Lights in the old glass foundry led them to the arsonist. It was hard to tell how old he was. He was gaunt and stripped to the waist, hair singed short, and covered with deliberately placed burn scars. In the red glow of the foundry he had somehow kept going, he looked like a fallen angel who didn't realize he was in hell. He was turning a long, thin rod in the furnace. He had burned down three churches and a day care center.

The foundry was so loud that they were able to walk right up to him. Rorschach was probably willing to kick him face first into the glory hole and let him burn. He settled for a vicious kick to the ribs. The arsonist collapsed with a howl. He had lashed out with the rod. It had missed Rorschach, but a splash of molten glass had spattered across Nite Owl's mouth. The shock of that pain had kept him from being able to stop the swing of the rod itself.

The goggles saved his eye, but just barely. The lens cracked from the heat when the white-hot pipe hit. The hot metal had seared into his flesh, making the rubber layer of his cowl blister and shrivel. Then, the lunatic had ripped it away and it had take an inch wide swatch of his face with it. No blade had ever felt like this. He had screamed and screamed until he managed to cram his own fist into his mouth. He couldn't bite down. His jaw felt paralyzed with fire. He was gaping like that alley cat that he had seen as a child, jaw broken by a close call with the garbage truck. The cat had suffered quietly. He couldn't. It simply hurt too bad.

Rorschach had a second to choose between running to help and subduing the arsonist. Turning his back on his screaming partner caused such a twisting sensation in his throat that it felt like the most natural thing in the world to feel another throat strain in his hands.

The crunch of the spine was lost in the roar of the furnace.

The rod clanged to the floor.

The body fell with a gentler thud. Then, Rorschach turned back to Nite Owl.

Nite Owl was on all fours in the years-old threads of spilled glass. One hand was pressed to his mouth, the other to his face. The sounds coming out of him were muffled by the glove, but still sounded more like a stricken animal than a man. The hand that had been in his mouth clutched at Rorschach's lapels when he knelt close enough. The other didn't budge, material stretched thin over the knuckles.

Rorschach was forcing himself to be calm.

Burns felt much worse than other wounds, but they bled less.

It was obviously painful, but maybe not that bad. Nite Owl could be excused for this behavior, but the sooner he got hold of himself the better.

"Let me see," he said, slipping his hand around the other's wrist. His voice was steady, no more concerned than if he had been asked to remove a splinter. He had to use force to pull his partner's hand. "Nite Owl, let me see…"

The hand came away. Rorschach felt his guts ice over at the sight. It wasn't bleeding because the wound had been cauterized, but there was a stripe ripped from his flesh, chin to eyebrow. Rorschach pulled the ruined goggles away. He pushed the hood back so that it wouldn't be Nite Owl mutilated like this. It didn't help. If anything, seeing Daniel's honest, smooth face seared down to the bone made his frozen insides shatter.

One of them sobbed.

Rorschach clutched both sides of Daniel's face to see better.

The corner of Daniel's lips were charred and blistered as the burn followed a slight angle over his cheek, the cheek bone visible through the sizzled skin, a patch that the goggles had protected that had only blistered, and another glimpse of brow bone in a charred line through his eyebrow. His breathing hissed and hitched around his whimpers.

This was something stitches couldn't fix. This couldn't be rested off.

Ice, Rorschach thought, then remembered. No wait. Not at first. Keep it clean, keep it damp. Painkillers. Let it heal up enough and then that, that gel that the skin-and-bones slut at his old job used to rub on her leathery sunburn in the summers. Aloe. When it was healed enough.

"Up," he heard himself say. "Must get up." And somehow they staggered away from the heat and noise, back into the dark.