Rorschach is "Mike Caulfield" (whisper_no) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2010-09-18 12:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | hm murdock, rorschach |
Who: Harry and Rorschach
What: Two weird guys meet in the street late at night. This is normal.
Where: Rainier Valley
When: Quite late
Warnings: Murdock and Rorschach are meeting. I have no idea what to expect, but I wouldn't be surprised if gravity spontaneously reversed. I'll update this space if anything warning-worthy happens.
Lately it had become harder and harder to simply do what he needed to do. Between the paranoia that he was being tracked by paparazzi camera-monsters, the fact that Sam was clearly not sleeping as well as she used to, and his new false identity as "Mike," Rorschach found himself in what seemed to be a constant bad mood. It was rare that he was ever in a "good" mood, really, but he didn't often have "bad" ones. Moods were unnecessary for him back when his only human interaction consisted of torturing suspects for information, talking to past contacts, and stealing quick meals from unsuspecting civilians. But now that he had a roommate, boss, and full cast of coworkers and customers, he was finding that "moods" could be quite important in such an insignificant way.
It was a release to be out in Seattle, running over rooftops and performing stunts that easily could have landed him in the hospital. Years of muscle memory and practice worked in sync to produce strong, calculated movements that propelled him through the night. His thick-soled boots landed heavily on the pavement at the end of a drop, knees elastic and soft. He paused in this position a moment, feeling his muscles settle as he held his neck still, staring dimly into the darkness. As he rose from a crouch, he absently touched the side of his grappling gun, content to feel it through his tough gloves.
Earlier that night, he had stopped two muggings and an attempted robbery. It was a good night. He was still fresh from the second mugging, knuckles smarting with the memory of how the man's face had felt beneath them. The woman had been shocked, face bloodied from the mugger's strike. As Rorschach disarmed him, she frantically called the police on her cell phone while running away. He stayed until he heard the sirens, reacting instantly the second he heard their high-pitched whoop. And then he was gone, prowling the alleys again.
During his time in Seattle, he had formed a bit of a "route" for patrol. In Musings, he had been contacted by families searching for lost loved ones or the odd police officer that was willing to see that he was right throwing him a tip. Here, they were all oblivious scum. Nobody understood. So he had very few cases to work on, resigned to acting like a glorified security guard for the city. But that was alright. It was the right thing to do, and that much he could respect. This was, after all, God's work. He couldn't come down to enforce right and wrong, and so Rorschach had to act as His arm.
The streets were poorly lit by half-broken street lights. Keeping to the shadows along the sidewalk, Rorschach began to pace, hands in the pockets of his jacket and chin tucked in. He was waiting for the next round of the night.