It was evening. The marks on the wall haven't' changed. It was... odd. There was, however, something odd sitting in the air. There was a man in need of shower and a soup hauling camping equipment and his few belongings on his back. He was staring at Zillah which was, well, it was as rude as it might be somewhat unsurprising given her kit of talents and knacks. He reached into his coat, his hand shaking very slightly from maybe a palsy or a withdrawal or short nerves, but he had a red envelope looking not unlike those for a Lunar New Year and said, "I think... I'm supposed to give you this."
Once more, Zillah looks like she's been shopping in Stevie Nick's forgotten closet. A burnout velvet kimono of deep purple, with roses and vinework, fringe, worn over a cropped top of black, black leather pants, and heeled boots. There's a slow blink from the woman as she's offered that envelope from the man. She pulls out a crisp five dollar bill, and slides it to him as she takes it, opening it up to peer inside with a murmured, "Thanks, friend."
The man's eyes were grateful even though his expression was tired and she got a nod and a murmured "welcome". The writing on the card inside was not his which may have left him confused by some oracle sitting there going "Ooh in four hours I need to put this information in your hand and you'll hand it to a woman, and there you will find a hot meal. And so it was. If said visionary even knew what would be at the other end who even knows. The note was just an address on it that has the address to the halfway house for the Lost. It was dark again, but the address let her in and the room had a nightlight and light coming from waning moon outside. A small stout hob that might be a hobbit with a ladybug shell said carrying out bundled linens that were stained black like a pen exploded, "He's awake now. I don't know if he's taking visitors." Said hob was wearing a welding smock and rubber gloves that covered his upper arms.
It's a strange thing indeed. Like a scavenger hunt of a sorts, and Zee has always been down for those. She thinks. At least she -feels- like she would have been? Whatever. But she follows to the address, and when the hob talks, her brows arch up high. Oh so high. SO HIGH. They get lost in her bangs. "Excuse me, what? Awake now? Taking visitors?" The linens eyed, before she lets herself riiiiiight on in there.
Rorschach looked like death warmed over. Has the majority of the problem been solved? Yeah. No. No the problem was doing stupid shit that gets people gnawed on by ROUSs. That problem was very clearly not resolved. His jacket was on a chair and most of his clothes were in a heap. On any given day one Shadowsoul would see another and find the swirling runes and marks under his skin like organic tattoos as easily as he would get hypnotized by the swirls in hers. Presently they were almost entirely gone. There were a few. It was like someone let black sand out of the paper hourglass of him. Right arm taped and much packing gauze in that shoulder and on closer annotation, the leg s well where the blanket was shifted. Boy looked wrecked. The tired look glanced to Zillah was as much a wince as apology.
"What the fuck happened?" That low, angry hiss comes out of Zillah and, for a moment, it would be an easy thing to think that she was partially coldscale. It's not the sort of sound a pretty girl should make, not at all. Any other day, and she'd be watching his marks and cooing at him. Tonight? Tonight there's worry for the bug and that translates to anger. That he's been here long enough for there to be a change of sheets, that he's so not-him colored and there's gauze and leg and wincing... She stalks to the side of his bed with a click of heels and a prod of fingers into his wounds, as if she could possibly see what happened to what is usually her very favorite bug.
Rorschach was froggy but his eyes, and really the ends of his antennae vaguely followed her. When she pressed her fingers into the wound he became rather more alert and hissed like an angry cicada fighting with a malfunctioning toaster. It was not even remotely human in nature. His eyes sharpened, narrowed on her but it wasn't malice. it was pain, fatigue and anger at...something. His left hand came up and made a sort of chomping like rodent teeth. His fingers spelled with sharp punctuation. 'S-Q-U-I-R-L-B-A-T-S. ' his spelling had much to be desired but the point was made even if it made no sense
Rorschach couldn't keep the fight on for long and just winced, sharply as her fingers pressed his shoulder turning the bandage not red bot spotted with black. Instead of grabbing her hand, however, his fist grabbed the sheets.
