Hunt
"To search for; seek; endeavor to obtain or find."
It seemed to smell worse every time they came down here. Dan could get used to his partner's brash style, his inability to communicate anything other than short sentences, even his strange fondness for breaking into his house and taking his food – but nothing could ever properly explain to him why on earth Rorschach liked the sewers so much. Quickest mode of transportation, he always said, easiest way to get around the city, and completely ignored his complaints about the odor. To be perfectly honest, he thought guiltily, Rorschach didn't smell so great himself… perhaps the sewer's noxious fumes simply didn't bother him so much.
Stepping over a dead something-or-other, Dan couldn't help but plug his nose through his mask. If this didn't bother Rorschach, the man had no sense of smell whatsoever. Besides, how were they supposed to find anyone down here? Dan had barely glanced at Rorschach's detailed map of the city's underbelly, and his head reeled for at least a minute. It was almost funny that for as many years as he'd lived in New York, he never once thought of the sprawling labyrinth beneath his feet at every moment. Leave it to his partner to think of this as a primeval subway system… minus the trains, commodities, and modest amounts of hygiene.
"You really think we'll find Typhoon down here?" he asked, trying his best to keep the whine out of his voice. It didn't seem to have worked, as Rorschach snorted and shook his head slightly.
"Look at the name. Obviously water-based, sewers best place to check first." Dan cursed Rorschach's logic and the strange kink in super villains that led them to pick inconvenient "lairs" and hidey-holes. "Besides, asked around. People kidnapped left trails here and there. All trails led to manholes."
"But… look, man, the likelihood that we'll find anyone in this place is slim to none." As he spoke, Rorschach slowly turned on his heel to face him, making Dan a little uneasy. His partner had been… off, for a very long time. More off than usual, anyway, as opposed to his typical oddness – quicker to spring, less forgiving to the criminals that lurked in the streets… dangerous. Even to him, his partner and perhaps his friend – and it concerned Dan, troubled him deeply, but he couldn't bring himself to ask questions. "May- maybe," he stuttered, "we could try gathering some more information first."
Rorschach's deathly silence was unbearable, and for once, the blots on his mask were barely moving. When he did speak, it was in a throaty rasp – more emotional than Dan thought he could ever sound. "Kidnapped children. Can't give up so easily."
Something about his tone struck Dan, delved into his chest and pierced his heart with a skewer. Swallowing, he nodded – how could he deny Rorschach something so important? From their positions on his forehead and cheeks, the blots on his mask poured down like water to his chin… and his partner turned away, stalking through the sewer with increased determination.
They walked for about twenty minutes, frequently consulting Rorschach's mess of a map and hunting the walls desperately for clues. Not another word was exchanged, and Dan used his time to consider what might have changed. No, he wouldn't call them friends – perhaps a few months ago, but not now, never now. This wasn't the man that greeted him with a friendly, "Hello, Daniel," accepted his offer to sleep on his couch every now and again, or added silly things like sugar cubes and beans to his shopping list. This Rorschach was a stranger, a completely different inkblot card held up for him to examine and rationalize what he saw, and what he saw was not natural. What he saw was a monster.
His partner threw out a hand and caught his arm, stopping him and his thoughts dead. "Heard something."
They waited. Dan held his breath, wondering at the way Rorschach gripped him with fingers like vises. He was nothing if not resolute, able to take care of himself, but there was a neediness and fear in his hold – hoping he had heard nothing and yet knowing he had. A thin, trembling, weeping noise wavered through the passage, reverberating off the muck on the floor and walls to barely reach Dan's ears. He tensed, terrified, and Rorschach felt it. Dropping his arm, he charged ahead, grumbling awfully, "No, no, no, no." Dan followed, almost running into his back as they emerged into a larger chamber.
Typhoon, clad in teal and green and glittering scales, lay half-covered by filth and waste. Around him, the waters were a murky brown, colored with the crimson that covered the parts of his body that hadn't been drenched. Acting swiftly, Dan pushed past Rorschach and dropped to his knees beside Typhoon, feeling for a pulse and checking his vitals. All in vain.
"He's dead," he said, as though Rorschach hadn't already guessed, and looked up to see a boy. Eyes wide, cowering in the corner, a bloodied knife in his hands and tears streaming down his face. When Dan looked at him, he dropped the knife quickly, letting it sink into the thigh-deep sewage. He left it there.
"He- he- he came at me first," the boy whimpered, pressing against the wall. "I didn't mean to." He would be cute, Dan thought sadly, without the grime and the horrible ache in his eyes. Has to be about seven or eight, too young to handle something like this. A quick glance at Rorschach told him that he would be the one to deal with this situation – his partner seemed to have frozen solid. Maybe he didn't expect to find anyone alive.
