Raven sighed. It wasn't a sigh of contentment, or frustration, or relaxation. It was a sigh of being, a slow exhale that reminded herself of her own existence. In a way, that elongated breath tried to contain everything that she was or ever had been, like the murmurings of an ancient house remembering its days of glory, seconds before it collapses. It was that sort of sigh.
The wind of her breath tangled with the steam from her tea, knotting and unraveling, combining and dissipating. The vapor diluted and rose tortuously upward, disappearing into the haze of cigar smoke and the tendrils from other drinks that clung persistently to the ceiling.
She watched the misty cartwheelings, warming her hands with the heat radiating from the cheap white cup. Steam would up, and wound up, and wound up…Forming deformed phantasmal figures, breaking in the drafts only to come together again with the next breath in completely different shapes.
She contemplated the smoke. An eye emerges, morphing instantaneously into an unidentifiable animal, like a mix between snake and lizard. It rotates, the tail reaching out and slowly turning into a misshapen book before quietly drifting into nothingness.
Her eyes blinked, a sluggish process that seemed to take millennia, then turned away from the fluctuating, fractal-like images. A sip of tea warmed her throat, seeping down to melt her insides.
Snapping fingers assaulted her ears, reverberating inside her head like the pitter-patter of an ungentle rain. A woman beamed, flushed from the praise, and launched into another poem, clichéd and just as poorly written as the first. Raven grimaced. Amateur poetry was almost as painful as amateur karaoke. It was an emotional piece, though, and for that; Raven envied her. She, herself, had given up writing long ago. How could a person write when she can't experience, or even comprehend the emotions that she writes about?
Her last poem, years ago, had been perfect in meter, rhyme scheme, grammar…But that very perfection was an imperfection. Flawless poetry is inevitably inhuman. Machines should never compose, or it becomes a mockery of the art. Raven accepted that, and hadn't set pen to paper since.
The woman stepped down amidst the snaps for her terrible, imperfect, beautiful poem. Another stood to take her place. A tall man, ever-fashionable in black, smoothly ascended to the stage. Light glinted off the saxophone in his hands. He took a seat on the sole stool, and the café was silent.
She glanced around. There were people from all walks of life sitting side by side, settling in like children for a bedtime story. Anticipation thickened the air. This was the one, then. This was the Saxophonist, the man with no name, the man she had been waiting for all night. He didn't appear to be special in any way. A face that could have belonged to anyone, the build and skin tone of thousands of people. Not distinguishing marks at all.
And yet…even the cooks had materialized from the kitchen, leaning against doorways or going so far as to sit with the patrons. Room was made quickly, hastily, but above all: silently. Nothing about the Saxophonist demanded respect. The people gave it, regardless.
She produced earplugs from a pocket and put them in. They made no difference at the moment, but she didn't want to be caught unawares when he started playing. The man on stage taped the microphone with his finger and, satisfied, said a few words short words that were most likely an introduction. It was a curious sensation, listening without hearing.
He paused, and breathed. The audience breathed with him, and the room was filled with the soft sighs of dozens of people. Raven found herself breathing along with them, and forced herself to return to a more natural rhythm. What was it about this man that made him so enrapturing?
His face was passive, controlled. Every part of his body was still. It was like…it was exactly like, she realized, a meditation. Not a deep one, but meditation nonetheless. There was no evidence of stage fright or tension in his posture. He was calm in a way that very few people experienced in their lifetimes.
Hands slowly, slowly moved and positioned themselves over the keys. The instrument glinted, a sharp contrast to his dark clothing. Unremarkable eyes closed, opened, and he began to play.
In that instance, Raven was lost. The notes were filled with pure, undiluted emotion. Sadness swept against her like a wave. Despair. Frustrated anger. It wasn't fair! The entire world was suffering, dying, and there was nothing she could do about it. His face raged, and she raged. Any world that left the deaths of innocents were left unnoticed was wrong. A child could wake up to find his parents dead, and no one would do a thing to help. The child, the boy, the wretch could and would live on the sidewalks, spit upon by the rich people who's doorsteps he sleeps upon, who's garbage he steals from, who watch as he staves and wastes away into nothing more than a bundle of hair and dirt and don't care at all.
What kind of a world was it that allowed its future to rot away, to wither and die in the face of impossible conditions? Was there nothing to be done, to prevent the corruption and destruction of the innocent and helpless? The wails of thousands, ignored by the few that could help…something had to be done. Something had to happen, or everything would fail. A revolution was needed.
But every revolution in history had been based on violence, on death, acts which left even more people suffering than before. This had to be different. The last revolution, the uprising to end all uprisings, had to be bloodless. A pacifist's world could not be made with brutality.
