singillatim | boogie wonderland; ota

Entry tags:

boogie wonderland; ota

Who: Holland March + open, Holland + Huaisang
What: March spends some time contemplating, talks distilling with Huaisang
When: Nov 2nd
Where: Community hall

Content Warnings: usual cw for alcoholism

i. Weapons cleaning + contemplation;

His supplies are running low. There's only so much you can scavenge in a place like this, but when you chain smoke like a chimney and drink like a fish eventually what you can scrounge up is going to disappear. He's got a little left, sure, courtesy of a gas station raid and the basement Huaisang's got, but supplies aren't infinite.

It gets him thinking. Makes him antsy. March enters the community hall like he usually does, a frequent visitor like most of the small little community they've all managed to put together, but he's never really done much. Drank some coffee, chatted. It's hard to tell if he even realizes he's the village idiot.

Today, though, he's set up in a little corner and is making sure his gun is cleaned along with sipping his morning caffeinated sludge. He's less animated than usual, less talkative, simply staring into space as his hands go through the motions. If not interrupted, he'll eventually speak.

"We're really fucked here, huh? Completely." Holland knows he should curve the negativity, but it's starting to get to him more than he'd like admit. He's been adamant they're all probably going to die within the month since day one but there's less of a joking tone towards it this time.

He wants to help sure. Pitch in, even. Mostly he's just worried about how tiny his booze stash is getting.

After coffee there's a far less depressing revelation, said just as solemnly.

"...Should I hunt?"

ii. Huaisang;

"We gotta do something."

March doesn't bother to announce himself when he opens the door to Huaisang's place, spending far more time there than he probably should. His scarf is taken off, the hat is dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.

"Hey. Huaisang? Huaisang, we gotta do something. You know what I did today? Math. You know what that math was for?"

He's already flopping onto the nearest available surface, aviators still on.

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Rorschach had ended up in the Community Hall as he did at least a few times a week. He wasn't sure why he did. It wasn't as if he needed to be around people for any practical reasons. He could have survived physically just fine on his own without ever seeing another person. But part of him, a bigger part than he wanted to admit, was still very much a human being who craved contact with other people. So here he was.

....Though perhaps the kind of interaction he was looking for wasn't with the drunken idiot he'd already run into before. Still, he looked to be less drunk and more concerned with gun safety at the moment. Rorschach still didn't feel like being civil. "Why? Want to shoot your own foot off?" He asked bluntly.

March cants his head to the side, purposefully not looking at Rorschach. It's hard not to glance up when the guy with the cheesecloth mask wanders in, and the voice is pretty unmistakable in terms of gravel, but the blonde keeps his eyes on his gun.

His cleaning is proper, at least. He's competent. He's learned it from somewhere.

"Okay. There's a lot of negativity here." his voice is deadpan, eyes narrowing a fraction of an inch. "I could not help at all and just sit here, that's an option."

He took note of the fact the village idiot had apparently learned how to properly wield a gun at some point in his past. Well, that was mildly interesting. He wondered how well the drunkard could shoot when he was sober. In any case, if he tried, Rorschach wanted to be behind him when the attempt was made.

"Might be the better option," Rorschach said, his flat voice containing just a hint of snark that was easy to miss for people who didn't know him well.

"Thank you so much for your brilliant observation," March says politely in a tone that suggests he isn't being polite at all, and begins to reassemble his gun.

"You got any other great advice for me, Cheesecloth?"

Rorschach gazed at him for a few moments. When he spoke, there was clear contempt in his voice. "You are of no use drunk. And small use sober. But small is better than none. So learn to be useful." For as taciturn as Rorschach was, that was the equivalent of a speech worthy of the Gettysburg Address.

Was it wise to talk to someone that way when they had a gun in their hands? Probably not. But he didn't care. Rorschach had never been one much for manners or tact. He had no use for either.

"You're really great at morale," March says, and to his credit he doesn't even roll his eyes.

The guy has a point. A pretty big one, one that March knows is right. He's never been one to do anything other than half-ass shit, most of his clients old ladies he swindles and fleeces.

"If we all wound up in an actual city it'd be a lot easier," he laments. If Jackson Healy were here it'd be a lot easier, too.

"Should listen. Probably won't. And will perish," Rorschach said, managing to sound snarky despite the few phrases he spoke in the stilted tone. Look, now that he was convinced March was the (or one of the) village idiot(s), he was going to be hard-pressed to reassess that first impression.

"Doubtful. Stuck here for good." Rorschach was still somewhat convinced this was an icy hell and had been scribbling down perceived connections within his journal that would support coming to that conclusion.

"Anyone ever tell you you're fun to be around?" March comments wryly. Another thought occurs to him, and since it's better than focusing on how much he sucks, he asks it.

"You ever take that mask off?" Does he remember asking this the last time they ran into each other? Absolutely not.

March wasn't the first person to ask Rorschach about his face but he definitely was the most annoying. He almost didn't answer him but he had the distinct impression this was one man who would just continue pressing the issue unless he got an actual answer.

"No," came forth as the growling reply. Just the one word answer, that was it. What else needed to be said? He wasn't good at explanations or talking in general and his face was a very complicated subject indeed. It would have taken a long time to give the full answer even if he'd been loquacious as all get out. The irony was that he was much more eloquent when it came to writing things down. Heck, he veered quite a bit into purple prose when he really got going. Though he doubted anyone was ever going to find that particular talent of his out, not unless they stole his journal.

That's a very strong answer. March isn't going to touch that, he figures. Just acceptance. Rorschach hates him, March is turning out not to be a fan of this guy either, so it's the world's worst standoff that he doesn't really have the energy for.

He does have energy for one more question, though.

"....Why?"

