Rorschach's Diary.
November 2nd.
rain.
It's still raining.
The city is using neon lights and billboards to cover up its decay.
The Vought Tower is the largest tombstone.
It's covered in lies.
Selene defined Bright Light's death as asset liquidation.
A term.
She thought I was a useful tool.
Tools don't require thinking.
But I need it.
Having diagnosed the symptoms, we must trace the source of the illness.
The source of the disease is entrenched in this building.
They call themselves heroes.
I need a report.
A report that belongs only to me.
A true record about these "gods".
Observation begins with the oldest gods.
Vought Tower, the Soldier Boy's private lounge.
This place isn't called a lounge; its official name is the " United States Spirit Hall of Honor."
A ridiculous title.
He rarely comes here; he usually lives a dissolute life on some small island.
It's said that he was called back because they needed to film something.
Rorschach observed from behind the grille of the ventilation duct.
He didn't pick the lock or break down the door.
He only entered this floor briefly at midnight, during a break in the building's cleaning system's pipe maintenance, along with the maintenance robot.
He knows every crevice and every blind spot of it.
The exhibition hall was dark, with only rows of bottles behind the bar reflecting a faint green light from the emergency exit.
A painting hangs on the wall, depicting Soldier Boy holding a shield against a backdrop of explosions and a fluttering national flag.
A perfect lie.
Rorschach landed silently.
He walked behind the mahogany bar, took out a black device smaller than a fingernail from his pocket, and skillfully stuck it into a hidden groove at the bottom of the bar.
Eavesdropping device.
Simple and effective.
Having found another location to install surveillance cameras, Rorschach didn't linger. He returned the way he came, reintegrated into the building's sphere of influence, and disappeared into the depths of the metal pipes.
Back in Hell's Kitchen, in that windowless safe house, rain pounded against the tin roof, playing Requiem for the city.
He preferred this environment to the accommodations arranged by Vought.
kind.
Rorschach turned on a receiver and put on headphones.
After the hissing sound of electricity, the sound of wine being poured and the image appeared.
The liquid impacted the glass wall, it was very heavy, and it was poured very full.
Then came the sound of swallowing, heavy and rapid.
A sigh of satisfaction tinged with disdain.
"Ha... water."
A male voice rang out; it was the Soldier Boy.
He was alone.
Then he picked up the remote and pressed a button, and the TV screen lit up.
The content being broadcast was not modern news or movies.
It's a black-and-white documentary from decades ago.
The narration is passionate and stirring, recounting the "heroic deeds" of the Soldier Boy during World War II.
"Look at that chin... that's what a man's chin should look like."
The Soldier Boy muttered to himself.
"Those kids on TV these days, they all look like molting chicks."
On the screen, a young Soldier Boy is smiling at the camera, while a blonde woman beside him looks on with adoration.
"What's this woman's name again? Susie? Or Betty?"
He recalled it vaguely.
"Look at her, she knows. She knows when to shut up, when to... ha. Unlike these... chattering mynahs these days."
He took another big gulp of wine.
"Hold."
A curse.
"A bunch of useless trash."
"The editing is complete garbage. My punch clearly smashed half of his head, blood was splattered everywhere!"
"They insist on changing the angle, making it feel like I'm just tickling them. The audience wants to see heroes, not Butcher? Bullshit! The audience just wants to see blood!"
The scene on the screen changes, showing Soldier Boy handing out candy to a group of children.
"And this. I fucking hate kids. They're so noisy and clingy. All I wanted to do was finish filming and go back to my whiskey."
He paused for a moment.
"This wine is off; the wine these days is weak. It's like those effeminate perfumes. The wine of the old days, when you drank it, felt like your stomach was burning. That was real wine."
He hated this era.
I hate everything here.
I hate that the alcohol isn't strong enough, the women aren't submissive enough, the wars aren't pure enough, and the violence isn't bloody enough.
He hated everything he didn't understand, or rather, everything that no longer revolved around him.
The glass shattered.
He smashed the cup.
"Lies! All lies!"
He roared, but not at Rorschach.
That was for himself.
His embellished history.
"You brought me here, then hid me away! Did you think I was still that stupid flag? Vought... Lynn Morris... Motoko Kusanagi... and that bunch of bastards in the PR department!"
"What do you take me for? A mascot?"
"You need me! Your weak and rotten times need me."
His breathing was heavy, like a Beast trapped in a cage.
"But I don't need you. Not a single one."
The voices lowered, leaving only heavy breathing and the Eternity, false hymns of heroism in black-and-white documentaries.
Rorschach took off his headphones.
The only sound in the room was the rain on the roof.
He took out the notebook wrapped in oilcloth and turned to a new page.
Rorschach's Diary.
November 2nd.
Continued.
Observation target: Soldier Boy.
Benjamin
The company packaged him as a national father, a symbol of an era, and a perfect warrior who stepped out of history.
I installed surveillance equipment in his lounge.
A narcissistic shrine that calls itself a " Hall of Honor ".
When no one is around, he would watch videos of himself from his youth over and over again.
Those carefully edited propaganda videos filled with lies.
He cursed with the most vulgar language, complaining that the alcohol wasn't strong enough, the women weren't submissive enough, and the violence wasn't real enough.
He hated this era, and he hated everyone.
He was not a hero, but just an old soldier who had been eliminated by time but was unwilling to be forgotten.
A ghost that lives in its own promotional video.
Is his power meant to protect something?
No.
It's narcissism.
He was guarding his ridiculous, long-decayed statue.
The face behind the mask is the real one.
His face was a lie.
After finishing writing, Rorschach closed his diary.
He took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and put a small cross next to the name " Soldier Boy ".
This is not the end, just the archiving.
He looked at the second name on the note.
A name that appears frequently in the " Clock Tower's" dispatch records.
Wei.
His personal terminal vibrated; it was an unencrypted internal message from Motoko Kusanagi.
[Notice: To celebrate Vought International's record-breaking annual profits and to recognize the outstanding contributions of its heroes, the company will host a celebratory dinner this Friday evening at the Vought Ballroom. All department heads and Class A and Class B heroes are required to attend.]
Victory celebration dinner.
A stage for showcasing merchandise and reinforcing lies.
Rorschach shut down the terminal.
He knew that would be the best observation point.
All the "heroes" will take off their battle masks and put on another, even more hypocritical one.
His fingers tapped lightly on the name "Wei".