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Friends. Countrymen.

[ A smiling man, a man lowering the hood of his jacket. A man with a U.S. army coat over that, old jeans, worn cowboy boots, and a beat up Boy Scouts backpack. He's almost like anyone but for a touch of something antiquated about his clothes and the way he talks.

That and the smile. ]

Will you tell me a story? A joke or two to while away the time? I am a man for wanderin', but this seems like a fine place to pull up a chair and take a breather. A fine, safe place, where a story or two could do no harm at all.

And if you like, why, I'll tell you one right back. That's only fair.

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[ By contrast, the young lady nearby is dressed impeccably: heels, white pencil dress with glossy pearl buttons. Her head tilts just slightly, regarding the strange man with a mixture of something like surprise and unbridled curiosity. She does not touch anything around herself, though, and her hands are still at her sides. ]

All right. I'd love to. Are you ready?

[ A ghost of a smile, there, before she launches into her retelling. It's not her own story by any means, but she embellishes it, changes things to suit her own narrative. Now she becomes more animated, not quite brazenly theatrical, but she is an actress. It's hard not to inject more warmth at certain points, to drawl or pause when the moment suits. ]

A man encounters his former apprentice, once a future watchsmith, while out with his daughter. His former apprentice, Owen, who has been in love with the daughter for many years, overhears the man say to her that Owen has become obsessed with a project of some kind, and that it is an endeavor that will never come to anything; instead, the man praises the local blacksmith. Owen is briefly waylaid from his efforts by these comparisons, and resumes his former watchsmith apprenticeship, going on to become successful.

As the years pass, he returns to his secret project, becoming defensive and hostile, like a hermit. The other man's daughter visits him, and Owen briefly believes that she is different from the townsfolk who don't understand his mysterious work, but she marries the blacksmith. Owen separates from society completely, and well after her marriage, returns to town only once he has finished his invention.

He subsequently presents it to the watchsmith's daughter, now the blacksmith's wife, as a late wedding gift. By then, she has had a child, a boy. Together, they open the gift, and discover it is a perfect mechanical butterfly that flutters just like the real thing. It lands on the woman, and she stares at it in amazement for some time.

Her child reaches for it. Owen doesn't even mind, doesn't even try to stop the boy with his little fist wrapping around the delicate wings, and watches while the child accidentally crushes it in his hand. The longevity of the butterfly wasn't his dream, only that it ever existed.

Edited 2014-10-06 04:19 (UTC)

[ The way his eyes alight, the quickness, the liveliness of it, is somewhere between animal and mental patient, and not any better for retaining a self-aware focus quite unlike either of those. ]

Thank you kindly, sister. I'm ready, yes.

[ Flagg leans upon the podium like a teacher intent on a misbehaving student, the smile lingering as he watches her perform. The stare could come out of a zoo cage or at the footlights of a strip club's stage. Behind it too is the Eye, but this place inhibits him; all that insistent, obnoxious sense of sanctuary is beyond his ability to undo. He can only be himself, which is in some ways more than enough.

He is an involved audience as well. The story invokes in certain places a minor call and response reaction, a word she says echoed in mutter here, an odd syllable of acknowledgment to punctuate her story there. Never too loud. Never fully intrusive, or at least, no more intrusive than his stare, which she as an actress must be accustomed to. At the end he inhales slowly, then whistles in cartoonish amazement, giving the podium a light thwack with his fist. ]

Now that was a story. It had everything. And it was true, very true in the way stories can be. Truer than life, which is after all full of lies. Did you come up with this story, sister? Or did you hear it on your travels?

[The man with the black spots moving over his face stirs from where he's been leaning against a column. His voice is deep, raspy, and it sounds like he's unused to talking for any length of time.]

Heard joke once. Boy is crying because dog died. Mother tries to comfort him, says dog is in Heaven with God. Boy stops crying, looks at mother. Says, "What would God want with dead dog?"

[Well, he didn't say it would be a good joke, now, did he?]

