Well it's almost Christmas, and I said to myself, you don't have a job, HSC's over, you're sitting in front of the computer, if you don't get SOMETHING out before the New Year, you're useless.

I know it says on my profile that I was going to post a HoND story, and it is in the works, but I'm running into historical complications, and it's just not gonna fly at the moment.

In the meanwhile, a new plot bunny came and bit me when I bought the movie 'The Crow' on a whim, and it combined with a video on YouTube called 'The Joker vs The Crow' by SilverLightsaber gave birth to this story.


Disclaimer: I solemnly swear that I don't own either 'The Crow' or 'The Dark Knight', or have any rights except fan rights to the late lamented Heath Ledger and Brandon Lee.

And so, without further ado,

Welcome to,

Street Freaks

Prologue

~Don't look, don't look, the shadows breathe~

'Burn' –The Cure


I hold her behind my eyelids, complete.

The ghosting touch of her fingers, the soft perfume of her hair.

Her smile that came as if from behind glass, and all I had to do was smash what lay between us to touch her again.

The grating caw from behind brings me back with a jolt, and her form is flung to the wind, shattered into pieces that draw blood when I reach for them, that turn to pumpkin shards and crimson light and the shock of bullets, and the surprising warmth of blood on my skin as I fall, with the wind shrieking away Shelly's sobs.

Claws dig into my shoulder, and feathers brush my cheek.

The cemetery blurs into focus, then crushes into tiny dancing squares, and I blink back tears, trying to swallow the ache in my throat.

The crow plucks busily at the frayed material on my shoulder, purpled with old blood, rasping in its throat.

"Why can't I die?"

I address the crow, because he's the only one who has any fucking idea what's going on. I can feel the pinpricks of his claws as he shifts his weight, a warm and living presence huddled against my ear. He acts like a real bird, so much so that even I'm taken in sometimes, how he scrambles after cockroaches to crack their shells, but he survived a shot that would kill most men, and he knew where to find T-Bird and Skank and their little gang of mobsters.

And I can see through his eyes sometimes.

My hands are ice, and lie uselessly by my sides, and I can feel the loose soil shift in the creases of my fingers.

I lean back against her headstone, and shiver.

I'm alive, when I was so sure I was dead.

And he can be the only reason.

The reason I couldn't touch Shelly again.

I lunge with both hands, grabbing for him, wanting so very very badly to wring his neck, and end this meaningless joke of a life I have.

But he's already let out an insulted shriek and taken off, claws drawing blood in his haste, wings slapping the air clumsily until he gains height, and I watch the dark shape circle against the empty sky.

He knows what I'm thinking.

The fucker.

"I'll shoot you down, you bastard!"

He banks sharply, and screams at me, and I'm too tired to get up and this is all just too funny. So I laugh instead, and it bounces off the graves. All the night seems stilled in shock, that I would dare sit on holy ground and mock death itself.

But I can, and I will, because the dead can't hear me, one lost soul leaning on a grave, laughing fit to wake the dead.

If only I could be so lucky.

Already the bullets are releasing me, one cold in my lap where the skin has pushed it free, and the slash in my belly is numb. Soon they'll close over, I know. In a year they'll probably just be white scars, seen out of the corner of an eye or when the light hits a mirror just right, and I'll pause and remember the time I got stabbed by a fucking mobster with a samurai sword.

'Every man's got a devil,' he told me, and his smile had too many teeth in it to be natural.

I look up and catch a glimpse of feathers as the crow settles into a tree, just one more dark shadow amongst the branches.

"You're my devil." I call to him.

"Like the poem, prophet still, if bird or devil…"

He drops out of the night onto my shoulder, shaking rain caught in the trees over me. He peers at me hard with his closest eye, and I can see the intelligence there.

"You'll always be there, won't you, just above my chamber door."

He rasps low in his throat, and affectionately plucks strands of my hair, beak clicking softly as he preens through them.

The rain begins again as I shovel the soil back into the grave, my grave, patting it down, all smooth and flat. There's a certain peace I feel when I'm working with my hands. It's always been that way, which is why I love guitar so much. It was always a pressure valve for me, working on songs for the band, or for Shelly.

I was writing one, a guitar piece, for our wedding…

But that was in another life, and I was another person.

A person.

I'm reminded, irresistibly, as I shape the rounded edges just so, of a child playing in a sandpit, which brings a smile to my face that feels all wrong. It sits like a snarl, and makes my cheeks ache, and the makeup cracks and shifts from the unnatural position. It would be a sordid playground indeed, where murderers sit and shape their graves, most probably one where toys are scattered body parts and war games are played with real bullets and real blades.

I bury what I was in that grave, some foolish shade that believed it would end here, who kissed a ghost and saw her, who had hope.

I bury Eric Draven with due reverence and ceremony, while the crow wheels above, and leave hollow, brushing my stained hands together, staggering over the uneven ground, and feeling the edges of my wounds burn with the strain.

Don't look back, look back, beat the wings of my companion, so I don't.

Author's Notes: Just wanted to say a few little things that might be of interest to people. Number one, being the title, which is a phrase used in 'The Crow' by a pawnbroker called Gideon to describe the criminal component of Detroit, including in that description Eric, who isn't exactly pleased and who reacts by blowing up his business. It can also be used, I think, as an apt description of the inhabitants of Gotham's underworld, and of the Joker himself. Number two, the poem Eric mentions, which is of course Sir Edgar Allen Poe's 'The Raven', which he also quotes in the movie. Number three, the song lyrics at the beginning, which I'm using as a way to shape or map where this story is going, and is also used as Eric's theme in the movie.

So after all that, I conclude by saying I'm glad to be back, having finally gotten over the end of exams, and my own considerable ability to procrastinate, and I'm interested in the response this will get. I promise my work ethic has changed, and I'm in my new works for the long run and till the bitter end.

Love,

Taluliaka