taxonomites | [Location/Accidental Visual: Hyperion] // But I'm on the outside, and I'm looking in

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[Location/Accidental Visual: Hyperion] // But I'm on the outside, and I'm looking in

His new city is dark and empty. Rorschach walks the streets, as he has every night and will continue to for as long as he remains here, despite the fact that he has yet to do any significant good during his patrols. He covers the entirety of the city every night, and by now his feet know the way without having to be told. He likes to think he's memorized every inch of it by now, and while it's not entirely accurate quite yet, it's certainly close enough.

It's why the tarp covering the side of the building stands out so much. Just in one place, plastered against the side like rotting leaves clinging to the trunk of some great hulking tree. He's seen it on multiple occasions, every time he's passed the building, actually, but its continued presence is what attracts his attention now. It should be repaired by now; society rebels at the cracks and breaks, the proof that the impenetrable shield of normality they comfort themselves with is not infallible.

So why is it still there? What does it hide? He looks for a way up to it in order to investigate; fire escape seems to be the best option. The ascent is a matter of moments, muscles long used to the task propelling him upwards with ease, and he pulls the edge of the tarp away to peek beyond it, inky shapes swirling in uncertain curiosity. An apartment. Unsurprising in an apartment building. He pulls himself up and over the broken and crumbling bricks into the room beyond, taking a moment to examine the edges of the break, but the score marks that mar their surfaces can't be right. What would cause it? He pulls one free to look more closely from the privacy of the room, paying no mind to either the room itself nor any occupants it may or may not contain, having already decided that with a hole in the wall there is no possible way it could still be inhabited.

The tablet, having toppled out of a coat pocket during his entrance, drops to the floor with a muffled thud and promptly switches on, revealing both the vigilante examining the brick and some of the room beyond, albeit at a somewhat strange angle given its position on the floor. Rorschach doesn't appear to notice its temporary disappearance from his pocket.

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Rorschach will find himself peering into a darkened bedroom, light spilling in from the room beyond. There is no bed-- although there is a king-size mattress situated somewhat incongruously on the floor, an arrangement quite at odds with the otherwise nice furniture (bookshelves, mostly) in the room.

The door into the next room is ajar, revealing a sitting room lined with more bookshelves, soft yellow light from two table lamps spilling over the room. There is a man here, slight of build, dark of skin and hair, who is 'packing' boxes full of books, although it seems that at the moment he has lost track of his task in favor of thumbing through a familiar volume.

A sound catches him, though-- his ears are sharper than any normal man's, and unusually long fingers still on the pages of Candide as the dark head lifts, and eyes blink in the direction of the darkened bedroom. The wind whistling through the tarp? What else could it be, although that is annoyance enough-- the tarp will have to be taped down again...

After a moment, Long sets his book down in the box he had selected for it, and pads on bare feet, silent in the thick and luxurious hotel carpet, towards the open bedroom door, his shadow preceding him.

It's the slight movement that catches his attention, the flickering of the shadow as it lengthens in its approach, disrupting the patch of light from the room beyond. A glance towards the adjoining room and Rorschach checks the weight of the brick in his hand, determining its suitability as a weapon should it come to it before slipping back into where the light doesn't reach so far. He operates best when his approach is least expected, before his opponent can anticipate his moves, and so he waits in silence until he appears.

Long pauses in the doorway, staring into the darkness of his somewhat-ruined bedroom. He makes no move to reach for the light switch, having excellent night vision himself. The tarp is ajar, wind whistling around the edges, and he frowns.

There is also a blinking red light on the floor near the tarp, and Long blinks. His tablet? Did he leave it in the bedroom? He didn't think so, but the things have the most damnable habit of, well, doing things he really doesn't think they ought be able to do.

Bemused, and as yet unaware of the stealthy, silent figure in the shadows, Long moves into the room to go pick up 'his' tablet.

And that's when Rorschach makes his move.

Lunging from the concealing darkness, he impacts with Long's side, twisting him as he hits the wall so his back is flat to it and the vigilante can watch him carefully, his face a forbidding mask of shifting ink. Brick abandoned, gloved fists grip the collar of his shirt tightly, pushing him against the wall as he glowers up at the taller man, and the gravelly voice that demands answers is only a step or two above a growl. "Who are you? Why are you here?" The obvious response is that he lives here, but he doesn't give the idea much credence; most people don't continue to live in apartments with missing walls.

