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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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.

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

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