Fic: Routine (The Authority/Watchmen)
Aug. 8th, 2008 12:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fan_eluneTitle: Routine
Fandoms: The Authority/Watchmen
Rating: R
Summary: they had to meet.
Notes: This is all![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kagechikara's fault, and actually before reading this you should all go read the incredible Batman meets Rorschach fic she wrote. I'll take the blame for that work of art, and gladly, if she takes the blame for this fic. I couldn't shake it.
Authority timeline's before the Authority actually got formed. After the whole Stormwatch black ops fiasco.
Routine
Kill, fuck. Find more people to kill. Bask in his warmth.
It's routine.
Sometimes he goes solo. It's necessary.
He finds lowlives who prey on the weak. In dark alleys, where no one could come to their help.
He comes to the help of the weak.
Nobody comes to the help of the lowlives. No matter how much they scream, when he gives them the opportunity to.
Sometimes he makes it last. Sometimes he keeps it simple. Doing this solo is like a breath of fresh air, and each time he takes a life he thinks, This is for your lie, Bendix.
They're making a finer world, bit by bit.
He goes back to him, wherever they're crashing. Abandoned warehouse, dirty basement, deserted street. Nobody ever bothers them, at least not for long.
It's routine.
One night, somebody is watching.
He can tell it's just a human. Regular body temperature, pulse, breathing, DNA make-up, no enhancements, no nothing. Regular human.
Not so regular, because the man – it is a man – doesn't run away screaming, doesn't call for help, doesn't try to step in, just watches.
Watches as he tears through them. Punches hard into a throat, lowlife gagging for breath. Heel of his boot connecting with a skull; broken bone; 89.9% chance it'll prove fatal. Not enough, and the neck breaks with a snap of his wrists. First lowlife has recovered breath and jumps on him; a mistake. His fist goes right through the all too frail human ribcage, comes out bloody. Artery torn out. Estimated time until death: 8 seconds.
A ragged whisper and the heart stops. It took 6.9 seconds. Two corpses lay at his feet. He looks up at the building on top of which his observer stands. The man steps out of sight before he can be identified.
He's not worried.
Over the next few days, as they multiply strikes against the lowlives of this particular city, he knows that they are watched. He doesn't say anything, maybe because it's not his place. Mostly because he wants to deal with this on his own. No matter how much love there is between them, he remains a solo fighter.
A week later, he goes out on his own again.
This time their observer is on street level, in the shadows of a back alley. He can see him well enough, no matter how much the man thinks he hides in the darkness. Dirty trenchcoat, battered hat, white scarf, and a mask. Ink spots it, like the Rorschach tests; he sees splatters of blood that shouldn't be black.
"What do you want," he asks, because that matters more than who the man is.
"Impressed," the man answers, stepping out of the shadows, and his voice is a precise, clipped monotone. "You kill like poetry. Merciless. Efficient. Beautiful. You like it."
"What do you want," he repeats, and he hates to repeat himself, so he adds, more to the point, "Why shouldn't I test my efficiency on you?"
"Same side," the man answers, "you wouldn't like it. Question."
He waits, but the man doesn't seem ready to go on until he has spoken again. Fucking fine. "What?"
The head tilts, eyes hidden behind black spots of should-be-red blood. "I like it. Alone. But you're connected. How?"
It takes him a few seconds to figure out what the man means. He's asking how he can love. "There's no other way to be."
"Wrong," the man answers, and pauses.
He waits, palms itching, wondering why he isn't taking off, knocking the man out, or thumbing his eyes out through the mask for having watched them. There is something about his monotone, something he could become if there weren't love. Something about having seen too much, taken too much, something about failure and how the world can never be fine, forget about finer. Something about how you can never kill enough.
"You can leave," the man finally says. "Find another city. I'm here."
He would bristle at the arrogance and break a finger for the presumptuousness, usually, except it's just practical, not territorial. No need for so many masks in one city.
"You're just human," he points out.
"So are they," the man answers. "You're something else."
He turns to leave. Turns his back on the man because he could never be quick enough that he wouldn't have time to counter an attack. The computer has made sure he was aware of that even before he thought of turning around.
"You know," the monotone calls after him, "you can never really save anybody."
He turns his head over his shoulder just enough to be heard as he walks on, away, back to his warmth. "Not even ourselves."
He finds Apollo on a rooftop somewhere in the city. Their lips meet like an accident of fate.
"Are you alright?" the man-made sun god asks, and it's too easy to read him. Dangerous, if it were anybody else.
"Let's leave the city," Midnighter answers, bloody gloved fingers tangled in soft silver hair.
When they set out, a lone figure in a trenchcoat and hat watches them from another rooftop. Midnighter looks back, once, straight at Rorschach. And nods.
Fandoms: The Authority/Watchmen
Rating: R
Summary: they had to meet.