To say he hadn't been expecting the attack was an understatement-- but instincts and his senses still hadn't entirely failed him, and he was half-turning to meet the attack before he had consciously registered it was happening.

All the same, shock slowed him enough that the masked figure was successful in slamming him into the wall. Long's eyes were wide, like a startled animal's, and his very white teeth were bared, like an animal's as well. His eyes are glowing slightly in the dark, amber light, and that is not really so common.

After a second of nostrils flared, teeth bared-- civilization (or humanity) settles back over Long's face like a curtain dropping, his lips pursing to a thin, hostile line.

One long-fingered hand darts up swiftly to the masked figure's throat, wraps around it in a quasi-mirror of the way Rorschach is holding him.

"I could ask you the same question," he says in very calm, very British tones. "Kindly put me down."

Long does not like his feet not being able to touch the floor. At least, not in this body.

The eyes aren't right, they glow in ways human eyes aren't meant to, and Rorschach's hackles rise at the wrongness. The man's reaction is more akin to an animal's than a man's, and while Rorschach can't say he wouldn't have a similar response if the positions were switched, it still grates.

Another inhuman conscience hiding behind a mask of flesh. A recent rash of sickness or a plague that has long since settled in? More questions that need answers, and he adds them to the growing list.

The hand on his throat is received with similar, if more visible, distaste. It's too close to the last altercation he got into, the suited, inscrutable man with the iron grip, and he likes the contact this time as much. The fingers are long and strong, extending past where normal fingers should, and despite the fact that they aren't squeezing too hard (yet) he feels confined. One hand releases the shirt collar to latch onto the wrist, pressing into nerve and muscle and sinew and twisting viciously to gain their release, ink twisting across his face in rising agitation. "Asked first."

The teeth once more make an appearance, this time bared in a silent snarl of pain when the intruder's figures dig into his wrist, find some nerve or another that causes his hand to spasm open without his willing it to do so.

Long muses that he is actively moving towards anger, now. It is not a desirable philosophical state-- it is error, ignorance-- but it is an attachment from which he has definitely not managed to free himself.

Unlike his assailant, Long knows nothing of pressure points, of nerves and what are generally called the martial arts-- but he knows violence, and if he is to be assaulted then so be it-- he will respond in the same language.

Long's other hand lifts, with no particular finesse but with plenty of speed, to the man's chest. Fingers splayed like talons, and he shoves, brute force to push the other man back, put some distance between their bodies.

Long draws himself up to his full height (which isn't much), stares down his nose at the intruder in the-- really, outlandish mask, the fingers of the hand the man attacked clenching and unclenching to test that he still has use of that hand.

"This is my home. You have invaded it and attacked my person. Is there a reason I shouldn't--"

And Long recalls the tablet, blinking away still, recording this all if anyone is watching. He swallows down the kill you he had meant to say, says shortly instead, "--defend myself from an apparent lunatic?"

The shove gains a grunt for the impact, a stumble of a few steps while the vigilante scrambles for balance, gained quickly but not quick enough for his liking. The man is stronger than his size belies, and while Rorschach can appreciate it for what it is, it does not help him and does little but gain his frustration. The not-a-man should crumble under the force of his words, should tremble under the unflinching justice his face promises, and yet he fights back, counters with interjections and weak justifications. A snarl builds in Rorschach's throat, fists clenching at his sides as he restrains himself for now. If he does not gain the answers he seeks he will resume his efforts, but for now he will settle for words alone. He has made his point once already, it should suffice.

"Home? Homes have four walls, are not left open to elements. Cannot have gaping hole in wall and expect privacy. Easy to squat in when so accessible." The edge behind the gritty monotone makes it clear he thinks Long belongs in this category despite his claim otherwise.

Long looks ridiculously offended, almost comically so, his mouth working a bit without sound coming out.

Taxon: it makes him speechless, sometimes, and this is not a state of being he is used to.

"This is absurd," he says finally, when he finds his voice. "You, sir, are absurd. My home was damaged; there are no repairmen in this damnable city that I may hire; I am in the process of moving. And I am utterly through justifying myself to you, whoever the deuce you are.

"If you wish to 'squat', sir, find somewhere else."

A glance beyond the door reveals a well-lit room filled with...half-packed boxes of books and partially emptied shelves. Quite a few steps towards supporting the man's claim, and the grunt that escapes in response is a strangled mix of disbelief and irritation.

