A/N First fanfic. Don't own DC or I would just turn these into movies instead (who wouldn't?). And a special thanks to my beta c-cantankerous, you the best sweetie.
The delicate wineglass fell in slow motion. In reality, it must have only taken a single second before shattering into minuscule shards of frosted glass, yet the agonizing hour stretched forth regardless.
He had been that glass once.
Even if this bomb was a dud, it would be the heat that killed him. The humidity was palpable. A hot, wet blanket draping itself over everything. It seemed to steal even the breath from his lungs. The teen panted, beads of sweat and dark hair plastered to his forehead. He chanced a glance back at the blinking red numbers that agonizingly counted down the precious seconds of his life. It was useless, he knew. Chained to the floor of a warehouse after all the effort of staying alive this long. Enduring the streets only to go out in a burst of flames at a meagre sixteen years. Some luck he had.
Seeing the red slip into single digits an unimpressed frown crossed the young features. No one was coming for him now. But it didn't matter. He would have his justice, he would be avenged. Eyes fluttering shut, he waited for the inevitable.
Hidden from view behind one of the plush red velvet curtains, the boy, a young man now, surveyed the scene before him.
Had he ever unintentionally done something to warrant another person to curse him forevermore? Gaze set firmly on the scene unfolding he bitterly lamented the double R insignia inscribed on the Kevlar uniform hidden beneath his extravagant tuxedo.
Some days the boy felt as if the world itself was telling him to give up. Forcing him into a corner and whispering words of hopelessness. Every so often, even going so far as to shove the cool barrel of a gun into his at first, unsuspecting fingers.
Nine years old and home alone. But he was used to it. Roaming wickedly freezing marble halls no matter how many heating elements the never-there owners threw in. The soft padding of his footsteps slowed as he reached the study he had never once seen his father sit in.
His gaze was locked on the top shelf behind the desk. Today he would do something he had schemed and planned for so long now. Today he would prove who the Batman was. But first, he required his father's old camera.
Tiptoeing softly enough to not disturb the ghosts that lay throughout the antiquated estate, the child climbed onto the crisp, unused leather of the chair and reached as far up as his small arms could. Fingers barely brushing the smooth outer surface of the lens, his overstretched limbs gave in and his balance shifted as the chair violently swivelled.
One hand clutching the ledge for dear life and the other blindly grabbing the first metal object that fell under his fingertips, the boy closed his determined little fingers around the accursed camera. Exhausted, he slumped back against the leather and brought the object in front of him. Only to find it wasn't a camera after all.
Instead, the polished wood and steel of a .38 mm greeted his wide, innocent blue eyes. He fiddled with it for a moment, pulling back the little trigger on the end replicating what he had seen in movies. Then, in a trance-like state, thoughts running a mile-a-minute, he placed the end of the barrel to his temple, caught up in recreating the scene in his favourite action star's latest movie.
Whispering something about loss, life, and tipping scales in an impression of a deep voice the boy closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
Now, eight years later, the boy prayed from his vantage point on the upper balcony above the ballroom he wouldn't have to mimic certain movies again after tonight.
Life was a funny thing he decided. Standing in the back corner of the main ballroom, sipping his juice box with a frown of disdain permanently etched on his sallow ten-year-old face. He was by the open floor-to-ceiling window, it had been ingrained in him to guard weak spots. Right after they had made sure he was invulnerable. Outwardly, his usual self-important sneer and crossed arms were ever present, but the calm and cool exterior was contrary to the inner turmoil he was always consumed by.
It wasn't easy to live with the guilt of murder from the age of six.
Granted, he hadn't even known the value of human life until he had come to live with a stranger.
He was a pompous little brat, and he knew it. Ranting about royalty and bloodlines and heirs all throughout that first week. It was all part of his façade. No one had ever told him he was wrong before, not if they weren't his mother or grandfather and still expected to live. But this man, he seemed to be able to peer past his armour, and find the scared little boy still reeling from nightmares about swords and fresh, crimson blood.
