taxonomites | oo1 -- [holo] / [sanctuary] set me free why don't you baby.

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oo1 -- [holo] / [sanctuary] set me free why don't you baby.

Quinn Fabray had been heading for the girl’s washroom. Bladder control issues were probably one of the worst things about being pregnant. She constantly had to excuse herself from class to go to the washroom. At first she could feel the eyes of her classmates on her whenever she got up. Their stares burning into the back of her head. She didn’t even want to know what they were thinking about her. But now no one looked. No one paid any attention when Quinn got up and excused herself. No one paid attention to her in the halls, it was like she had disappeared off the face of the earth. Quinn Fabray had gone from being queen bee, to the laughing stock of the school, to a complete and utter nobody.

This time she didn’t really need to use the washroom, she just wanted a few moments alone. She sat in a stall and cried. She blamed the hormones, because Quinn Fabray wasn’t the sort to let these things bother her. At least that’s what she told herself, and that’s what she was going to keep telling herself. Besides, it wasn’t like she had anyone anyways. Her parents had abandoned her, she had lost Finn, Puck was more concerned with getting into the pants of every other girl at school, he had said he wanted to be with her – but Quinn didn’t believe him. She knew Puck far too well to believe he could stay true to her. Then there was Santana and Brittany, were they even really her friends?

"Pull yourself together Quinn," Quinn muttered to herself, sniffing. "You’re Quinn Fabray, you used to rule this school. All the guys wanted you, all the girls wanted to be you…" her voice trailed off, and she swallowed hard. "Oh my God. Who am I even kidding?"

Quinn Fabray wasn’t just invisible. She was alone - completely and utterly alone, asides from the tiny life growing inside her – a life she really didn’t want anything to do with.

After what felt like hours Quinn pulled at the roll of toilet paper and wiped her face with a piece of it. Then she stood up and left the stall, and when she did, she almost screamed.

She wasn’t in the girl’s washroom anymore. She was in a room she had never seen before. She was standing on the middle of a platform in a metallic room – it looked like something out of a movie. Was this the hormones? Was she going insane? For a few minutes all she could do was stand there, completely and utterly frozen.

Quinn was terrified. What if this was some sick, psycho clinic or something? She remembered the horror movie Santana had convinced her to see, where they kidnapped pregnant girls and cut them open and stole their babies. Her hands went over her stomach and her mouth opened in a silent scream – her stomach was flat. She ran her hands over her stomach, it was definitely flat, there was no baby bump – nothing at all. …had someone stolen her baby?

"God," she whispered, fingering the cross around her neck. "If you’re listening to me right now. Look, I know I’ve messed up – a lot. But please just help me. Whatever is going on…help me."

She was supped to be the one who had it all together, despite being both pregnant and invisible. She was Quinn Fabray, she used to rule the school, she was the queen bee – she could survive this. Whatever this was.

Her baby was gone, her baby was gone…her baby was gone.

Her eyes opened, fear was getting the better of her. Quinn screamed, pulling at the silver band around her wrist again.

"Hello?!" she yelled, going to the walls and banging on them. "Where is she?! Where is my daughter?! What do you want with me?!"

Quinn fell back against the platform, and sat down. Maybe this was punishment. Maybe God was punishing her for cheating on Finn and getting pregnant. Maybe it was punishment for drawing pornographic pictures of Rachel and calling her ‘treasure trail.’ Her eyes filled up with tears.

"Please," her voice was barely over a whisper, tears were falling down her face. "Please, oh God, please let me out."

Her hands went back down her stomach and she looked at it. It looked alien to her. She had wanted to have a flat stomach, to not be pregnant for such a long time. Being pregnant had ruined everything, but now…

Quinn buried her face into her hands and began to sob.

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The ink continues to shift lazily, forming abstract patterns of symmetry that are ultimately meaningless only to tear themselves apart again and reform with different shapes. Rorschach doesn't speak for a few moments, only lifts his head to stare at her, head tilted appraisingly, expression inscrutable behind the mask.

He finally gives a disapproving grunt. "Excuses meaningless. Won't change facts."

Where the images on his mask moving? Things were getting weird by the minute, and Quinn didn’t know if that made her more scared or not.

“Clearly,” she says. She’s tired, she wants to curl up on that slab on the floor and sleep. Maybe sleep off whatever insanity this is, and next thing she knows she’ll be waking up on the pull out couch in the Puckerman’s house, to Puck’s little sister hovering over her asking her to do her hair.

“So…facts – where am I? Where is my daughter?!”

"Not here," he comments pointedly, as if speaking to a child. A few decades ago he might have felt sympathy for her plight. Or at least the plight of the child she was looking for, left alone and defenseless. But Rorschach leaves no room for such weakness, all that matters is the Work itself. No time for friends, no time for sympathy or pity, and while it's regrettable it's still the facts. "'Here' is Taxon," he provides, not so much to be helpful as because she asked and he knows. "Prison city. Currently in holding cell."

Quinn almost says she hasn't done anything wrong, so she shouldn't be here - but she has a feeling the guy would argue. And when you think about it, she has done things wrong.

She swallows and nods. "So, how do I get out? I'm guessing you're not in a cell?"

"Tablet on pedestal. Will open door if picked up." His words are brief, perfunctory; instructions, nothing more, with no particular inflection or investment attached.

