Rorschach//Walter Kovacs

[Rorschach]

Welcome to the Island

Lost on a Paradise Isle

Who is the person behind the veil

Nickname: Christie//Chris//Kiki
How can you be reached: PM, or my email if it’s for something serious at [e-mail]
Age: somewhere between the legal driving and drinking age for most of North America
RP Experiance: About five years, I think.

Digging in the Sand

Character's name: Walter Joseph Kovacs, though he goes by his alias of Rorschach (pronounced roar-shack)
What anime are you from: Watchmen (A graphic novel, but I’m hoping that that’s close enough?)
Age: 25
Sex: Male
History:

THE VERY START

[/u]
Walter can still remember most of his past. He wishes he could repress the memories and forget--perhaps then he could have a normal life.

Walter likes to imagine that his father was a great man. Charlie something... a war soldier who died fighting for his country. He likes to imagine this, because it makes his heritage a bit less despicable. If he can imagine that he has a hero for a father, it almost makes up for the fact that he has a wh*re for a mother.

His very earliest memories are a blur to him. All he can remember is the constant, crushing poverty he and his mother suffered. The salvation army store clothing, the cheap, canned foods that they often had to eat cold. The creaking, ancient house that seemed primed to fall over at any moment. The gas and electricity almost always going out.

COLD SOLACE[/u]
His first real, strong memory is one from when he was five years old. He's awoken from his dreams, legs tangled in he bed-sheets he'd kicked off during his dream. He stumbles out of bed and rubs blurry eyes. As his senses begin to return, he hears a noise coming from across the hallway. Walter, confused but none the less daring, goes out into the hallway. His bare feet slap against the cold wooden floors. There's no mistaking the voice. His mother is moaning. He can't hear everything, but he hears her say "Oh, that hurts!" His mother has always been distant, and callous to his needs. Walter has always tried to convince himself that it's only because she works so hard. It is with this conviction that he balls his small hands into fists and prepares to save his mother from whatever is hurting her. He opens her bedroom door. To him, it looks like his mother is sitting on a man's lap.
"Mom...is he hurting you?"
Walter asks, worried for his mother. His mother looks at Walter aghast. The man promptly stands up and pulls up his pants, muttering how he gets enough problems with kids back home. He throws a five dollar bill at Walter's mom and walks out. Walter can tell by his mother's face that she's angry. He tries to apologize, but she slaps him and pushes him out of the door, all the while yelling,
"I should've listened to everyone and had that abortion!"

BRUTAL REVENGE[/u]
The next four years pass, and Walter has become used to his mother's nightly work. He cries sometimes, but tries to be strong. It's what his dad would've done. A dad who he is now certain died in war. It's the only reason he never came back to save Walter. He's sure of it.

Walter's life at school is nothing short of miserable. People make fun of him for being a ginger-kid, they make fun of him for being poor, they make fun of him for his tattered clothing, for his smell, for his shy personality.

At the age of ten, two bullies are teasing Walter. He's used to the teasing, but he's particularly upset today. His mother has hit him again, and yelled at him to go buy her some cigarettes. The two boys call Walter 'wh*re-son'. They talk about how much they'd have to pay to have Walter's mother, and how he's a retard. Years of pent up frustration explode. Walter grabs the first boy's cigarette out of his mouth and shoves the lit end into the boy's eye. He slams the other boy over the head with his lunch-box, and bites his face. Passersby’s see, and pull Walter off of the boy. CPS finally takes note of Walter. He's taken from his mother and taken to Charleston Home for wayward youths.

Charleston is a step up from his previous living standard, but it isn't a luxury school. It is here that Walter acquires street smarts. It's a dangerous place--one that Walter quickly has to adapt to survive. He learns how to deal with thugs, and begins to regularly work-out and train under a martial artist.