It was unnerving.
But then again, so was he.
Nevertheless, it had started out innocuous enough. He was leaping across rooftops in the pitch black of midnight. Run, jump, roll, and repeat, all in one fluid motion. Over and over. Desperately trying to prove his mettle and keep apace with the ominous black shadow that seemed to fly across the night.
Finally, exhaustion having deftly crept up to him, he paused, breathing heavily, on one of the many concrete rooftops. When all of a sudden, the ordinary hum of the city was pierced by a shrill scream that seemed to carry on far longer than he had anticipated.
Madly rushing to the dank alley the eerie cry was echoing from, he balanced on a spindly fire escape in time to see the light fizzle out of the eyes of a young woman no more than twenty. Mouth formed in a perfect 'o' the corpse gradually slid down the side of the wall, leaving a fresh smear of red behind. The boy, perched above the scene, inwardly hyperventilated as a flood of memories came rushing back.
Namely, the eyes similarly glazing over of a horrified man as the young child thrusted a katana through his abdomen. His mother had watched closely from afar and looked satisfied with him if the rare eye contact and imperceptible nod of a head were anything to go by. As he placed his foot on the man's dead face and withdrew his weapon from the flesh, the crumpled body made a sickening squelching noise and a river of blood followed soon after.
The child stood like that long after the gathered crowd had dispersed. Eyes firmly locked on the pain and ruin he had brought about.
Even still, the fear on the nameless man's face haunted him and reappeared behind closed eyelids. Squaring his jaw for show, inwardly he felt every bit the little boy he was.
He loved flying. Soaring above crowds of people, free as a bird. At least, he had until his wings had been clipped with one snap of a trapeze wire. He loved flying. But birds didn't know how to fall.
Four weeks, three days, seven hours, twenty-two minutes, and forty-seven seconds. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. That was how long it had been since his wings had been brutally ripped off. Fifty-one. Fifty-two. He had been placed in a juvenile detention centre for four weeks, three days, two hours, eighteen minutes, and thirty-three seconds of that time. He had been counting. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. He was only eight years old.
He was only eight years old and had been placed in a juvenile detention centre because his family has died. He was only eight years old and had been placed in a juvenile detention centre because his family had died and someone was here to take him away. He was only eight years old and had been placed in a juvenile detention centre because his family had died and someone was here to take him away because... because… what? Why had this tall stranger named Bruce Wayne offered to take him to his mansion? And why was he wanting to adopt him? Surely the man must have known that the boy had spied the loose papers filled with cramped black writing and 'ADOPTION' emboldened across the top? But the boy shook his head and diligently followed the elder home that night all the same.
Two years later, and surprisingly enough, he was still standing in said tall stranger's house. In front of one of said tall stranger's sinks. Holding one of said tall stranger's razors and cutting precise and even tallies into the soft skin of his forearm. It didn't hurt. Not anymore. He had been cutting tallies for every day that he had been falling. Even though he had found a new family and been given new wings long ago, he couldn't seem to stop.
It was cathartic. Made him feel in control when everything was spiralling in a blur of movement and colour and these new wings weighed down on his slight shoulders. He might be able to fool the World's Greatest Detective into thinking he was all smiles, but the tapestry on his skin told a different story. The story of the real him.
Standing near the grand oaken staircase that opened into the middle of the room he swept his hair back and grinned charmingly at the other guests until a fleeting glimpse of familiarity caught his eye. While rolling his sleeve back down to where his secret was still safe, his normally blinding smile flickered for but a moment.
Really, it was a miracle he was still alive. Granted, long ago, before he had shouldered the responsibility of Gotham, and before too, he had remembered what the wonderful sound of real, genuine laughter was, he'd given it his best shot.
How many times was it that he had stood on rooftops never intending to see the pavement below nor the stars above ever again?
