[Fic] it is from our hearts they come
Title: it is from our hearts they come
Fandom: Watchmen/American Gods
Characters: Rorschach
Word Count: 533
Summary: One moment he was- well, he wasn’t, but the next, he is, for a cry for help echoes through the night and he cannot resist the call anymore than the moon can crash into Venus.
AN: There's enough of a cross that the cross is evident when you know the two canons, but knowledge of some basic mythology will see you through the "American Gods" part just fine.
Preceded by: A Land of Dreams and Fire
One moment he was- well, he wasn’t, but the next, he is, for a cry for help echoes through the night and he cannot resist the call anymore than the moon can crash into Venus. He is howling down from a fire escape in order to plant the sole of his boot into the face of a would-be criminal. The filth screams and claws at its face, wet redness oozing from between its fingers, but justice hasn’t been dealt yet, not when there are four more in the alley, four more awaiting punishment.
He lashes out with a vicious left hook, finding a strange satisfaction in the crunch of cartilage under his knuckles as he punches one opponent in the neck. As the thug drops to its knees, wet choking noises burbling from its foaming mouth, he spins swiftly, catching another in the stomach with the heavy heel of his boot.
Momentum carries him forward and he follows through with a swift crack of his elbow and that’s three down, four now as he grabs the one behind him, digging his thumbs into its eye sockets until they’re buried to the knuckle. Its shrieks don’t last long.
The last of them has caught on now, recognised that there are predators more vicious than itself roaming the streets. It yelps and tries to scramble away with its tails between its legs, but it’s too late, too late. The damage is already done and its actions have marked it with an enduring permanence.
Reckoning is at hand.
With a feral snarl, he dashes after his target, heart thumping a wild tattoo against his ribs. He reaches out and grabs with his left hand, digging his fingers into the hollow created by the jut of a clavicle, twisting until he’s rewarded by the sick snap of bone. He’s not done yet, though, not even close.
With a growl, he digs his knees into kidneys with bruising force, then fits his hand around the back of his wailing prey’s skull. He slams it headfirst into the brick wall of the alley again and again and again with vicious abandon until it is no longer possible for him to grip the slick mess of hair and gore.
Duty complete, he drops the cooling lump of meat to the ground. A strange calm settles over him and he turns. The sight that meets him is a pleasing one. The woman, once a victim huddling in the corner of an alley, is no longer meekly crying. Oh, there are tears in her eyes, but they’re far from being fearful. She’s kicking one of the fallen men in the ribs as she sobs, cursing and choking on her rage.
He watches silently as she vents her anger, arms folded over his chest and face shadowed by the brim of his hat. Finally, she slows down, shoulders heaving as she pants from the exertion.
She looks up, hands on her knees, and her dark eyes lock onto his as she tucks a lock of brilliantly red hair behind her ear.
There is a long pause.
Finally, a smile spreads across her face and, suddenly shy, she murmurs her thanks.
“Not a problem.”
With that, he shuffles off into the shadows.
Fandom: Watchmen/American Gods
Characters: Rorschach
Word Count: 533
Summary: One moment he was- well, he wasn’t, but the next, he is, for a cry for help echoes through the night and he cannot resist the call anymore than the moon can crash into Venus.
AN: There's enough of a cross that the cross is evident when you know the two canons, but knowledge of some basic mythology will see you through the "American Gods" part just fine.
Preceded by: A Land of Dreams and Fire
One moment he was- well, he wasn’t, but the next, he is, for a cry for help echoes through the night and he cannot resist the call anymore than the moon can crash into Venus. He is howling down from a fire escape in order to plant the sole of his boot into the face of a would-be criminal. The filth screams and claws at its face, wet redness oozing from between its fingers, but justice hasn’t been dealt yet, not when there are four more in the alley, four more awaiting punishment.
He lashes out with a vicious left hook, finding a strange satisfaction in the crunch of cartilage under his knuckles as he punches one opponent in the neck. As the thug drops to its knees, wet choking noises burbling from its foaming mouth, he spins swiftly, catching another in the stomach with the heavy heel of his boot.
Momentum carries him forward and he follows through with a swift crack of his elbow and that’s three down, four now as he grabs the one behind him, digging his thumbs into its eye sockets until they’re buried to the knuckle. Its shrieks don’t last long.
The last of them has caught on now, recognised that there are predators more vicious than itself roaming the streets. It yelps and tries to scramble away with its tails between its legs, but it’s too late, too late. The damage is already done and its actions have marked it with an enduring permanence.
Reckoning is at hand.
With a feral snarl, he dashes after his target, heart thumping a wild tattoo against his ribs. He reaches out and grabs with his left hand, digging his fingers into the hollow created by the jut of a clavicle, twisting until he’s rewarded by the sick snap of bone. He’s not done yet, though, not even close.
With a growl, he digs his knees into kidneys with bruising force, then fits his hand around the back of his wailing prey’s skull. He slams it headfirst into the brick wall of the alley again and again and again with vicious abandon until it is no longer possible for him to grip the slick mess of hair and gore.
Duty complete, he drops the cooling lump of meat to the ground. A strange calm settles over him and he turns. The sight that meets him is a pleasing one. The woman, once a victim huddling in the corner of an alley, is no longer meekly crying. Oh, there are tears in her eyes, but they’re far from being fearful. She’s kicking one of the fallen men in the ribs as she sobs, cursing and choking on her rage.
He watches silently as she vents her anger, arms folded over his chest and face shadowed by the brim of his hat. Finally, she slows down, shoulders heaving as she pants from the exertion.
She looks up, hands on her knees, and her dark eyes lock onto his as she tucks a lock of brilliantly red hair behind her ear.
There is a long pause.
Finally, a smile spreads across her face and, suddenly shy, she murmurs her thanks.
“Not a problem.”
With that, he shuffles off into the shadows.