now i rock a house party at the drop of a hat.
It's around five o'clock in the morning when the citizens of Taxon find themselves inexplicably transported into rooms within the Sanctuary. Doors are left open and beds unmade, food abandoned and lights left on, still shining brightly for those who were awake and are no longer present. The Extras don't seem to notice the captive population's
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He hadn't been asleep long, he knows that immediately; he rarely sleeps to begin with, a few hours snatched here and there when he can ill afford their absence, and even since his Arrival he has kept to the practice, seeing no reason to abandon routine now. He prides himself on his reactivity even when asleep, his ability to wake on a moment's notice the instant something in the environment changes, but he hadn't, not this time. It's concerning. Drugged, perhaps? It's the only explanation he can think of, the only one that makes sense, and the fact that it isn't the first time it has happened does little to ease his edginess.
The second thing he notices is that in addition to being in a room that isn't his own, even a borrowed one, his face is gone. It should be on the small table in the corner, and his clothes on the chair next to it, but both familiar furniture and his personal things (such as remain to him) are gone. He spends long moments tearing the room apart in search of it, frustrated and panicked at being left to face whatever lies outside unprotected, but he finds nothing but the clothes he is currently wearing, a few bare essentials that wouldn't be out of place in a standard motel, and the Thing he was given when he Arrived, shoved deep in the pocket of his pants as if he thought he could lose it that way if he only buried it deep enough. It isn't here. He quiets, and returns to the bed to think, carding long, knarled fingers angrily through greasy red strands gone coarse and wiry through years of neglect, as if the empty gesture will return the natural order of things.
The clinical, cold assurance the tablet provides when he finally brings himself to look soothes nothing, the words as empty and impersonal as the room. If anything it only feeds his frustration further, that their captors mock them with phrases that in different context would be meant as comfort. He dislikes confinement, even that which is claimed to be benign. Restricted freedom is never anything but a cage, no matter how well-intentioned its purpose.
If he were the type to give credence to it, he might interpret the circumstances as Divine Retribution, although he couldn't have said what he did to warrant being left this vulnerable, this...exposed, confined to Kovacs and his disgusting, pathetic, undeniably human weaknesses without even a glimpse at a means to rectify it. But such worries are useless, nothing but an exercise in futility. In a world where women are murdered while their saviors look on, frozen into impotence by their own apathy and morbid curiosity, a world where man's best friend consumes his children with slavering jaws and life goes on undisturbed...reading into the situation too closely is insanity. Another of their captors' experiments; release the mice in the maze and watch them scramble for the cheese, hoping a few tear each other apart in the race for the cats' amusement. Rorschach refuses to participate, refuses to be led where they want like cattle to slaughter. He will find his own way. He will keep a record of all he sees and hears, a record so that he can hopefully make sense of all this, so that a full account of all that transpires exists if it becomes necessary, so that, as futile as it may seem, at least later after the endgame is reached someone somewhere will know.
His journal is gone, the same as his face and the rest of his costume, left behind in the place outside that isn't here, but now that he has accepted the situation and has a Plan (albeit still rudimentary and half-formed) Rorschach is unperturbed. Paper is found, as is a pencil, shiny and unmarked and sharp as if it has never been used before. They will do. He leaves the cell slated to be his by groundskeepers he's never met and has no intention to mind and wanders out into the rest of the level before sitting down on the floor of the entryway to his new prison, amongst the doubtless equally artificial green. He fishes the tablet out of his pocket, dropping it on the ground nearby in case he finds a need for it, and begins to write.
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As he moves through the greenhouse Dan notices another man standing on the opposite side of a row of plants between them. The man's features are mostly obscured by the greenery and Dan stays where he is until he can get a better look. For all he knew, this person could be a threat. Dan knows that he can take care of himself in a fight, but this city was different from back home. If this person had something to do with the newest glitch, he needed to be careful. He continues his walk, not wanting to alarm the other man into something drastic, but Dan shifts his position to be ready to defend himself if need be.
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He knows he should probably go back to what he was doing. He isn't quite finished, he still has potentially important information to commit to paper, and continuing to pay attention to the other man is only likely to arouse suspicion of some kind. But he's been keeping an eye on Daniel for so long that even without the cover of busy streets he needs to see what he's up to. Needs to know where he's going and what he's doing. Just in case; they were partners once, and the compulsion to watch his back is too ingrained to let go of completely, even if it would be more convenient. So he watches, expression dull and vacant and vaguely accusatory. He would be concerned Daniel would catch on, make the connection and draw the correct conclusion, but he never has in the past, and so he isn't particularly worried about it now. People don't notice the filthy masses they pass on the street, after all, he has no reason to believe Daniel would be any different.
