Rorschach is "Mike Caulfield" (whisper_no) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-05-05 02:13:00 |
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Entry tags: | eric draven, rorschach |
Who: Jack and Rorschach Mike
What: Jack learns Rorschach's motive
Where: Mike’s Holding Cell
When: Today
Warnings: Mentions of Mel, Rory being strange.
Though this cell had been Rorschach’s home for over a week now, he couldn’t relax inside of it. Whenever that door closed, his muscles tensed, every nerve in his body on fire. The guards pointed out that he often would circle the cell and stare at nothing, head whipping about as if he were chasing ghosts. When he finally stilled, his eyes were always moving, blue pinpricks standing out starkly against the ghastly pale mask that skimmed his skin. He hadn’t worn his face in over a week. His face was gone, and he was trapped in Hell amongst the demons.
Whenever footsteps approached from the left, food was coming. His brief time there had been enough to establish routine, a predictable pattern. His cell was removed from the others, keeping as much distance between him and the “drunk tank” as possible. They wanted to shove him away, stuff him into a corner, make him invisible. But despite that, they brought him food with footsteps from the left three times a day, all predictable. He had no watch, no clock, but this seemed early. The last footsteps couldn’t have come long ago - his stomach was still full. So why were they approaching?
Despite his fear and loathing for his prison, Rorschach slowly crept towards the bars, pressing his face between them as the footsteps materialized into men. Two men, a guard and someone else. His gaze rose to the tall man’s face, blue eyes saying a thousand things. His knuckles whitened as his fingers tightened around one of the bars, jaw clenching until the veins that webbed across his neck stood out against his skin. It’d been some time since he had shaved, and longer before that that he’d had a haircut. His dark hair hung past the nape of his neck, ragged locks brushing his cheeks. A thick forest of hair had overgrown his jaw, creeping down his neck. He looked feral, wild, and it was all there in those eyes.
“Jack,” he finally said, the word spoken with unnerving softness for such a hardened face. The guard fell into place in the back of the hallway, almost out of earshot but not quite. He didn’t say a word to either man, stony gaze falling on a point in the distance. Though he was present, he was barely there, mentally a thousand miles away.