Rorschach turns to look at Sirius, the blots that make up his face swirling around in a slow pattern, dividing and reforming into two equal portions across his cheeks.

It takes a minute before he responds. Never one much for social graces, after so many years of solitude, sometimes he forgets that people can actually hear him now when he talks. "Still here. Still dead." That bone-dry tone is as close to humor as Rorschach is likely to come.