when I was a child running in the night

[mouthbreathing]

Who: Warsman (mouthbreathing) and YOU
When: At night from the 27th to the 30th
Where: Out and around the city
Summary: Warsman is out on one of his nightly patrols. Things happen.
Warnings: Violence.

[It’s turning into a regular routine now: during the day he works and trains in whatever free time he has, and come the evening, if he’s not scheduled for an appearance at the Knot-A Fight Club, Warsman readies his bear claws to head out under cloudy night skies. There may not be much he can do on a larger scale- the Darkness is a hydra of danger, and for every monster he slays it feels as though three more spring up the very next night- but every person he catches just in time makes it worth it. And who else is going to help them in this part of the city- the homeless, the poor, the people with no other choice? He’s gotten so used to the white noise of indifference around here that the rare wail of a police siren or ambulance comes as a decided shock.

It’s the little things, though. He’s doing what he can, even casting his net a little wider some nights and getting to know the rest of the city around him. It's not so quiet beyond his usual sectors and there are usually more people around, but it still pays off on occasion if he catches a straggler or two abandoned to the elements.

Leftover rain spots his poncho from higher ledges as he scales an apartment block, bracing his feet on broken guttering and greasy window catches. Higher ground may make him more obvious, and it may be so dark that he won’t be able to see further than a block or so, but any precaution is a precaution worth taking out here. Warsman heaves himself up onto the rooftop and surveys the area with dimly glowing eyes.]

[ooc: I'm up for just about any scenario! Rescuing someone, being rescued, working together, getting into a fight, etc... just start a scene or drop a suggestion and I'm good. I also don't mind starting things off!]

Comments

[mouthbreathing]

[Windy, cold and wet; there was no denying the steady seasonal change seiging the Port now, and little by little it was starting to remind Warsman more of home. Not Japan, or Robin's slice of England, or wherever else he'd come to rest over the years, and not Sibera- Leningrad, this time.

The fact that he had very few ties left to the city anymore worked as a small blessing as he moved from street to street. He couldn't get sentimental about it in the way he might have otherwise done- wistful, certainly, but he could ignore it so long as he had something to occupy him.

Which he most certainly did out here. He had to stay alert, focused on his surroundings and the multitude of living organisms that populated it, nearly all of them monsters.

But as he cast a cursory glance down an alleyway, back to a damp wall, the shape he caught sight of wasn't monstrous; what his eyes fell on first was the moon-pale face, marred with black splatters, in the dark.]

Rorschach...?

[He takes a few faltering steps into the alley, unsure of himself. They've never met in person, after all- but the mask is distinct.] Is that you...?

[aprettybutterfly]

[Besides the mask, ever shifting, he'd likely notice the smaller stature. The dirty trench coat, and the ever present smell was particularly of note, though should probably not be questioned.

From all of the things out here in the darkness, Rorschach wasn't prepared for someone to know his name. Someone not who he was currently punching in the face, of course. He turned, mask shifting, though you never knew if his expression was changing.]

Warsman.

[mouthbreathing]

[That is, in fact, what Warsman noticed as he approached; it was hard to work out a build under the coat, but the man was certainly smaller than he'd been expecting. Or was it simply that he was too used to choujin, ranging anywhere from Suguru's height to Buffaloman's eight foot wall of muscle? The smell, yes, came as another surprise, but out here everything reeked.

It didn't matter, not when he had thoughts of the impression he was making himself. What did Rorschach make of the man in front of him?

... no, it was no good trying to guess. Instead, he gave a brief nod in greeting.] Finally. I was wondering when I'd run into you out here. [He made to hold out a hand- then drew it back briefly to retract his claws with a click before repeating the gesture.] It's good to meet you.

[aprettybutterfly]

[He had become rigid when he saw the claws coming toward him, ready to move and kick him in the head as soon as he could. But then the claws were done, and he was... what. He was what? He wanted to shake hands? Rorschach didn't shake hands.

So, unfortunately for Warsman, he's going to ignore the hand and study him intently, hands deep in his pockets.]

Hn. [Makes a grunting sound, looking up.] On the clock?

[mouthbreathing]

[Warsman picks up on the tension, but that's to be expected with four sharp claws pointed in his direction. What he couldn't have expected, however, was for Rorschach to completely ignore his hand even when it's claw-free.

He's abashed. Doesn't he trust him to keep the claws retracted? Or...?

... it doesn't matter. He lets his hand fall awkwardly to his side, though now he's more conscious of himself than ever: of the height difference, the glow of his eyes, the edge to his voice that can only be called "robotic".]

Something like that. I've been out here for a couple of hours now. What about you?

[aprettybutterfly]

[He just doesn't like shaking hands. Or touching other people. Or doing anything that would bring him into a conversation with anyone. Really, though Warsman shouldn't be so self conscious of any of that. Not that Rorschach would tell him so, but it really didn't matter to him when it came to looks.

Hell, he might be wary of him, but he didn't like Doctor Manhattan because of his looks. He didn't like him for everything else, but not because of the way he looked.]

A few hours. [He shrugged.] Finishing. Too many creatures, not enough monsters. [He let out a short huff of a laugh.] There was a bar. Went in looking on a case.

[He paused, then gave a question.] Just patrol? Any cases?