At 15, the principal of the school tells Walter that his mother has died; she was killed by her pimp who forced lethal amounts of drain-o down her throat. They offer to escort him to the crisis councilor. Walter is blank faced for a moment, before muttering, “Good.”, and walking back into his classroom.


AWAKENING OF THE SOUL[/u]
Walter is 16, and working in a tailoring shop. He is unskilled, and very uncomfortable working with women's clothing. One day, a woman named Kitty Genovese orders a dress from him. He makes it--a dress made of three layers of fabric, with black liquid betwixt that is always moving. She calls it ugly and refuses to buy it. Walter takes it to his shabby apartment. It isn't ugly at all to him. The way the black constantly moves within the white--always merging and shifting, but never fading to gray--is beautiful. Four months later, it's reported that Kitty has died. She is killed in front of her apartment, and all the neighbors around her hear, but do nothing to help her. Walter works on the dress and makes it into a mask. He dons it, and gets revenge on her killers. It is then that he decides to become a vigilante, to protect and help those from all of the scum in the world.

DAILY ROUTINE, STEP IN THE SCENE[/u]
Walter is now Rorschach at age 17. Anyone who knew of his real name is either dead, or unaware of his double life. He’s met a young man named Dan Dreiberg who he begins to fight crime with. The Nite Owl & Rorschach team is a force to be reckoned with. They take down many gangs and drug lords. They know they aren’t going to change the world, but they are glad to be helpful. They are content knowing that other people feel safer because of them.

Two years passed, and another man who dons a costume such as themselves asks them to join his team of masked crime-fighters. The group is known as the Crimebusters. The two of them join and, for a while, things are fine

BIRTH BY FIRE[/u]
Rorschach is now 23 years old. He hears about a missing girl after a quick trip to a local bar known as ‘Rumrunner’. He tells Nite Owl who, as his partner, offers to help him with the case. Rorschach for once refuses. He has a soft spot for children, and states that he wants to solve it on his own.

His investigations lead him to an old house in a decrepit, filthy area of town. He peers through the fence into the back yard and sees a couple of German Shepherds fighting over a bone. They’re too preoccupied with the bone to notice him, so he slips through the door unnoticed. It’s empty and quiet—the only perceivable noise being the dogs at work on the bone and the distant wail of sirens in another part of town.

He begins searching through the musty old house. He passes through a bland foyer and stops in the living room. He opens up the door to a furnace and, in reaching inside, finds the half-charred remains of what looks like a girl’s shirt, complete with teddy bears and hearts. He continues into the kitchen—the second to last room in the house. He does not need to inspect the rest of the house, though, after what he discovers in the kitchen. He opens up a cabinet to discover an arsenal of knives and blades. One, he notices, is still darkened on the edge with blood. He looks toward the left and sees a cutting board. He feels the indents through his gloved hands and can tell that they’re fresh.

Things come together. He runs toward the window of the house and looks back outside at the dogs. It’s unmistakable now. The dogs are fighting over a bone—the bone of child’s leg.

Consumed with rage, Rorschach yanks from the cabinet a meat-cleaver. He storms out of the house and toward the dogs. They look up at him and wag their tails. Walter begins crying as he strikes the first dog upon the head with the meat-cleaver. The force of the impact runs through his arm. Walter Kovacs closes his eyes and whispers ‘Mom…’.

It is Rorschach who reopens them, killing the second dog. He lies in wait for the man to come home—the man who killed Blair Rose and fed her to his dogs. The man eventually does. Rorschach can see his silhouette in the kitchen. He plucks one of the dogs up and throws its stilled corpse through the window. It hits the man. Rorschach walks into the house and hand-cuffs the man’s arm to the furnace. The man tries to plead innocence. Rorschach breaks two of his fingers. The man apologizes, and says that he’ll give himself up and go to jail. Rorschach does not comply. He douses the man with gasoline and sets him on fire. The entire house burns down as Rorschach walks out.