The second half of the answer gets more, however, clipped edges and harsher tones that speak to either frustration or restrained anger, although which is up for interpretation. "Entire city is a cell. No escape known."

Quinn does as he says, and the door opens as she picks up the tablet. She stares at it for a few moments, as if expecting someone to burst through it.

"A prison city?" Quinn says. "I thought those only existed in books!"

She pauses for a moment, and then asks. "Is it safe to go out there?" She feels stupid for asking it, but right now she can't help it.

Her exclamation gains only a derisive grunt. Protesting facts does nothing to change the situation, it only deludes the mind further, obscures truth to make way for more palatable lies that weaken and degrade. Rorschach has no patience for those who would prefer to accept a more comfortable untruth rather than accepting things for what they are.

"Depends on definition. No obvious crime. Still dangerous people."

The more Quinn starts to calm down, the more this guy (if that's what he is, Quinn isn't too sure right now) starts to wear on her nerves. Just who is he to talk to her like this, and why can't he speak in full sentances like a normal person?

"Is this the point where you tell me you're one of them?" she asks almost mockingly, for a moment she feels brave - stupid brave. "Who are you?"

The mocking tone either goes over his head or isn't truly heard; he's been accustomed to the various insults sent his way in the numerous variations they tend to take almost since he first registered sound. One more is barely worth acknowledging; the only authority he need answer to is himself.

He leans in close, close enough that the shifting patterns - bat, raven, winged things that tear themselves apart only to reunite in more images hinting at the things that crawl in basements or lurk in the shadows, black and white twisting and intertwining in a constant dance of half-formed horrors but never mixing - take up almost the entirety of the screen. There are shadows and contours in the fabric of the mask where human features may lie beneath, eyes, nose, mouth as the breath from his words causes it to puff out, but no indicators of the actual man himself. "Depends. Dangerous to criminals, people who prey on weak and innocent. Name is Rorschach." The tone and matter-of-fact nature of the information indicates that he expects her to be familiar with the name; he's one of the ten most wanted where he comes from, after all, there would be few there who had never heard of him.

Quinn moves away from the screen slightly, she can't help it - the mask, it's she can't think of a word on it. Then when he says his name, a brief hint of recognition flashes across her face. Wasn't it like a test or something, with pictures...like his face. For a few minutes Quinn is silent, she's confused, but at the same time she is interested. And still scared, though she doesn't want to admit it. The situation has her a little terrified, but she's also just a little bit scared of his guy, but that doesn't stop her from talking. Her curiosity, is weighing more than her fear right now.

"And what makes you decide who is a criminal?"

He retreats from the screen, enough so that more than just his face is visible, albeit not much, and a disapproving grunt escapes at her question. She speaks as if he has a choice in the matter, as if he selects those he goes after specifically based on obscure criteria. The determination is not up to him, it simply is. Much as police do not select criminals beforehand, neither does he, he simply observes and acts according to what he knows is correct. "Not a matter of decision. Murderers, perverts, panderers; make business taking from others what isn't theirs to demand, leave bloody wreckage in their wake. Don't need to decide to know they're in the wrong."

Quinn is silent for a moments, as she takes in what he's said. She isn't sure what to think. Where she's from people (if he is a person) like this don't exist, or if they do she has not heard of them.

"What if someone had a reason for murder?" she asks. "What then?"

"Not murder if justified," comes the reply, sharp and intractable. "Then is euthanasia or self-defense. Everyone gives explanation for actions, can't always rely on words alone." Words can be twisted, changed to suit the purposes of the speaker, one man's depraved need for spilled blood and rent flesh explained away as necessary, unavoidable. Actions themselves speak louder.

She is silent again, for a few more minutes taking in what he's said. It makes a lot of sense, not that she's ever thought much on any of these subjects.

"Okay," she nods. She doesn't know where he next question comes from, other than the spontanous need to know what Rorschach thinks on the subject. She doesn't know why she needs to know, she just does. "What about God?"

"Already said. Turned deaf ear in disgust long time ago. Left His broken creations to drown in their accumulated filth and self-gratification. Why interest in discussing?" Where before there was some measure of urgency behind his words, a determination of purpose that lent them vibrancy, now there was only blankness. An empty tone that could only be so complete if there had once been similar enthusiasm to fill it.

"I believe in God," Quinn says firmly, although at the moment she isn't so sure she's firm in that belief. "And I think decisions on punishment and right and wrong should be left up to him."

A hollow snort greets the response, echoed in the roiling mess of ink that takes to motion with his rising irritation, and not for the first time Rorschach is left wondering why he bothers talking to anyone at all. It isn't as if people listen when he speaks, apparently. At least, not the way he thinks they should. "Belief irrelevant. Can't be counted on to act as needed; not watching anymore. Left to us to determine punishment. Would wipe slate clean if He cared. Only us now." His tone quiets by the end, wry, almost regretful.

"Then why don't you go kill everyone then?" Quinn asks, her tone slightly sharpens. "I you're such an expert on everything." Logic is telling her to stop talking to this guy, but Quinn can't help herself. Logic be dammned, because clearly it didn't exist in this...prison city.

"Genocide is never answer," he snarls vehemently. The idea is offensive, as is the fact that his words were twisted and thrown against him. To his perception, anyway, and his has never been quite right. "Annihilation is never answer. Never. Not until entire world is lost cause."

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oo1 -- [holo] / [sanctuary] set me free why don't you baby.

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