There is another figure in a worn, brown trenchcoat wandering through the wilderness. And like Rorschach, he also wears a mask--except his is made of bandages that come to a peak on top of his head. He meanders around the dusty landscape, occasionally stopping just long enough to scribble something down on a small peace of paper with an old pen that is quickly running out of ink.
Schwarzwald begins to work his way down a small hill when he notices the newcomer. He lets out a quick laugh when he sees the man walking through the wilderness, no doubt toward the apartment complex that was the only civilization in this lost world. "So, this world has claimed another soul!" he calls out to the masked man. After all, he might know something worth noting.
There is no hiding this time--too little time and too little inclination. Neither does he seem at all startled by the sudden voice in the wasteland, or the man's strange appearance. Odd costumes are not all that odd in his New York.
He simply pauses, posture stiff as always, voice a rough toneless rasp. "Hunh. Believe in souls, do you?" as though this were all perfectly ordinary.
Schwarzwald chuckles to himself. "Belief has nothing to do with the truth. Whether or not I believe in them doesn't mean that they actually exist." He begins to slowly walk toward Rorschach, toying with his pen until he has something to write down. "If I discover that souls are the truth, then I will believe in them. Until then, I will continue to use the term as a mere figure of speech."
Rorschach still does not move, nor does his voice change, but the patterns almost seem to slow, just a little, just for a moment. It is, perhaps, what listening looks like. "And if discover they do not? How high a price paid for even terrible truth?"
"Truth is truth," he responds, coming to a stop about ten feet from Rorschach. "We cannot choose what is and what isn't. Even a terrible truth is worth any price simply because it is the one and only truth."
The shapes slow a little more, thoughtful and keen. "All great truths terrible beyond measure. Will be what will be, no act of man may change it. Price must be paid because only path to take. Orderly and unyielding as black and white."
"How high a price?" he repeats, soft and patient as something either more or less than human. "Death? Whole world? All perish in integrity rather than live in falsehood? How high?"
"The truth may be unchangeable," he responds with a slight tilt of his bandaged head, "but it is not beyond understanding. The truth may be known, no, it must be known, and I will be the one to obtain it!"
"And at what price?" He laughs. "Any price. I have already paid one price," he mutters, tapping on the side of his face with a bandaged hand, "and I would pay it ten times over if I had to! The lives of hundreds, millions, or even my own life is worth grasping the one, immutable truth behind all things. Living in a world of lies is remaining a puppet of those who shape the world with their false words."
"Bring their lies crashing down around them. Crumble and burn falsehood away. World of fools and weaklings cowering, covering eyes from world's true face. Those that understand must do what lies before them. What must be done. Can no more turn away than rearrange the stars. No more not pay the price than tear same stars from heavens with bare hands, plunge world into darkness to match human heart."
Some decision has apparently been made, and the patterns shift again. "What is your name?"
He nods, agreeing with Rorschach's sentiment. "I see you are like me. We are both drawn in by the truth, and to avert our eyes from it would be a great disservice to ourselves and the entire world."
"For now, you may call me Schwarzwald," he says, taking a few steps toward the man. "And you?"
"World indeed," he murmurs, perhaps half to himself.
He still does not approach, but neither does he move away, and that will have to do. "Rorschach. Once had another, but was false. Wear that face no longer."
"Burned away." It is not quite clear whether he is asking, stating what seems obvious, or speaking of himself. "All our last great truths found rising with the ashes."
"And here? What truths sought here at end of the world?"
"I want to know what caused this!" he exclaims, spinning around with his arms outstretched. "What sort of cataclysm ended this world? And why were we brought here? There is a truth hidden beneath this sand, and I want to know what it is!"
The cone shakes. "It's very interesting. No one was here originally. Everyone appeared like we did. So naturally, no one remembers what happened to this world to make it the way it is! The truth is elusive here and few seem to care enough to go in search of it. They live in fear of, heh, vampires! They inhabit the underground. It might be profitable to go there sometime and see what is buried beneath these sands..."
"Not surprised. Nobody cares. Nobody but us, would seem. But theory is sound. All terrible truths well-guarded, down in dark places. Not concerned with their guardian devils. Know how to handle watchdogs. Had some practice."
There will need to be a great deal of investigation. What places are known to these others, what few scraps of knowledge there are. Times, dates, locations. Patterns.
He is going to need a notebook.
"Will need some small preparation before any such attempt. Few necessities."
Rorschach had noticed Schwarzwald's scribbling with an unhelpful pen. Something else in common, then. "Writing supplies in particular."
Schwarzwald begins to work his way down a small hill when he notices the newcomer. He lets out a quick laugh when he sees the man walking through the wilderness, no doubt toward the apartment complex that was the only civilization in this lost world. "So, this world has claimed another soul!" he calls out to the masked man. After all, he might know something worth noting.
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He simply pauses, posture stiff as always, voice a rough toneless rasp. "Hunh. Believe in souls, do you?" as though this were all perfectly ordinary.
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"How high a price?" he repeats, soft and patient as something either more or less than human. "Death? Whole world? All perish in integrity rather than live in falsehood? How high?"
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"And at what price?" He laughs. "Any price. I have already paid one price," he mutters, tapping on the side of his face with a bandaged hand, "and I would pay it ten times over if I had to! The lives of hundreds, millions, or even my own life is worth grasping the one, immutable truth behind all things. Living in a world of lies is remaining a puppet of those who shape the world with their false words."
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Some decision has apparently been made, and the patterns shift again. "What is your name?"
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"For now, you may call me Schwarzwald," he says, taking a few steps toward the man. "And you?"
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He still does not approach, but neither does he move away, and that will have to do. "Rorschach. Once had another, but was false. Wear that face no longer."
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"And here? What truths sought here at end of the world?"
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Life and death are unquantifiable abstracts. Why should I be concerned?
Why, indeed.
You know I can't let you do that.
"Hurm. Are correct. Must be something." Shift.
"Something crawling at root of these unknowns. Whose machinations twist here and pull lies to our faces. Something must be done."
Something twists briefly inside him and is ignored. He will ask. "Any leads?"
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There will need to be a great deal of investigation. What places are known to these others, what few scraps of knowledge there are. Times, dates, locations. Patterns.
He is going to need a notebook.
"Will need some small preparation before any such attempt. Few necessities."
Rorschach had noticed Schwarzwald's scribbling with an unhelpful pen. Something else in common, then. "Writing supplies in particular."
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