He was shivering in his thin t-shirt atop the nearly seven stories. That was almost seventy feet. Most humans didn't usually tend to survive a fall like that. Especially when said human was twelve and only just starting to develop more adult-like bone density.
Although he would never admit it, the adolescent was apprehens- no. He was terrified. Well and truly terrified of what he was about to do despite having schemed long and hard over how best to carry the deed out. He had tried falling off of various places before now too. First the roof of Wayne Manor. Next off of Gotham Academy. But there had always been Alfred or a teacher or even sometimes another student blocking his path.
But not today. Today he was most certainly alone. Standing on one of the abandoned apartment complexes on the East Side of the city. No one would think to look for him here.
So then why was he hesitant? Wasn't this what he had wanted for so long now? To end the unnecessary pain and suffering that living inevitably brought with it? Shaking his head to clear his thoughts the boy turned his face skywards just as a fine mist of rain began to fall.
The velvety indigo murk glittered with its array of trapped light. Each tiny blink one of many facets on an exquisite diamond that peppered the heavens. Taking a deep breath he closed his eyes and seared the image into his retinas.
With a clinical detachedness he took unwavering steps off the edge of the building; until for just a fraction of a moment, he hovered, weightless, above the ground.
It was then he began to fall.
Tumbling head over heels, and wind whipping his face; gravity did its work as he continued to descend, a rag-doll carelessly tossed away by a child finished with their toy. With a startling jolt, he hit the concrete below full force as bones snapped, sticky blood flowed freely, and bruises undoubtedly bloomed. Semi-paralysed, his glassy stare was still forcefully transfixed on the sky overhead, body a tangled mass of gore. It was a mere three minutes later the paramedics found him like that and rushed him to the hospital, barely breathing.
Regretfully, he thought, still alive.
He had grown since then, he contemplated from his spot beneath the crystal chandelier in the centre of the ballroom. Had chosen a life of protecting others from the pain he had, and still sometimes, felt. Or so he told himself. After all, hopelessly saving the drowning city from herself was still just another name for suicide.
Standing in front of these particular magnificent stained oak doors, she felt an island utterly alone. She hated being a diversion while her father and the rest of the League were out on business tonight. But she had learned early on to obey her father, or else face the repurcussions.
The toddler's green eyes blazed with a chilling look of fury as she swiftly and expertly decapitated the training dummies with a flash of her silvery sword. Her auburn hair whipped in a frenzy as she continued to hack at everything in sight lightning-fast.
When the whirlwind of chaos had subsided, a lone girl of about three years or so stared hopefully at the man off to the side reading a book, a look of disinterest firmly planted on his features. "Triple the dummies, introduce other shadows to the fray, and do not disturb me until we have made real progress," he waved off her instructor, who then nodded in affirmation. She tried not to let her dismay seep through her mask, at this the man looked up.
"And ten lashes for a lack of enthusiasm," he snapped his book shut and walked off without another word. The girl went uncomplaining with her instructor to a side of the training arena where she dutifully fulfilled her punishment, adding on an extra five lashes for each whimper or crack in her façade.
That night she lay on her cot in the oppressive heat planning how she would execute her plan. It would take time and skill, but she could be patient. She vowed to one day impress the man, her father, without so much as batting an eye.
She smiled slightly. She was quite the actress now, wasn't she? All grown up, she had not only mastered the art of manipulating her emotions to make others see only what she wanted to, but to convince even herself of things. Giving the lavishly decorated doorway a last once-over, she steeled herself before walking in.
Taking but a mere three steps, her eyes briefly made contact with five pairs of eyes. Four in varying shades of blue, and the fifth the exact shade of emerald as her own. Tilting her head ever so slightly, her lips curved upwards into what wasn't quite a smile, but still too warm to be a smirk.
It was time.
A/N So that's a wrap. Constructive criticism and feedback are always welcome. Thanks for reading my ramblings. Not to be that person but reviews are also welcome. ;) Have a good one.