He had hoped to find the little girl, tied up and kidnapped, but nonetheless safe. He had been looking forward to taking her home and seeing her worried father sweep up his little girl and cry together. Perhaps if that had happened, Rorschach could’ve continued to live as Walter Kovacs.

He realizes that it is not God who kills children, not fate who butchers them, or destiny who feeds them to dogs. It is us—as humans. No one else can be blamed but us.

Rorschach is forever changed. As he describes, he had been Walter Kovacs pretending to be Rorschach before the incident. Afterwards, he was Rorschach. No longer a stoic, slightly anti-social tactical genius, but a cold, merciless, and cryptic sociopath.

Walter Kovacs ceases to exist, to be completely replaced with the infinitely more deadly and unpredictable Rorschach.


REMNANTS OF FORMER GLORY[/u]

A year passes. There is much civil unrest about the presence of vigilantes. Rorschach still works as partners with Nite Owl, but the two become distant. Daniel doesn’t know why, or when, Rorschach has changed. All he knows is that he is suddenly scared of a man he had once admired.

FOR THE ROLEPLAY
I suppose we’ll just have to assume that he’s taken to the island along with everyone else, no?



Personality: Rorschach is brave, if not a bit reckless. He is great at solving mysteries and puzzles, which makes strategic planning nothing short of a simple triviality. He has abundant street smarts earned through the School of Hard Knocks and a harsh up-bringing.

However, he is stubborn and single-minded, often refusing to see something from another person's point of view and sticking to his right-wing morals and thoughts. He sees the world as black and white-- issues as right or wrong. He doesn't see the areas of gray between. He judges based on his own criteria--never that of the law. He has an uncompromising nihilistic viewpoint.

His greatest motivation is to help people. He has a strong sense of justice, and believes that criminals should have no rights. Ironically, he feels that the law does not apply to him. He could kill a murderer and state that he himself is not a murderer; he will break the law in the name of justice.

Most of all, he will never compromise his position, despite the outcome. Some think this stubborn of him, while others see it as admirable. He often defends the weak, even though he views them as willing victims who are at fault themselves. The only people, it seems, that Walter truly feels fully sympathetic and compassionate toward are young children .This perhaps stems from his own childhood, and wanting to protect children from what he was subjugated to.

He is cynical of most people and believes their motives are self-serving and sinister. As thus, he has many prominent issues with trust--which means that he has very few friends. Money and material possessions are of little use to him, seen by his living arrangement. He seeks no credit for his deeds, being much more pleased with the thought that he is doing good, than the fact that he is well-liked (which he is not). He often finds himself obsessed with an undertaking, often neglecting what he perceives to be nonessential tasks, such as bathing, until he finish the job.

Though despite all his qualities, negative or positive connotations aside, Rorschach has a king-sized death wish. He has known little more than pain and suffering his entire life, and could think of nothing more enjoyable than escaping this life. This is compromised by both his morals, and strong desire to be uncompromisingly honorable.

He is, at his core, a tactical genius, a stubborn nihilist, and a determined, inquisitive, if not sociopathic individual.

Weapons/Powers:
None, in the conventional sense regarding magic or special items. This is not to say, however, that Rorschach is a sitting duck waiting to be picked off. He’s very adept at martial arts, and has strength and agility almost unheard of in a man. He’s also very handy, capable of making mundane objects around him into deadly weapons. He also poses a gas-powered grappling gun, that allows him to scale tall objects. Alongside these, Rorschach is a tactical genius, who can often outsmart and outmaneuver his opponents. (Too bad all of these qualities will do him little good if faced with an enemy who can use magic, besides the speed to run quickly away)

Likes:
-Sugar Cubes
-Justice being served
-Fighting
-Writing
-Making Jokes (usually the type that make the listener feel awkward)
-Easily made foods
-Fire

Dislikes:
-People who think they understand pain
-wh*res
-Gangs
-Cops
-Criminals
-Being so short (only 5'7")
-People who hurt children
-Huge groups of people
-People flirting with him
-Dogs
-Most other animals

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Sample RP:
I cannot sleep. Depravity and vermin haunt dreams at night. Too real, too much of it in the real world. A woman shouts for help and no one comes. Murderers and rapists lurk in every corner, preying on innocence. This city reeks of the putrid inhabitants that litter its every crevice. The lifeblood of the city runs thin, tainted with the blood of corruption. So few are willing to help. So few can still see what is right. A woman slaps her child in public. People look on in apathy. Do only I want to help the world?
.][.