[ The man with the black hood has a very penetrating stare, and his eyes are dark enough that the tracking movement of his gaze is just barely visible. He's following the patterns of the mask as if they hold meaning for him, and as the joke comes to an end, his gaze moves back to where Rorschach's eyes are behind it. He was already smiling, of course, but now he throws his head back and laughs, delighted. The right audience for the wrong joke, it seems. ]

I'd be a liar if I said I hadn't heard that one before, but not for a long, long time. Does a heart good to hear it again. Thank you kindly, sir. And may the god of dead dogs bless all the little children.

[He's not used to making men laugh. Cringe in terror or scream in pain, yes. But humor is a new one for the vigilante. Maybe he should try it more often. He stares out at the man, eyes unblinking in his black-and-white face.]

Got one in return?

[ It is possible that everything about Rorschach would make Flagg laugh exactly like that. He stares back in a parody of thoughtfulness, tap-tapping his fingers on the podium. ]

Let me see. Well, why not another old saw. Man takes his wife to the hospital because she's so sick she collapsed. After she's been in surgery for hours, the doctor comes out and sits the man down and says, "I've got some good news and a lot of bad news. Which do you want to hear first?"

Man asks for the bad news, so the doctor tells him she's got a brain tumor. "But that's not all," the doctor says, "She's going to lose control of her body over time. You'll have to take care of her, feed her, turn her so she doesn't get bed sores, and change her diapers."

The man starts to cry. Doctor says, "Wait, I'm not finished. She'll also suffer dementia. She'll lose her memories and won't remember who you are, or who she is."

By now the man's sobbing his eyes out. Doctor says, "And unfortunately, she might linger on for years and years."

The man's completely desolate now, but he thinks to ask, "What's the good news, then?"

The doctor claps him on the shoulder and says, "I was just kidding, she's dead."

Hurm. [That's all the reaction Rorschach gives, without so much as a chuckle or a clap to indicate he's amused. However, his blots spread out in a wobbly pattern reminiscent of a smile before they disperse once more, though that might just be a coincidence.]

Good joke. [He eventually concludes after another long moment.]

[ He seems unperturbed, chuckling to himself with all the comfort and self-assurance of a lunatic. ]

And now I have a question for you, sir. No obligation at all, just curiosity, a man can't help but wonder and such questions do pass the time... where do you get a face like that.

[He's pleased when Flagg refers to it as his face and not a mask, as most people incorrectly do. For that, he gets an actual answer rather than the usual laconic responses.]

Made it. From a very unique fabric. Two layers, with black 'n white fluids inside. They move but never mix. Like what I see in the mirror better now.

[ Where his knack for knowing how to speak to malcontents comes from is in all likelihood a dark, dark place. ]

That is a very singular thing, friend. For a man to make himself. Even I can't claim that! But do you know, when I watch you, I think I can see — yes, I believe I spy with my little Eye —

[ His voice takes on an almost crooning inflection, a merry, avid light in his stare. ]

— a place where the black and white mingle.

[ He makes a gesture by his temple, a hooking motion with the curled finger stabbing in Rorschach's direction, and mouths: behind. ]

[It's only now that Rorschach is getting the inkling that this man he's talking to may be crazier than a bag of cats. Guess it's harder to distinguish when the superhero isn't exactly all there himself.

He actually turns around and glances behind himself when Flagg makes the motion in his direction. He sees nothing there and so looks back, head cocked in a questioning manner.]

Might mingle but never mix.

No, you must tell me a story. In exchange, I'll whisper a secret in your ear.

[Aka: In exchange I will unsuccessfully attempt to drown you maybe.]

[ Flagg puts his elbows on the podium and leans his chin into his hands in a parody of thoughtfulness. ]

That's quite an offer, friend. Let me think about that. There are many kinds of secrets. How good could yours be?

[Shrieky frowns, seeming to consider Flagg's consideration.]

Since I only know the secrets that I know, I cannot tell you how they measure against the ones that are kept secret from me.

But, I certainly have always found them to be sufficiently mysterious and occupying.

Edited 2014-10-10 01:55 (UTC)

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