In the darkness of night, he rises from the shadows. His breathing cold, his mind distant. His footsteps echo throughout the streets of Gotham City, as everyone who sings and dances gives a sudden silent pause. His footsteps grow closer and closer, as he drifts through the fog surrounding them, until finally, the fedora on his head become visible. Out he walks, silent as ever, not paying any mind to those around him. Inkblots on a blank face, switching their place with every step, forming a new pattern formation.
He lives and dies by their formations. The formations of life.
He is Rorschach.
Pausing himself, the figure turns, his cold gaze unseen underneath the mask that covers his whole face, as he looks upon the assortment of stilled and quieted heroes and villains. He looks at them like ******ed children, acting as one singular force of injustice.
And then, he walks forth, in a monotoned voice echoing throughout the mask, as his words trail off, living each individual cold and shaken.
"Darkness falls across the land.", He begins.
"The midnight hour is close at hand."
Rorschach looks over at Loki and Superman, his head turning only slightly to the Gods among him.
"Creatures crawl in search of blood. To terrorize yawls neighborhood."
He continues on, seeing the children of the group. Well, one child, the other child
minded. Robin and Deadpool.
"And whosoever shall be found, wthout the soul for getting down, must stand and face the hounds of hell, and rot inside a corpse's shell."
Next, Rorschach stops, and stands face to face with the darker beings. The ones he feels most comfortable amongst. Batman and Moon Knight.
"The foulest stench is in the air, the funk of forty thousand years."
He looks back, only briefly acknowledging the evil spirits within The Joker, Electro, and Bullseye. But his threat is clear.
"And grizzy ghouls from every tomb are closing in to seal your doom, and though you fight to stay alive... your body starts to shiver."
Having met every one of the costumed freaks, He dwells back into the shadows, content and ever as distant as before.
"For no mere mortal can resist..."
The inkblots form into a final pattern, as he's enveloped into darkness.
"The evil of the thriller."
