http://honoraryhobo.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
honoraryhobo.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
taxonomites2011-06-21 11:42 am
honoraryhobo.livejournal.com) wrote in taxonomites2011-06-21 11:42 am
[accidental visual | location: twelfth floor] trust our deepest secrets to the artificial lake
The sun's scrambled high into the sky like a sure-footed kid climbing a tree—it's the itch under his collar and the sweat on his palms. He raises the hoe and swings it down into dry earth, sending up a puff of dust. There's always one weed left. Sun's baleful glare on his back, he drives the blade in again. He hears himself grunt (it sounds more like a squeal, like he's gonna cry) as if from far away.
He must close his eyes because the next thing he knows his hands are empty—slick with sweat and streaked with dirt but empty. He wipes them on his pants and looks up.
His eyes go wide. His arms prickle with goosebumps; he hugs himself against the sudden cold. He takes a step back, then another—it's a white room with a bed and the covers are rumpled. Maybe he should see if they're warm but he takes another step back and stumbles over a bottle. A gasp snags on something before it can escape his throat. He freezes, goes rigid. Listens with all his might.
The tablet switches on to show a dark-haired boy in clothes—a grimy shirt, suspenders, brown pants—that are worn but not ratty stooping to carefully right a whisky bottle.
He must close his eyes because the next thing he knows his hands are empty—slick with sweat and streaked with dirt but empty. He wipes them on his pants and looks up.
His eyes go wide. His arms prickle with goosebumps; he hugs himself against the sudden cold. He takes a step back, then another—it's a white room with a bed and the covers are rumpled. Maybe he should see if they're warm but he takes another step back and stumbles over a bottle. A gasp snags on something before it can escape his throat. He freezes, goes rigid. Listens with all his might.
The tablet switches on to show a dark-haired boy in clothes—a grimy shirt, suspenders, brown pants—that are worn but not ratty stooping to carefully right a whisky bottle.
[visual]
But then, perhaps that's why he doesn't turn the gadget off, because he doesn't know how he ended up here and because he's the first child Rorschach has seen so far and there are more questions associated with that and no clear answers. It's certainly not because of any similarities.
He decides not to examine it too closely.
The view isn't great from the angle of the tablet, but Rorschach picks out the shapes after a few moments, and if he were the type he might have laughed at the misinterpretation.
Nevertheless, there's a slight twist to his lips that might be a sign of amusement on anyone else. "Only self-inflicted. Generally seen as beneficial. For self-improvement."
[visual]
He leans forward and touches the tip of one finger--quickly, as if expecting it to burn--to the metal.
"Am I supposed to..." he asks, or starts to ask, the question fizzling out. He remembers to bring the tablet to his face this time.
[visual]
"Never seen one before?"
[visual]
[visual]
He falls silent for a few long moments, glancing around the room the best he can and then looking around the greenhouse. It's empty, silent, and there seems to be no real cause for him to remain where he is. Glancing back at the boy, he speaks again, suddenly and without preamble.
"You shouldn't be wandering on your own. Can accompany if there's no-one."
The idea makes him uncomfortable, of course, since he never knows what he's supposed to do around kids, but the idea that the boy is on his own in the large building with all the things and people lurking in it sits even less easily with him. He's willing to exchange one comfort for another, and he could use the change of scenery anyway.