"Not squatting. No need." He already has his own, after all, there really isn't a need for him to take another, especially not when he doesn't actually own any rights to the first. "Name is Rorschach." He pauses a moment for the name to sink in, but he's starting to realize that there are a great number of people here unfamiliar with both it and him, so it is a much shorter pause than it was when he first arrived. "Damaged how? Noticed bricks. Unusual markings."

Long's ingrained politeness has him saying a begrudging, "Mayland Long" in answer to the name, before he can stop himself. He then looks supremely irritated with himself for having done so.

With a little huff, he moves to the wall and turns on the light; he doesn't need it, but it is also absurd to be talking in the dark like this.

"They were damaged in a glitch in which I was inadvertently transformed into another form," he says tersely. "A large form. Exactly what incentive do I have to participate in this interrogation, or to tolerate your intrusion?"

The flood of light that washes over the room better reveals the intruder, a slight figure bundled into a trench coat and scarf with a mess of shifting ink where a face should be and leather gloves and a fedora to top off the getup, effectively covering every inch of skin. The purple pinstriped trousers certainly don't add to the menace, although the way he carries himself does enough of that to almost make up for it.

The name is filed away for later; someone to look into, in order to determine whether his words can be trusted.

But there's that word again. Glitch. As if it's supposed to mean something to him, as if it's an adequate explanation for a hole that size and the things he's claiming. People don't change size, or form, not without mechanical assistance. It's ridiculous to think otherwise. He adds 'possibly delusional' to the mental list of information he's gathered so far, and makes a note to look into it when he investigates the man himself.

"Sooner you answer my questions, sooner you can get back to your books. Transformed into something bigger than room?" He sounds doubtful, almost to the point of mocking.

Long takes in the motley picture the man makes with ill-concealed bemusement and bewilderment, taking a half-step back into his living room, which doesn't have half a wall missing and a bizarre violent lunatic standing in it and is on the whole a much more pleasant place to be.

There is a sort of twisted logic to the man's statement, he supposes, and exhales under his breath. Short of once more renewing hostilities-- and the tablet is still recording-- this is probably the only way to go about making the fellow leave.

"Yes, something bigger than the room," he confirms, his voice edged with irritation for the skepticism in the man's tone. "It was before your arrival, I think-- one moment--"

He disappears back into his living room, collecting his tablet from where he had indeed left it, and then reappears in the bedroom door. He's innately uncomfortable with discussing his own 'glitch' because, truth be told, he finds it all very humiliating. Not turning into a dragon, no. But the reminder that he is, instead, shackled in this body instead.

But in the first place, it is more or less a public record if one knows how to access the tablets, and in the second place, the skepticism grates on him. Long dislikes being considered a liar on those occasions when he is telling the truth.

A few taps on the tablet's screen and he manages to access the old logs of the transmissions, including that rather breath-taking image of this very hotel-- with the bulk of ninety feet of dragon draped down the exterior wall, having broken right through the building. He shoves the tablet at the man like an accusation.

"There. I assure you it is possible, here: many things which are absurd are possible here. I cannot claim to enjoy this, but our captors have a marvelously twisted sense of humour and apparent omnipotence. Pray that you do not wake up one morning to find you have become a literal splotch of ink upon a page."

Rorschach snorts as he takes the tablet, the only commentary on the ridiculousness of the idea as he is willing to part with; he is confident that he is no more likely to become ink as Daniel is to become an owl, or Veidt to sprout fur like the feral beast he claims as pet. There must be some, more reasonable, explanation, although as he watches the transmission he grows less certain. A fairy tale creature brought to life on screen, and his mind rails against the absurdity of it. It doesn't fit, doesn't make sense in the world he knows, and his mind quickly turns to other explanations in an attempt to resolve the discrepancy.

"Tampered with. A Hollywood lie constructed to support your story. Conspiracy amongst a few to fool many, to perpetuate a lie." The accusations fall thick and fast, snarled out because he cannot accept otherwise. It's only on technology, after all, and such things can be altered, changed to reflect an untruth, although he is uncertain of to what purpose.

Long rolls his eyes, and moves to pick up the other man's tablet which is blinking on the ground, still, incessantly, annoyingly.