That inhuman hissing she can deal with. If he can hiss like that, he's not quite on death's doorstep. And hey, she's making him make sounds, that's usually fun. Okay, not right now, but. It doesn't make her stop trying to look at the wound, feeling with her fingertips, careless of things like inkblood getting all over them. She's angry. Oh how she's angry. "Squirelbats? The fuck are squirelbats?" There's another little hissing, serpent sound from her and then...then a steak knife. A little light stabbing between friends is okay, right? Right. It's just a fleshwound to his leg. Barely a scratch. One that bleeds. But at least she's stopping prodding at his other wound as she hisses, "You're -not- supposed to get hurt like this."
OH could those eyes and sockets get wider? Really being made to make sounds was usually a good thing. The jury had mixed feelings about which way this one was going though, on the upshot it was not definitive. His jaw clamped together and fingers snatched and seized the bedclothes in a skeletal grip. And then there was just a sob of air as his lungs forced him to breathe. Not dead yet. Though faintly, still under a whisper, he ...screamed? And there were words. Not polite words, but words, "fffffffffffffffffffuuuuuuuck, we got....mobbed..." The attempt to speak hurt almost as much as the leg but perspective here. He rasped "Sor-ry I'mso...sorry..." He winced and let his breathing return to normal, not okay with being knifed in the leg, but accepting the sensation as affirmation of the present all the same. He paused and looked with his eyes, not his head. Relief. It wasn't his knife. good good good. Fingers unknitted from the sheets as his blood beaded like black graphite in some sort of runny form. She might stab him through the hand but ya know, that was livable. They could fix that. Those aggravated wounds? Well sometimes one had to live with poor life choices for a while
There are words, spoken words, and that surprised Zillah almost as much as finding Rorsch like this did. There might be a -twinge- of guilt for hurting him enough that he spoke, considering the last time that he tried before she went away, and her lips press into a thin line of almost neutrality. Her grip on the blade is white-knuckle tight for a moment, before she lets it drop out of her hand and lets out a sigh. He needs his hands to sign, so she doesn't hurt those, considerate friend that she is. "Damnit, Robbie," she says very, very softly before flopping her ass down on the foot of his bed. One unhappy little shadow is she. "How long ago? How long do they want you here? Do the rest of the crew know?" Because that's what they were, now. Stabbings aside.
Rorschach took a deep breath and made the sign for morning. This. He rasped, and weather she heard him or not who knows. It was as hoarse as a mummy coughing up moths and dust. He changed the sign and sighed 'Today'. He pointed to himself and the door and rasped, "Not... hostage..." But did he have a plan in mind? no because he didn't think there'd be carnivore squirrels up gnawing on his grill. Did the crew know? His head wiggled no. He gave her a lop-sided tired grin. and gestured to all of himself with one finger He tried hard to get the words out. Chester was on the other side of his pillow...chewing on it? HE winced but forged on, "Shoulda seem, b'fore I was this pretty." He winked. Only he would make light of his own mortality. Still, his leg hurt and he clamped a hand on it until it stopped. He looked at the cricket who...did not get the clue. There was a series of clicks and the bug moved its ass to hop to work.
Truefact: Zillah does not deal well with seeing people that she cares about in physical pain. But it had only been since today that he ended up here, so there's that at least. A huff of breath, and then she nods. And...cracks a smile when he makes a joke. "Don't talk, I know it hurts," says the woman that stabbed him in the leg. "Unless it's to say that I'm pretty, then that's okay." She touches the leg that she didn't stab, rubbing his knee a little. "I hope you don't think this gets you out of that lunch you owe me."
Rorschach looked at his hand. It had some stains on it. hey that was a good sign right? As a courtesy he wiped the smudge on his palm on the sheet and held his hand face up for hers, should she choose so. He cracked a wry grin, and hoarsely said per compliance, "You're very, very pretty. And I ain't... bailin on you yet. Outlive everyone. Just... won't be pretty." He gave her a tired wink and laid his head back down, squeezing her hand. "Lunch..." There was a nod and he just faded into sleep and rest. healing was tough. Worth it though. Very, very worth it.
|