Guiltily, Dan edged away from Typhoon but stayed on his knees, refusing to break eye contact with the little boy. "It's okay. We're… we're your friends. We came to find you." The boy's eyes lit up briefly, and it broke Dan's heart to see that so small a reassurance could rekindle hope in him. He was too young to think that everyone was scum, everyone was out to hurt him – he would trust and trust until the moment he was betrayed, often a moment too late. "What's your name?" he asked, holding out his hand. The boy sniffled, composed himself long enough to utter one word.
"Walter."
Rorschach tensed again, making an involuntary noise. Dan turned to him, wondering briefly at his reaction, but returned his attention to the boy as a small body collided with his. Quiet weeping shook them both, and in an instant, Dan scooped him up and held him close. He almost felt like crying, too, weeping in relief and joy and mourning for all the worldly men and women killed while a naïve child survived.
His partner cleared his throat, that strange throbbing and harshness returned. "Find out what happened," he said, inkblots racing furiously up and down his face. "Other survivors. Ask. Interrogate."
For once, Dan found he had to disagree with him. Holding Walter close, carefully swaying him back and forth, he walked past Rorschach and towards the way they came. "He won't be able to answer any questions now. He's only a boy, Rorschach; you can't threaten him like gangs and thieves." Dan watched Rorschach tilt his head, gazing somewhere in the boy's direction. One of his hands reached up unsteadily, stretching to touch Walter's mop of unkempt brown hair, but dropped it just as quickly.
"Wasn't planning on it."
Dan carried him all the way out, heart aching when he realized that the shuddering had stopped and Walter lay fast asleep. Once or twice, when it became a little difficult to maneuver with a kid in his arms, he would let Rorschach go ahead and hand the boy over, but his partner never kept him. The instant Dan made it up the ladder, or through the narrow space, Rorschach would hold the kid out like one would a dirty diaper and look at him expectantly. Walter never woke up, contented by soothing dreams and his savior's sturdy arms and shoulder and the knowledge that his nightmare was over. When they emerged again, dawn was coming, and New York's sky was dressed in shades of pinks and purples and oranges. Rorschach immediately insisted that they drop Walter off at a police station, as they had no hope of locating his parents or finding where he lived, and Dan found that he had to agree. When they walked in a police station, toting the latest hardened criminal effectively subdued and typically comatose, Dan was used to looks of disdain and fear. He knew about the encroaching Keane Act – he wasn't stupid. He knew that the cops all thought masked vigilantes were taking their jobs, reducing and eliminating their effectiveness. This time, gently holding Walter and smelling awfully of sewage, they were treated as heroes. A few braver police officers clapped him on the back, saying that his parents had looked for him desperately for over three days. With a promise that Walter would be safely returned, and without a goodbye, Dan and Rorschach were bustled into the street again and left to stare at each other uncomfortably.
"Uh… boy," Dan said, unsure of what to say. "We really reek." Rorschach nodded crisply, looking down at his stained costume and grunting.
"Should go home. Wash suit. Rest." Before his partner could slip away, Dan grabbed his arm and held him there. Before, Rorschach would hardly have minded, but today he was almost positive that Rorschach was three seconds from beating his head against the police station wall.
"Come with me. I can put everything in the laundry for you, give you something clean to sleep in…" Already, he knew the answer was no. Still, he tried again, hoping that Rorschach could see that he was worried, worried sick and hopeless and wondering. "I- I could go out and get you those sugar cubes. Sweet Chariot, right?"
Gently, he disentangled himself and straightened his overcoat. "No, Daniel." Dan knew it was pointless before he even asked, but somehow, it hurt him even more that his partner couldn't even be brusque about it. Couldn't huffily declare no, and then slowly let himself be wheedled into it. This time, without another word, Rorschach disappeared into an alley, leaving the Nite Owl to flee from the morning and slowly trudge his way home. All he could think about was that face, that mask, frozen in what must have been anger, and then turning into streaming tears. He missed nights spent comfortably in Archie, having broken and enjoyable conversations. He missed waking up in the afternoon after a long night's work and coming downstairs to find Rorschach sitting at his kitchen table, devouring his food. He missed that endearing determination, his repressed beliefs that in the end, evil would be punished and justice would serve.
He shouldn't have bothered trying to look for his friend inside this new Rorschach, he thought as he flicked on his basement's light, illuminating Archie eerily. Peeling off his suit, Dan threw his goggles across the room and scrubbed furiously at the resolute tears carefully trickling out. Though he wished otherwise, a large part of him was sure that the Walter inside Rorschach had died.
AN: This was a lot longer than I originally expected it would be. I also meant it to be lighthearted, at least somewhat, and then I had an idea and ran with it. Poor Rorschach. This takes place sometime after the Roche incident, probably a month or two. I never thought that Dan would accept his friend's change quite submissively, and cling to the last pieces of humanity Rorschach had until they slipped away. Obviously, at least a bit of his affection towards Dan and his humanity survived, but it must have been a hard transition for Dan.
Also used for playing with Rorschach's facial expressions, Dan's take on their strange relationship, Momma-Daniel (which I know everybody secretly loves), and both of their personalities. Experiment a relative success, I think I can say.