He 'offers' it to the man and makes to take back his own, if he can grab it. "Yours, I believe. If you must enter my home without permission, assault my person, and call me a liar, you needn't compound it by leaving your possessions around as well.

"As for the glitch, I refuse to argue it with you. If photographic evidence isn't enough to convince you of such events, then nothing short of actually experiencing one yourself is likely to do so. However, I am sure this will happen soon enough."

His own device is eyed with malice and distaste, but he accepts it reluctantly, shoving it away in a pocket on the inside of his coat where it should have been all along. Long's is thrust back at him in short order, as if Rorschach is worried he will contract some kind of disease from it if he keeps hold of it for too long.

"Heard as much. Will believe when it happens." A pause, then, "Will take evidence under advisement. Appreciate co-operation; sorry for inconvenience. Hope next place is less drafty."

Investigation complete for the moment, he heads back towards the hole in the wall as if the incident were no more uncommon than a stroll down the street. He's not completely satisfied with the answers, but he recognizes they are likely the best ones he will get, and he can always check with others to verify if this...Mayland Long is telling the truth.

Long takes his own tablet with a slight huff, a myriad of emotions flickering over his face at the man's terse words and.... odd courtesy or perhaps mockery of courtesy, it's very difficult to tell with the flat intonation.

"Yes. Well. Good night," Long says with a bemused shake of his head, and watches to make sure the fellow is gone. Only then does he move to make himself a cup of tea, feeling that his nerves certainly need it.

Absurd. The city is absurd.

He makes a mental note to invest in excellent locks on his new hotel room.

Rorschach. You're transmitting.

[feel free to have this be after anyone else might tag in, so he has a reason to keep transmitting if needed. :) ]

[so noted! :D ]

The altercation with Long, misguided as it was, does little but sour Rorschach's already dubious mood, and the voice that emerges from the device he still has yet to trust only serves to exacerbate his already frayed patience. He approaches, crouching before it since while he doesn't trust it the thing is still his, and regards both it and the familiar voice dourly.

"Ozymandias. Not intentional; seems to occasionally turn on by itself. Suspect outside interference." His displeasure with both it and those responsible is readily apparent.

"I felt you might appreciate the warning, that's all. I don't get the feeling our captors here are terribly interested helping us keep our secrets."

That doesn't mean Adrian intends to let his own secrets out, but clearly more extreme measures will need to be taken to protect them.

"Investigating anything interesting?"

"Hurm." He doesn't bother giving any more response than that, the truth of his words are enough that simple acknowledgment is all that's needed.

"Unrepaired building. Seemed suspicious in city where everything else is carefully maintained." He leaves out the altercation; if Ozymandias had been watching he would have seen, and if otherwise he sees no reason in elaborating. It's not his case, after all.

Adrian saw some, but not all of the transmission, having alerted Rorschach as soon as he realized what was going on. They may not be the best of friends, but it's in the best interest of all members of their small (albeit semi-retired) group to keep an eye out for each other.

"Did you discover anything important?" He doesn't say 'interesting', because honestly Adrian isn't sure he wants to know what Rorscach considers interesting.

"Maintenance not as efficient as earlier assumed. Encountered occupant; evidently did not object to living in unplanned renovation enough to leave until recently. Suspect..."

And here he falters. What does he suspect, exactly? The not-a-man is decidedly inhuman, that much he is certain of, but he has no explanation to provide in lieu of human, no information in support outside of the strange eyes, and even they didn't last for long. No solid proof. He starts the statement over, ink shifting falteringly with his own indecision and uncertainty.

"Something strange about occupant. Still investigating."

Adrian has to admit, as much as Rorschach creeps him out a little, he's a useful man to know. He nods, making mental note of the information in case it proves important down the road. Once a Watchman, always a Watchman?

"Let us know if you turn up anything worthwhile. I'm sure Dan will want to know, and if we're going to be here for any length of time, we need to be aware of what's going on with the other inhabitants." Who might be a threat, and who might be useful.

There's a curt nod, barely noticeable unless it's being looked for, but the agreeable grunt is more obvious. "Will keep apprised if find anything important." It's a courtesy that he's not used to extending since the Keane Act took effect, and one that it's still uncertain that he will actually provide when the time comes, but it's a start.

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[Location/Accidental Visual: Hyperion] // But I'm on the outside, and I'm looking in

Locationnnn.

Location, location, location!

it's all about...

sunny, sunny California?

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