Reflections
BY Willowfly
A/N: This is just a pet project I've been working on in passing. More musey character study set around the Raphael movie prequel comic. There is another part I've been working on that has Leo's reflections on his journeys which occur around the same time frame. So, I may end up adding to this fic some other time. Thank you for reading and enjoy!
The shadows of the city are alive, filled with the watching eyes and breath of predators. He's never seen it any other way. The world above was always hungry, always prowling, always feeding on the weak. It was survival of the fittest taken beyond nature, backed into a corner and caged behind concrete and iron bars of fire escapes. The things that stalked this twisted asphalt jungle had traded teeth and claws for the trigger of semi-automatics. They were desperate. They were lethal. And always, they waited.
It's amazing how much can change with a gunshot, with a promise, with an absence. Just blink and life's gone and shifted your perspective. He'd grown tired of watching from the sidelines years ago. It only took one gunshot, one death, and one absence to make him what he knew in his bones he was destined to be.
He'd found a new way to walk among them. He wasn't the boy, almost the man he'd been raised to be. That sense of honor, choosing battles, the teachings he'd been fed since innocence—he'd forgotten them all. Those ways weren't meant for the streets. They weren't meant to apply to real world where the battles were raw and bloody and honorless.
He'd always thought Bushido was better saved for fairy tales, dead and worlds away. This world, his world of streetlights and pavement, had its own code to follow. For now, he was the dark. He wore it like a mask he couldn't shake, like the armor that made the walls he'd built more real, more impenetrable.
He was the shadow, the thing that stalked the dark of druggies' dreams, the faceless creature that could clear an alley with a look. His presence in the city was like the cold—always watching, always nipping at your bones.
It's one AM, but the night is far from quiet. People crawl in and out of the lamplight like cockroaches. They line out the doors and pour off the sidewalks, lean smoking against brick walls outside pool houses and late night pizza joints.
The cop cars idle on street sides—ornaments, accessories, their lights splashing on the building sides and nothing more—more scenery than prevention, more reminder than relief.
Three murders in two weeks is enough to put anyone on edge. There's a type of weariness in the air you can taste along with the chaos and cigarette smoke. The city itself is wound like a chord ready to snap. But that won't keep them off the streets. It's just how things are. No amount of violence or fear could break tradition here. They've weathered too much already. So the music in the clubs will still play loud enough to make the concrete hum and the low-riders will congregate in 7-11 parking lots. But the packs will travel tighter, and they'll look over their shoulders more often than they used to.
The Nightwatcher could be blamed for that. People are braver when they know somebody's watching their backs. The cops can only do so much. They're willing to do even less. Even when they do get the balls to step out of their cars, it almost always ends in a trail of paperwork and some son of a bitch going free because he used drug money to make bail.
In these parts, the Nightwatcher's a legend mixed with a nightmare. People sit out on their front stoops and whisper stories that'll make your eyes go wide. For some it means hope for the city, an answer to the desperate prayers of the underdog. For others, it's fear that keeps them up at night because here, crime is a way of life. The gangs are family, culture, power. In the concrete jungle, there are predators and there's the prey. Only one is bold enough to go against the way of things. Only one would risk his life battling alleyway lions. He had no face, no name, but he could teach you a lesson you'll never forget. No paperwork, no trial, no phone call, no bail.
He's watched the news enough to know what he's looking for. His prey, Trace Rodriguez, prowls these streets like browsing a buffet line. He's followed the man around enough to know his usual haunts. That's what brought the Nightwatcher so close to the lights tonight. Below, the hoards of people flow with the traffic. A brawl breaks out in the alley off to the right, but for tonight, he's choosing his battles.
There's a dim-lit bar across the street from his perch on a rooftop. The green neon sign in the window boasts simply "The Bar" along with Miller and Corona ads. The club below is rumbling under his feet, pulsing like a heartbeat. The city lives in the concrete.
It's dangerous even with the suit to be lurking around a place like this—so many lights and people. If he was seen, the hunt would be over. He'd have to come back another day. But the roof is dark enough, and there's no way in Hell this bastard's gonna leave with another girl tonight. This creep's already taken out three, stabbed in the chest and left like garbage, bleeding to death on the sidewalk for the kiddies to see on their way to school.
There wouldn't be an encore on his watch. He vows it.
So he waits in the shadows, mind drifting off to exactly how he wound up there in the first place. It could've stopped with Merryweather. He put those punks behind bars, just like he promised. But the second promise was tricky. If he didn't give a crap, he would have thrown it all in the river. He only said he'd get rid of it, not parade around actually wearing that overgrown garbage can like it's Halloween every fucking day of the week.
