybutterfly]

Only here until the end of the world. Should be soon.