Rorschach shut the journal with a faint ‘fwap’ sound. He slipped the battered book and pencil into an inside pocket of his trench coat, making sure that the button was secured. He couldn’t risk the possibility of it falling into the wrong hand. His thoughts were for his eyes alone. His entire soul rested in the cramped, slanted handwriting that covered each page. The thought of someone using his journal against him was revolting. He closely guarded his privacy. No one would ever be allowed to see.
He looked at the city beneath him. The grimy, rotting factory roof he was perched upon gave him a perfect view of his surroundings while providing him with relative anonymity. The building was one story taller than those directly nearby, which meant he was granted a clear, unhindered picture of the city.
Hundreds of tourists flocked to the cesspit city every day, snapping photographs of monuments and staring in awe at the skyscrapers. So enraptured with the pillars of corruption and greed, where politicians and lawyers roll in dishonest money collected by illegal means. The tourists avoid the slums of the city, fearing the corruption and darkness, yet the politicians in their gleaming white bodies embodied the true sleaze of the city, hidden behind a mask of honesty and self-righteousness. The corporate world where green pieces of paper was the only thing that mattered to them; Not their family, the city, justice, or their job. Only the thin sheets of green that they felt put them above anyone who had less. They were disgusting. All of them.
This city was a rotting waste dump, full of agony, misery, and horror. The homeless and the poor dotted the populated streets, holding out their hands for a pocketful of loose change. Unfortunate lives. Innocent children born into poverty, forced to grow up too soon in order to survive. Teenage girls becoming prostitutes, sleazing on corners and turning to drugs for an escape. Men hiding in alleyways, waiting to prey upon the naive that were foolish enough to wander into their path. And all the while, the rich and wealthy put on bright, thousand-watt smiles and pretended that nothing was wrong. None of them knew. None of them knew what truly lay beyond the clean streets and shiny buildings that stank of greed and self service.
Rorschach observed his surroundings, his eyes and ears both acutely alert for any sign of trouble. The night was still quiet, or as quiet as it could be in a large city. The siren of a police car blared in the distance, masked by the sound of ever-present car horns on ever-crowded roads.

No sign of anything out of the ordinary so far.

He had stopped briefly to write in his journal, but there was still work to be done. Crime stopped for nothing, which meant he didn’t stop either. Not until morning, where the risk of being noticed was too great.
The night was clear and fresh for once. It always seemed to be raining in this decomposing city; a reflection of the murky, depressing misery that lay beneath it. It felt almost as if the elements themselves were trying to clean the city. Useless, Rorschach thought. Not even steel wool could scour clean the filth of the city.

The silver-light of the moon was almost completely blocked by the screen of smog that rose from the smoke-towers that laced through the city. A bit managed to perturb the smog and illuminate the buildings around him, also silhouetting the figure.