But what else was he supposed to do? He could sit around pitying himself because everything's changed and he liked it the way it was before. Now everybody's too busy acting like they're thirty years old and human—getting jobs, worrying about stupid shit like taxes and social security numbers. Or maybe he could run off again, slug off to Casey's and have one too many beers because he hates the feeling that his own father thinks he's substandard, second best, not ready to stack up to perfect little Leo.
Well perfect little Leo hasn't written in months. If he was dead, he wouldn't care. The Nightwatcher doesn't care about anything like that. Or, that's what he tells himself.
His heart jump-starts when he sees his man coming out of the bar with a woman draped over his arm. She's young and giggling, teetering loosely on high heels as they wander down the sidewalk. His breath catches in his throat when he pulls her down a dark stretch of road. The girl's obviously too drunk to question him. She just keeps hanging onto his arm and disappears without a word.
"Shit," he mutters, glancing from Rodriquez's retreating shadow to the sea of lights and people that fill the space between. "Should've planned this better."
But he has his man and he has his suit. Even the light couldn't stop him now.
Instinct, the tightness in his limbs as he moved toward the street was forgotten. He'd stopped hearing his father's voice in his head a long time ago. He'd willed it all away. Inside that metal abomination, it didn't matter. To the man, the boy, the freak under all that scrap metal, none of this was his to protect in the first place.
One gunshot. One promise. One absence. That was all it took.
One death. One failure. One suit, and he found his new direction.
Nothing mattered but getting his man, ridding the streets of all that scum that collects like the crap in the sewer drains after a good, long rain.
He doesn't need to leave the city. He doesn't need to see the world. He can do all his forgetting right here.
Hopping off the fire escape into the alley below, he gladly leaves it all behind.
The engine roars, breaking out of the darkness like a crack of thunder. He barrels out into the street, parting the sea of frantic people, tires squealing. A taxi slams on its breaks and fishtails before coming to a stop just inches away. From behind, he can hear the driver cursing through the open window, the screaming faceless people. But he pushes forward down the street and the people soon forget.
The narrow back street is dark and quiet. He slows, catches his reflection in the storefront windows, but quickly looks away. Nothing.
He stops, idles with the fading signs of chaos far behind him and the sound of his own breathing steady in his ears. He pulls the bike off to the side of the road and starts picking his way through alley after alley.
That is, until the scream. It lights a fire down his spine and he breaks into a run. Footsteps echo off the buildings and his breath is enough to deafen him as he rounds the corner. Lights catch the form of a heavy-set man in a football jersey shifting among the garbage—alone.
"Who the hell're you?" He breathes, wild eyes catching the light.
The Nightwatcher takes a heavy step forward, shoulders back, well-practiced intimidation. He smiles secretly under the helmet. "Aw, come on, Rodriguez. You don't know me? I know you." The end of a weighted chain falls heavy in his hands. The man's backing up against the wall, but his hand is drawing up behind him.
In a flash of metal, he's got Rodriguez's hands pinned to the brick wall. A gasp for breath, and a knife clatters on the pavement. "Not so fast," he growls, tightening his hold on the man's wrist and twisting his shoulder into the wall. His feeble attempts to wriggle loose are fruitless. "You know, you're kinda famous around here, scumbag. Seen your picture all over the news." He shifts closer to the man's terrified face. It reeks of beer and stale sweat. "So tell me. How'd it feel killin' those people, dumping their bodies like garbage on the streets?"
The man's wide face sobers then slowly cracks into a silent grin. "You don't know me," he laughs, all the fear drained from his eyes. "Who the fuck're you? Some freak from the Trinies? Did Loco send you?"
"You talk a lot, dontcha? Well let me fill you in." The crack of flesh connecting with flesh and skull connecting with concrete ricochets through the emptiness. The man crumples to the ground, spitting blood, and laughs. His teeth are stained pink from the split in his lip. "I ask the questions, not you. Now where is she?"
"Get the hell outta my face!" Rodriguez tries to push away, punch this costumed weirdo in the face, but he's too quick. The shadow grabs his fist and pushes back until he swears he hears the bones snap. "I don't know what you're talkin' 'bout!" He cries out.
Gloved hands wrap tightly around Rodriguez's shoulders and drag him up to standing. His worn sneakers grapple against the concrete until he's slammed against the wall.
"I ain't playing your damn game! Where is she?!"
The man falls silent, entranced with his reflection in the dark helmet visor. "I know who you are." His voice is shaking, but he's still got that bloodstained grin. "You're that Nightwatcher freak."
The Nightwatcher flinches as gob of blood-tinged spit hits his visor.
