- commuter Mr -
She sees them all, depending on the day.
Midnight to three there are the drunks who don't want to go home yet. The happy drunks are all right, but they don't often have much money left by then. The angry ones, the ones dumped by girlfriends or the losers of fights - they're the worst. She counts herself lucky if the marks fade quickly.
Two to six is when the truckers come by on their way to pick up or drop off whatever. Sometimes all they want is someone to talk to, a pathetic substitute for the wife left behind. Other times she feels like G-18 on some travel bingo card. Lots of them have speed, though, which is a nice bonus.
From seven to eleven she can maybe get some sleep. Or eat. Both, if she's feeling ambitious.
Lunch hour onward is busy. The white collars typically start things off, sneaking off for their "meetings" and "appointments". The blue collars come later, wanting a pick-me-up before going out with the guys, or back to the ball and chain at home. Then come the drunks on their rounds to start the night shift.
All of them come to her, sooner or later. Except him.
He should be comical; dated Dick Tracy look and that crazy black and white mask on a guy shorter than she is. He should be, but he's not. She's seen what he does to people - more than once and from far to close for comfort. She knows better than to hang around when he's near.
She's seen and done a lot - been on the wrong end of fists and knives, cigarettes and broken bottles. She knows the inside of a jail cell and the emergency room as well as she knows her own bed. She can hold her own, and she doesn't scare easily.
But only an idiot would want to be around for Rorschach's commute.