Hello all. Um...I really don't know what this is...lets just say that I (once again) couldn't sleep and around six thirty this idea hit me over the head like a mallet, so I figured I'd obey the insane stirrings of inspiration. Whatever this odd little thing is, it is for Tifereth Kantrishakrim, an incredible writer, a good friend (lol yes, friend, though I've never met you), and an incredibly faithful reviewer. You have me wondering what on earth you see in my work, but if you like it, by darn I will write it. In Fire's Wake was just about the most amazing thing I have ever read, and that is saying alot. Words can't describe how honored I am, so I'll answer by writing. As for Shadow Creature and Broken the new chapters are in the works as we speak! Thank you so much, and I hope you like this...whatever it is. LOL I too enjoy writing in strings of metaphors. Inspired by the song Back Home, by Yellowcard...give it some thought please.

Sunset. Tiny rivers of red, orange, and yellow intertwining as they rushed up, up, up into the darkening sky, enjoying the thrill of the ride, even though they knew that before long, their short but beautiful lives would be extinguished in the black of night.

But tonight, the orange was a fire on 42nd Street, the red was the bright crimson of blood on the baby blue of a little girl's shirt, and the yellow was the sickly beams of sun, stubbornly rising and shining no matter how much he didn't want it to.

Robin squinted up at the sky, a look of disgust on his face. Whoever said a sunset was beautiful knew nothing of war. Those skies were a battle field, each color fighting for control, bright and painful and violent, until every last one had passed away, engulfed in the black, endless nothing of death. He knew it was only a matter of time before he met the same end. He could only fight and sweat and bleed for so long, and what came after? Nothing. If Robin feared anything, it was that blank, the question mark at the end of the sentence. He was almost always able to calculate or predict what was coming next, what his enemy's move would be, when the rest of the Titans would drag themselves out of bed, but when it came to death...uncertainty.

He chuckled dryly, running a hand through his hair and tearing his eyes away from the dying trails of light. He sincerely doubted that anyone else saw a battle field in the setting sun...in fact, he doubted anyone even looked at it anymore.

Robin frowned as night fell over the city. Though he knew it had been slowly advancing for about an hour now, it seemed to have leapt on him out of nowhere, leaving him with a vague sorrow for those last beams of dying sun. Somehow he had to believe that they would find rest, even peace. Maybe they were happier in this endless quiet. Maybe that's where they should have been all along.

Maybe they should never have come to this place at all.

He knew it was getting late, knew it was getting cold. The Titans would be looking for him soon...any minute now his communicator would be yelling at him, telling him to get home where he was safe and his friends could watch him like hawks, monitering his every move.

Sometimes he tried to explain. To really tell them what he was all about, what made him get up every morning, what brought the cry of fury to his lips in battle. He really did try to open up to them...but the blank stares, the nervous laughs, the frowns of confusion; they didn't know him. And they never would.

Before he could stop himself, a hand reached down, plucked his communicator from his belt, and sent it sailing over the edge of the roof and out of sight. It's not like he couldn't get another one.

He leaned over the edge, watching it free-fall towards the darkened street below, twisting and turning with the force of speeding air currents, seemingly unaware of its fate. The question wasn't if it would hit the pavement. It was only a matter of time.

Always falling, always feeling that exhilerating rush of air, that stomach-lifting joy. Each time, he pulled out, caught himself, cheated death and the pavement below. But growing inside him was the urge to keep falling, to see it all the way through. It was like waking up from a dream again and again without seeing the ending. It always seemed to tug at the back of your mind as you wondered what came next. Even though you knew it might be horrible, terrifying, the uncertainty of not knowing seemed worse than taking the risk. Someday he would finish it, but now he seemed to be constantly shying away from endings, from finality, from closure, preferring to relive the same old dream than find out what lay at the end of the tunnel.

Or, even worse, jumping from one dream to the next.

A deep sigh escaped his lips as he plopped himself down at the edge of the skycraper, letting his feet dangle freely. Below, there was only black; a vast pit just waiting to swallow him whole. He shivered slightly, but refused to pull back. He wouldn't give the darkness the pleasure of knowing it frightened him.

Unbidden, but clearer and more substantial by far than the night all around him, there was a manor. A smiling old man cooking breakfast in a huge kitchen that shone with all its sparkling cleanliness. A long, winding banister, polished to perfection, with a delightful lack of friction that sent you zooming along before you had even decided to risk the anger of the man who had so unwittingly created this homemade rollercoaster. The warmth, the security, the safety of knowing he was wanted.

Sometimes he wondered why on Earth he ever left that place. Why had he been so restless, so eager for a change of scene, a challenge, a chance to prove himself? What was it that he so desperately needed? What was he looking for?

Well, whatever it was, he hadn't found it here.

There were other cities, thousands of cities with people and skyscrapers and pollution, just like this one. Maybe somewhere out there he could find it, find it at last and fill that endless void inside of him. A new town, a new face, a new life.

Robin frowned, glaring into the night. No matter how far he ran, he would always be under the same sky.

They were oblivious, blindly following their acursed routines without thought for anything but trivial cares and worries. No time for a sunset. No time for life.

And then there was the criminal. Stealing, lying, cheating, killing. Terrifying the innocent. Spreading their taint through the streets he worked so hard to keep clean. Spilling blood, smothering life without a second thought. Why? There was no reason.

Always in danger. Always threatened. There was never a moment of peace, never a moment of rest. He was always tense, always alert, fighting desperately to stay one step ahead, giving all he had in hopes of saving a life. Pushing, straining, bleeding, and still it was never enough.

"Get some rest," they said. "Don't think about it. There's nothing you could have done. It's not your fault. There's always a new day."

Rest? He hardly knew the meaning of the word anymore.

Of course. Don't think about it. Stick your head in the sand and wish it all away. Pretend it never happened. But all the pretending in the world can't bring back a heartbeat.

There was never anything he could have done. He was used to being inadequate by now.

If it wasn't his fault, then whose was it? The little girl playing in the park? The teenager walking home from school? The homeless woman just trying to find a place to sleep? Was the victim to blame, or the "hero" that had been too late?

Oh yes. A new day in Hell. What a reason to celebrate.

As much as he hated it, he could never leave this place. It had tied a rope around his neck, and he could tug and pull all he wanted, but still it remained firm. He was bound to this wretched city, with all its filth and contamination, with all its viciousness and indifference. He was here for the innocent few, and come what may, he would not give up, though every day brought new failure.

Robin stared up at the night sky, a bit surprised to see how dark it had become. One thing was certain: six o'clock had long since come and gone. The Titans were waiting.

A deep sigh welled up from his soul, frustrated because that void was still there, aching inside him, burning him up like a roaring, crackling fire. He was beginning to think that it would never go away.

Well there it is...whatever it is. It's basically the product of an overactive mind...so sorry if it sounds like gibberish. Don't forget to leave a review...I'm open to criticism you know. Kudos to you if you can find all the metaphors (or rather what they symbolize) and if you can figure out what "the fire" is. Laters! -Dusty