" You think you're some kinda hero, little man?! You're nothin'!"
The Nightwatcher growls, grits his teeth behind the visor, snatches for the knife forgotten on the pavement, and slashes the man's cheek. Rodriguez's eyes widen, the warmth of his own blood finally robbing his grin away. "I told you not to make me ask you again!"
The knife is stained with his blood, but he only stares, mesmerized.
He's slammed into the wall again and winces, ugly sweat dripping down his face. His skin crawls at the sound of low growling. For the first time, he's almost certain that the thing behind that mask isn't human.
"You an' me… w-we ain't that different. I killed them 'cause they're nothin' but filthy whores. You killed my brother 'cause he held up some crappy convenience store. Now you're gunna cut me open. Full circle."
There's finally fear in his voice, so much blood on his face it's inhuman. But there's something about his words that make the Nightwatcher stop, eyeing the knife in his hands. The girl is dead. He's too late.
He wanted to slit that pig's throat for what he'd done. He could do it so easy, just let him bleed out with the garbage like the piece of crap he is. But something stops him. He can't.
He can't.
"I never killed nobody," he says hoarsely, fighting the urge to drop the knife. "Nobody who wasn't gonna kill me first."
"You killed my brother. Two months ago you cracked his skull in. He died three days later. He had a family, man. A little girl. He woulda used that money on her but that girl's got nobody now. What gives you the fucking right? Huh? People talk about you like you're some kinda hero. I heard the stories. But you got no right. You ain't no better than me."
The man is red-faced, a rivulet of blood running down his chin. They watch one another for a moment. Something inside is breaking. The walls aren't thick enough. When Rodriguez sees his reflection in the visor, the Nightwatcher stares his own right back. Then it's shattered.
"You wanna kill me, freak? Do it then! FUCKING DO IT!"
He could. He could kill him. He's done it before.
The Nightwatcher grabs his victim by his shirt, slams him back against the wall again. The conversation's over. The man is only a flash of eyes and teeth. The Nightwatcher pulls back and buries his fist in his victim's gut, the sickly sound of the air being forced out of lungs and a snap as something gives. The man slumps, sputtering blood.
The shadow watches the man look up, a trail of red saliva dripping from his open mouth.
"I could kill you right now," he breathes. It's a confession more than anything.
Sirens are swelling in the distance. He pulls a sai from his waist and holds it before the man, its point just inches from the his bloodied face. But still, he stares at his reflection.
"But you don't deserve it."
With a breath, it's pulled away, and the man rests his head against wall. The first hint of lights paint the buildings outside. The Nightwatcher sheathes his weapon and disappears into the failing night.
In a heartbeat, the mouth of the alley is filled with cops. They'd been looking for the girl. They'd been looking for Rodriguez, and this time, he won't run.
But it's not enough. The bike punches forward in the dark, farther, faster, putting the miles between them. He'd killed that man's brother, just some stupid punk off the street. He'd bashed his skull in. He'd robbed a girl of her father. This wasn't some Foot Ninja reject calling for his blood. He was just a man. Just a father. Just a brother. He'd never meant to take it that far.
Rodriguez was right—he was no better. He had no right.
He couldn't deny that for an instant, he saw himself in that murderer's eyes. He saw the guiltless rage. He felt it coursing through his veins.
The sun is rising in the east, but he keeps driving until he reaches the docks. The sky is pallid with brush-stroke clouds. Another cold morning rises over the sea. He takes off the helmet, sets it beside him on the dock, and stares exposed into the muddied water.
What he sees is almost disappointing. One gunshot had taken the life of a man he'd barely known. One promise he still risks it all to keep. One absence that gnaws like a hunger and reminds him of everything he isn't. Still, he was the same. Still, he was Raphael.
It was barely even worth it. He might as well have no identity at all.
He puts back on his helmet, starts his bike. He'll take the long way home and forget it ever happened. For now, he'll bury this one with the rest, all the reflections of himself he's seen and since forgotten.
But he'll never forget the first. Merryweather— bitter, hated, and alone—slowly dying in his arms. He'd barely known the man, but in his eyes he saw himself. They shared the same impossible dreams, that same purpose that wasn't meant to be his. That night he'd seen his future stretching out before him, bleeding on the floor. That night, he watched himself die the way he always knew he would. That night, he watched the city crumble.
One gunshot. One promise. One absence. That was all he had now. Maybe he could save the city. Maybe he could do what Merryweather never could.
Maybe he could save himself.
As he speeds along the ocean in borrowed armor, a dead man's bike, he wonders how much longer he can do this before it swallows him whole.
Maybe it's already too late.