Notes: This is all
kagechikara's fault, and actually before reading this you should all go read the incredible Batman meets Rorschach fic she wrote. I'll take the blame for that work of art, and gladly, if she takes the blame for this fic. I couldn't shake it.Authority timeline's before the Authority actually got formed. After the whole Stormwatch black ops fiasco.
Routine
Kill, fuck. Find more people to kill. Bask in his warmth.
It's routine.
Sometimes he goes solo. It's necessary.
He finds lowlives who prey on the weak. In dark alleys, where no one could come to their help.
He comes to the help of the weak.
Nobody comes to the help of the lowlives. No matter how much they scream, when he gives them the opportunity to.
Sometimes he makes it last. Sometimes he keeps it simple. Doing this solo is like a breath of fresh air, and each time he takes a life he thinks, This is for your lie, Bendix.
They're making a finer world, bit by bit.
He goes back to him, wherever they're crashing. Abandoned warehouse, dirty basement, deserted street. Nobody ever bothers them, at least not for long.
It's routine.
One night, somebody is watching.
He can tell it's just a human. Regular body temperature, pulse, breathing, DNA make-up, no enhancements, no nothing. Regular human.
Not so regular, because the man – it is a man – doesn't run away screaming, doesn't call for help, doesn't try to step in, just watches.
Watches as he tears through them. Punches hard into a throat, lowlife gagging for breath. Heel of his boot connecting with a skull; broken bone; 89.9% chance it'll prove fatal. Not enough, and the neck breaks with a snap of his wrists. First lowlife has recovered breath and jumps on him; a mistake. His fist goes right through the all too frail human ribcage, comes out bloody. Artery torn out. Estimated time until death: 8 seconds.
A ragged whisper and the heart stops. It took 6.9 seconds. Two corpses lay at his feet. He looks up at the building on top of which his observer stands. The man steps out of sight before he can be identified.
He's not worried.
Over the next few days, as they multiply strikes against the lowlives of this particular city, he knows that they are watched. He doesn't say anything, maybe because it's not his place. Mostly because he wants to deal with this on his own. No matter how much love there is between them, he remains a solo fighter.
A week later, he goes out on his own again.
This time their observer is on street level, in the shadows of a back alley. He can see him well enough, no matter how much the man thinks he hides in the darkness. Dirty trenchcoat, battered hat, white scarf, and a mask. Ink spots it, like the Rorschach tests; he sees splatters of blood that shouldn't be black.
"What do you want," he asks, because that matters more than who the man is.
"Impressed," the man answers, stepping out of the shadows, and his voice is a precise, clipped monotone. "You kill like poetry. Merciless. Efficient. Beautiful. You like it."
"What do you want," he repeats, and he hates to repeat himself, so he adds, more to the point, "Why shouldn't I test my efficiency on you?"
"Same side," the man answers, "you wouldn't like it. Question."
He waits, but the man doesn't seem ready to go on until he has spoken again. Fucking fine. "What?"
The head tilts, eyes hidden behind black spots of should-be-red blood. "I like it. Alone. But you're connected. How?"
It takes him a few seconds to figure out what the man means. He's asking how he can love. "There's no other way to be."
"Wrong," the man answers, and pauses.
He waits, palms itching, wondering why he isn't taking off, knocking the man out, or thumbing his eyes out through the mask for having watched them. There is something about his monotone, something he could become if there weren't love. Something about having seen too much, taken too much, something about failure and how the world can never be fine, forget about finer. Something about how you can never kill enough.
"You can leave," the man finally says. "Find another city. I'm here."
He would bristle at the arrogance and break a finger for the presumptuousness, usually, except it's just practical, not territorial. No need for so many masks in one city.
"You're just human," he points out.
"So are they," the man answers. "You're something else."
He turns to leave. Turns his back on the man because he could never be quick enough that he wouldn't have time to counter an attack. The computer has made sure he was aware of that even before he thought of turning around.
"You know," the monotone calls after him, "you can never really save anybody."
He turns his head over his shoulder just enough to be heard as he walks on, away, back to his warmth. "Not even ourselves."
He finds Apollo on a rooftop somewhere in the city. Their lips meet like an accident of fate.
"Are you alright?" the man-made sun god asks, and it's too easy to read him. Dangerous, if it were anybody else.
"Let's leave the city," Midnighter answers, bloody gloved fingers tangled in soft silver hair.
When they set out, a lone figure in a trenchcoat and hat watches them from another rooftop. Midnighter looks back, once, straight at Rorschach. And nods.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-08-07 10:57 pm (UTC)DUDE. Seriously. The /dialogue/. The...all the succinct sentences. It's so pretty. Must take story home and love it forever.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-08 08:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-13 10:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-19 04:13 pm (UTC)