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And there is one person who remains impossible for the world at large to read, yet Dan has somehow managed to crack that armor. It's not enough to ever make the man weak, that is an impossibility, but Dan knows that there is something on the fringes of friendship between them. He also knows his stance and mannerisms, the paranoia that frustrated him but ultimately kept them both safe. All of that was here, written across the face of someone who seemed so familiar.
He walks through the rows of plants toward the red headed man, eyes narrowed slightly in contemplation. If his instincts are right and a certain person doesn't want to be found, this could end very badly for the both of them.
"Rorschach?"
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Mask again composed, a blank slate aside from his irritation at the discovery, he returns his attention to his narrative, only acknowledging the other's presence through a one word response, one resigned but absent his usual grit. Rorschach has never put much stock in deception or lies even for the best of reasons, he sees no point in denying the identification, though he also does not intend on dwelling on it longer than necessary.
"Daniel."
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"Where's your mask?"
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"It didn't come with me." There's a thoughtful pause, as if he's considering exactly how much to say, then "Don't always wear it." Which is probably obvious by now anyway.
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Of all people, Dan can understand the need for secrecy, but he doesn't understand why such secrecy was taken around him and especially in such a city where everyone was bound to run into everyone else. "Does anyone else here know that you're... you?"
That sounded much less eloquent than he intended.
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"Don't think so. Shouldn't recognize me without face." Because clearly the purple pinstriped pants aren't an immediate giveaway, not to mention he's the only one who looks drastically different. Later there will be the former Fed to consider, but for now he's confident that Daniel is the only one who has managed to put it together. "Don't look closely enough." And it might be an accusation, but it might just as easily be observation; the face underneath is even more inscrutable than the one he usually shows the world.
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He has more sense than that. Instead he changes course a bit and goes directly for what's on his mind. "I think people will figure it out pretty fast once they see you. The city is small, you're bound to run into the same people eventually."
Rorschach is good at hiding, but the lack of the mask makes it that much more difficult. And exposed. "It might be something to think about."
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"They're too busy pouring blood down the drains. Seeking answers from each other even when no-one has any. Finding solace in meaningless actions and ignoring the truths in front of their faces. They won't make the connection. Too busy with their own lives to notice. Will only make assumptions to confirm the status quo." He is absolutely certain of this, regardless of what Daniel says. It's how it has always been, he can't see how this small change could make it otherwise.
It took you twenty years to figure it out, he thinks but doesn't say, but the pointed look he shoots him does well enough at conveying the gist.
"...Appreciate your concern though." It seems to have been tacked on the end just to pacify, but it's sincere enough, in his own way.
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There is always more to ask, but Rorschach's judging look grows increasingly uncomfortable with every passing moment. Time for a change of subject. "It looks like you've been seeking answers of your own," he says, pointing to the notes. "Have you found anything?"
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Either way, he seems to relax (as much as he can relax, anyway) with the change in topic. This is more familiar ground.
"Spoke with one of our captors. Briefly. Didn't get much; preferred dismissing situation and escaped before I could get any answers. Circumstances seem to be similar to original arrival; no warning, no indications of method. Possibly drugged, but..." He shakes his head ruefully. "No symptoms other than selective amnesia. Strange drug. You?"
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It'll take a minute for the six-foot tall hamster to notice its no longer alone. The spinach is just so good.
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Unless.
He recalls someone (though he cannot remember who) mentioning hamsters in connection to their captors. It sounds unlikely, and yet. He regains his feet, folding the papers once, twice, three times to ensure they will fit then sliding both them and the pencil, now worn down to a barely usable nub, into a pocket and moves closer. The hamster seems enormous with the closer proximity, made larger and more physically intimidating through his own lack of protective layers which makes him seem small and fragile in comparison, but instead of cowing him it only fuels his irritation because this thing is the very cause of his current discomfort. It doesn't matter that the hamster doesn't notice him right away, in this instance Rorschach doesn't mind making himself known.
"Was told captors didn't mingle with test subjects."
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"Wuh don ushally. Ish -- Um."
It gulps down the mouthful of spinach and nervously tries again.
"These are h-highly coincidental circumstances, you understand."
A pause, a twitch, a squeak.
"How are you today?"
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