His brown trench-coat fluttered in the wind behind him, slapping against the backs of his legs. The blots on his face shifted into a fierce, angry looking pattern. Rorschach’s head snapped towards the left, attentively. The sound of heels clattering against the pavement, some considerable distance away. The sound didn’t move him into action until it abruptly stopped, followed by a muffled shout. It was clearly a female’s voice. Not the filthy cry of sexual release. He had learned to distinguish between distress and delight when he had first began as a costumed hero. The adrenaline began to race through his veins, lighting his blood on fire. That rush, that feeling that he had before each confrontation was something he craved, almost as a drugee craves his next dosage of heroine; the knowledge that justice was approaching and that he was to be the one who would deliver it. Evil must be stopped. Greed, corruption, and crime must be put to an end. They thought that they were untouchable; that by lurking in dark alleyways, no one would come to help. Police were on patrol, yes, but too often did criminals slip through their fingers. Police could not be everywhere at once. Scum thought that they would not be caught.
He would show them.
Silently, he dropped onto the fire escape, climbing down it as swiftly as a cat. Graceful and yet precise, the only noise his descent made being the quiet clink of his boots on the metal grates.

He was in his element.
The scuffle was one block over. He was lucky tonight. Any farther and he may have been too late. As it was, he arrived just in time.
Three men pinning a struggling teenage girl against the wall, tearing at her clothes. She was twisting weakly, trying to avoid a knife at her throat. How revolting. Justice would be served. The thugs didn’t even see him before he was on top of them. He lunged, landing in the middle of the group, scattering them like frightened animals. Suddenly, the men’s roles were reversed—the predator had become the prey. One tripped over his own feet and stumbled. Another clumsily dropped the switchblade to the ground.
The largest went down first, Rorschach’s full 140 pounds landing on his back. He was muscular, but bulky. Too slow. He was cut out for brute force rather than hand to hand combat. He didn’t have the flexibility that Rorschach did. He didn’t have a chance. The thug was cussing and screaming, throwing punches and trying to swing the costumed vigilante off of his back. He was panicking too much for his movements to be anything beyond a minor inconvenience. Rorschach’s elbow was raised and cracked down, hitting the area between neck and shoulder. The jab struck the pressure point and the man was done.
One of the scum had come to his senses and had recovered the knife. He slashed at him. Rorschach threw himself backwards in order to avoid it. It was a close miss, grazing his dirty brown trench coat and ripping a fine line in it. He hissed dangerously behind his mask, dropping into a spin kick, knocking the other man’s feet out from underneath him. Adrenaline pumped through his body, his brain working at high speeds. Every action of the thugs seemed to be slowed down, as if moving through sludge. He had ample time to move out of the way of each punch and kick aimed towards him. His mind was screaming with the burning desire to see these men suffer as their victims had surely suffered. They were all that was wrong with the world.
Rorschach brought his foot down with strength that his small stature didn’t seem to suggest. The crack of ribs echoed, shortly followed by a piercing shriek of pain. Straddling the body of the man to restrict movement, he brought the man’s head down onto the rotting concrete. Two down, and one had run away. Rorschach considered following, but thought better of it. The one who had fled had been a follower of the group, of no importance. In fact, he hoped, perhaps the boy would learn from this, and leave the path of crime. He doubted it, but thought better of second-guessing himself.
Justice was served once again.
“Hurm…”
He muttered, turning to the girl who was surprisingly still standing against the wall. He had expected her to run away the moment she had the chance. He opened his mouth to remind her that walking the streets alone was a bad idea, but she spoke first.
“T-thank you.” Her voice was quiet and timid. Likely, her mind was trying to process all that had happened.
He blinked behind his mask, uncertain what he ought to say
“A girl was gutted last month.” Rorschach told her, his voice harsh and ragged. He sounded much older than his actual twenty-two years of age.
Her eyes were impossibly wide as she struggled to cover herself with her arms.
“Wh-what…?”
“17 years old. Walking the street at night.”
He paused only enough for her to get the message.
“A payphone is two blocks away. Call police then go home.” He dug in the pocket of his trench coat and found a handful of spare change he kept for cases like these. Police needed to be informed and send car over.

He turned from the girl and placed his hands in his pockets. And, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he vanished, leaving the girl to stand awkwardly for a second, before grasping for the change upon the grimy ground and running away.


Password: Pina Colada (which has suddenly made me crave a glass of it.)[/right][/size][/center]

[Chii]

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