This is an AU fic with one of my own characters.

It's simply a 'what if' fic, so just relax and give it a chance, please?


That night the wind howled and moaned like a malevolent ghoul, biting at the skin and seeping through the clothes of Gotham's inhabitants. Even the elites were not spared as they shivered in their thick, flannel-lined winter weather coats.

However, the true victims of this bitter autumn were Gotham City's lowest, the dregs, the homeless. Garbed in only threadbare rags and toeless, fingerless gloves and shoes, they could not spare a grain of energy to even shudder as they were assailed by the early winter sprites. Most simply froze to death in the dark, grungy crevices of Gotham's alleyways.

As the passerby shivered in their clothes, a young man, of perhaps seventeen, sat crouched in a doorway in Crime Alley. With his patchy, brown trench coat, stained white shirt, and jeans that were two sizes too big, most eyes would simply slide right off of him, if it weren't for three characteristics. He had vibrant red hair that fell messily over his forehead and collar, a ratty orange scarf draped around his pale neck, and a pair of old aviator goggles who's reflective lenses held numerous cracks hiding his mossy eyes. Usually these traits of his were distinctive enough to warrant a double-take and maybe even a stare, but today someone had placed a large, dirty, metal trash bin next to his spot. If one were to glance down the alley (only God knew the reason for such an impulse) from the street, his form was completely hidden from view. This was perfectly fine with him though, in spite of the rancid stench wafting out of the rusting bin.

This was his spot; this boarded up doorway of a condemned building. This indention in the wall was just enough to shelter him from the bite of the wind and Gotham's frequent rain. In summary, it was home. Home for a homeless person.

While most in his situation would bemoan such a dreary life, he never dwelled on the topic long. In fact, he wasn't even thinking about it now. Right now, he was huddled over a crossword that he had torn from a scavenged newspaper. In his partially gloved hand he scribbled on the paper scrap with a tiny stub of a pencil.

21. An eleven-lettered word for 'open hearted'.

"ventricular " he wrote in the tiny white squares. His eyes roved down the page.

5. Nine-lettered word for 'cosmically isolated'.

"solipsist ".

The crosswords were easy for him, but not annoyingly so. Doing things like this kept his mind occupied and sharp. If there was one thing he had learned during his time on the streets was that stupid people died. Loud people also died, but that was hardly an issue for him.

As he continued to scribble in answers, a single drop of rain fell from the gray clouds above him and splattered in the middle of the word "modification", smearing the "fic". As he lifted his head, another drop hit his goggles, slipping into one of the cracks. Giving a small sigh, he folded up the crossword and stowed it away in one of his coat's inner pockets along with the pencil stub.

He huddled deeper into his little crevice and bumped into a large case that had been propped up against the threshold of the doorway. It contained what was probably the ugliest, most worthless violin in the world.

There was no square inch of wood that was not scratched, and its E string had long been absent. The A string would soon be following. The instrument carried so much scarring on its skin that not even the most desperate thief would bother to steal it. The cost required to repair the thing simply outweighed any gain that might be wrung from it: exactly how he had planned.

The mahogany colored violin was his most prized possession, and it had broken his heart to put even a single mark on its lacquered wood. But in order to keep such a valuable treasure on the streets of Gotham, he had done what needed to be done, and painstakingly carved the each scar into his beloved friend.

Perhaps his dedication had been rewarded, because the mutilated violin still sang for him and put his troubled heart at ease. Sometimes if he was bored or had been ousted from his spot, he would make his way to Gotham Central Park and play under the statue of a man on a rearing stallion.

The thought made his fingers itch. He wanted to play. With nail-bitten fingers he unlatched the battered case and carefully lifted the disfigured instrument and its partner from the faded, red velvet lining.

Leaning his head against the violin's bosom, he struck up a slow and gentle tune as the rain began to pour around him.

That night the rain protected him, keeping those who might disturb him indoors. His only audience was an emaciated tabby as he accompanied the downpour.

For the moment, he was content. After all, nothing about his situation would change. The caste system of Gotham was set in stone.

For now, this was home.


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