Rorschach was tempted to tell the village idiot to mind his own business and stop being so nosy. But he didn't. He doubted that would dissuade March from continuing to ask questions. So he finally gave a begrudging answer

"Prefer this as my face," he explained. It wasn't the answer of someone who was fully sane or firmly grounded in reality but Rorschach had accepted a long time ago he'd lost part of his sanity and was never getting it back.

March surprisingly doesn't make a big deal about it. He's curious, sure, and absolutely going to talk about it, but he doesn't make a move to grab it or anything like that. There's no point to escalate things: there's also the fact that Rorschach may just very well be crazy. He's seen it a lot.

Not the mask thing itself, but when you work in the gutter you start to recognize this sort of thing. March shrugs. Unfortunately just because he knows not to push it too hard doesn't mean he isn't insanely curious.

"Can't be that bad."

"Never said it was bad," He corrected. It wasn't as if he'd gotten burned by acid or something. "Just said I preferred this."

The face underneath was one of a fallible human being, someone who had been soft on criminals and thought that they deserved to be shown a modicum of mercy. Once he'd left that behind, the mask he'd wore had become the true skin that he wanted to wear and be known for. He wasn't so much a person anymore as an ideal, someone who could disperse justice without worrying about morals holding him back any longer.

"Huh." March seems pretty satisfied with that answer, lower lip jutting out thoughtfully. His gun, now newly assembled, is slipped into its' harness. Who cares, right? Let Rorschach do whatever. It's not hurting anyone. It's weird, but weird isn't a crime.

It's just that March is putting two and two together based on his own experiences, running around the sex hazed districts of LA in the 70s.

"Is it sexual? I knew a guy that could only get it up if he was wearing a chicken mask." It's a surprisingly sincere question.

Wha---Sexual? Of all the things Rorschach had expected March to question him about next, that was so far on the bottom of the list as to be non-existent. He thought very briefly about knocking a few of March's teeth out as his response but then wondered if the guy would think he was getting off on that or something.

"No", he said and this time the word was practically snarled out. March had clearly hit a nerve with that question, though not because it was close to the truth. Rorschach just had a hard time dealing with anything of a sexual nature due to all the repression he'd formed as an adult thanks to the trauma in his youth. To think someone would assume his face represented that pissed him off greatly.

March doesn't bother to hide his widening eyes, and he holds both hands up as if showing Rorschach there's no weapon in them will somehow placate the beast. Wrong line of questioning. Or right line, maybe, depending on things. It's definitely not something March is going to press when the guy already hates his guts. Either way: extreme hostility noted.

Even if the lady doth protest too much, in March's opinion.

"Gotta ask," he defends. "It's the in the job description."

He was still pretty steamed over March putting his foot in mouth. But he wouldn't hurt him. Idiot though he was, he wasn't on the level of the criminals Rorschach despised. So he would refrain from breaking any of his fingers, which would have been his usual go-to in a situation like this.

"What job? Strip club owner? Or pimp?" Rorschach said. It was amazing how snarky he could be even with his atrophied conversation skills.

March scoffs. It's not entirely out of the realm of possibility, no--he works closely with them, and even when he was a beat cop he worked the red light district, fired for planting evidence--so it's an amused one, not insulted in the least.

"Nah. Private investigator. Licensed and everything."

Well, that was about the most surprising answer March could have given him. A genuine surprised expression crossed his face under the mask, reflecting on the surface by the black blots taking moment where they split off sharply towards the four corners of his "face". "You?" This guy was a detective? This alcoholic village idiot with one brain cell? "Got to be joking."

Woah, woah, woah, that's a lot of incredulity. March's whole face pinches before it slackens to something akin to his usual deadpan delivery.

"Yeah, me. Jesus. Just because I'm not Mr. Call of the Wild like Jack London, I can't be a PI?"

Looked like he'd hit a nerve with that comment. Well, March deserved it after asking if his face represented some sort of sex thing. This made them even.

"Never said that." If that was it, Rorschach himself would be a bit of an idiot, given he didn't know the first thing about surviving here in the icy wilderness. The city had always been his forte. "Just surprised someone so.... dysfunctional would be one. Licensing standards must be slipping."

"I can be functional." That's a lie, but it's one March decides to believe. "You see a case here? You see anything? You know what I do? I find out who's cheating on who and who, I get the pictures, I find runaway rich snot nosed daughters, I get paid. That's it. It's a living."

A pause.

"Got a high ranking official in the Justice Department arrested recently, though, thank you for asking."

"Good for you," he said in a bone-dry tone. "Plan on doing something here besides drink yourself to death?"

If March actually had a brain, as he claimed, he might have some use if he put his mind to it at some point. Otherwise, all he'd be able to do was provide a meal or two if he died and they eventually ran out of food. All that alcohol in his system would be sure to preserve the body nicely.

"Maybe when you decide to get off my ass," March quips. "Not everyone is equipped with a voice like gravel, magical survival instincts and the need to nag at everyone, alright?"

The drinking comment is something that stings, and there's a deliberate blink as he knocks it from his mind. He's used to it. Holly gets angry at him about it on occasion. He's bulletproof when it comes to that courtesy of his repression and denial.

Oh, March was going to get such a headache the longer he got to know Rorschach. He was probably one of the most judgmental people in town, and despite how quiet he was, he was more than capable of making his opinions well-known.

What he was getting was a little sick of what he saw as March assuming things about him. He still hadn't forgiven him for that idea that keeping his mask on was a sexual thing. "Nothing magical about it. The strong survive. Protect the weak. That's how all will live." Which also meant if worst came to worst Rorschach would end up reluctantly protecting this strange drunkard even if he did think of him as being an anchor dragging everyone else down.

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boogie wonderland; ota

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cw: joke about cannibalism

cw alcoholism and a little bit of child neglect tbh

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