The human race could only survive for so long if things continued as they were. And really, that was the ultimate shame. People, whether put on earth by a deity or evolved from monkeys, had a seemingly infinite capability to live, to thrive and learn, to become better.
But how could a species improve, when its members battle against themselves, ignoring the needs of the many to support the greed of the few? Where was justice, when some had the arms of luxury wrapped firmly around them and others competed with the rats for garbage scraps?
The child; the homeless and helpless kid whom everyone failed to see in a futile attempt to exonerate themselves from the guilt of failing their race. The hope of the future died on a dismal winter morning, huddled in a muddy alleyway. Not from the cold, or anything so gentle as starvation. Instead, the poor boy's life was ushered out by knifepoint for the sake of a frozen bird carcass.
He died, painfully and bloodily. He died alone, with no arms around to comfort him in his final moments. He died, and not a single person cared.
He died, and the world never noticed.
And out of his abused corpse cam his soul, the decision for his afterlife made in a heavenly split-second. Cruel paradise held no desire for a wraith how had never truly lived. Hell had no place for a boy how had never done anything worse than steal trash for food. His fate was limbo, neither life nor death. He was to remain only slightly more substantial than a ghost until he did something with his 'life,' until he proved himself worthy of either heaven or hell.
The boy stood bewildered over his own body, yet again proven to be unwanted by even god. He stood for days, himself his only eulogy, and then he left.
Years passed. He slept, though he was not tired. He ate, and his body rejected the rood. He grew, but only out of habit. He traveled across the world and saw pain wherever he went, with only the rare places of sanctuary to break up the torment.
The world…it was wrong. It was sick, corrupted, tainted into a terrible place. No kid should ever have to die alone and unloved like he had. That would be his calling, his service. That was what he was going to do to prove himself to the merciless God. His death would never be repeated. He would heal the world.
Flashes of events. Struggles against the close-minded. Decades of strife—a kaleidoscope of color and emotion—the pain of denied rest—the hope of attaining—the despair of failing—the ache of his long-suffering soul—
It ended abruptly. Raven was aware of herself again. The café was still, drowning in its own silence. The universe was silent, watching and breathing as the man on stage put down his gleaming saxophone and leaned toward the microphone. He spoke…and she could not hear a thing.
She strained, leaning towards him, but nothing changed. Oh, of course. The earplugs. Her hands reached for her ears, then froze. If she couldn't hear his voice, how had she heard the music?
And yet…Thinking back on it, she couldn't remember a single note.
The man left the stage, and she followed after him, pushing past people as they frantically dug into their wallets. A donation box labeled 'Child Welfare Fund' was quickly filled to overflowing. Raven finished removing her earplugs, allowing the sudden clamor of voices to assault her ears.
She caught sight of her quarry and tracked him up a set of dinghy stairs, leaving behind the frenzied donating-fest. A sign on the wall instructed her that the stairs led to the roof. The racket of the crowd faded into a muted murmur as she ascended.
The Saxophonist was always just out of sight on the circling staircase. She did not bother to call out, to ask him to wait. His very evasiveness was evidence that he knew she was there. If he wanted to let her get closer, then he would. They quickly
When she did catch up, he was leaning against a rusted metal balcony, staring out at the view of the city. He was quiet for a long while. "Remove your disguise." He said finally. His voice was bland, unamused. "I can see past it, anyway."
"My…Oh." She had forgotten about the ring. Cyborg had given it to her when he learned she was bothered by people recognizing her when she went out. It had become such a vital part of her nights that she had stopped giving it much thought. She pulled it off. Her skin and hair returned to their normal shades, out of place against her jean and t-shirt mask. "Better?" She asked, slipping the circlet into her pocket.
"Yes. Now, let's dispense with the pleasantries. Are you here to kill me? I've heard that you, of all the Titans, dislike the power of the supernatural."
Raven laughed dryly. "It would be rather hard for me to kill you, Saxophonist. The undead tend not to die twice. The best I could to is try to banish you, I think. But the answer your question, no. I had intended to arrest you for brainwashing. That is why I'm here in the first place.
"We've been getting reports all over the city of people going to your performances and coming back completely different. A greedy billionaire donating millions to charity, a heartless criminal reforming and turning himself in, a cold-minded businessman transformed into the loving benefactor of an orphanage. We were afraid that there was an ulterior motive behind it all, but I think we can relax now. We can trust you not to take the money and run."
"…Because I am dead?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You said before that I hated the supernatural. That was incorrect. I am wary, because I know what that power can do in the wrong hands. The Titans have battled villains from all over the world, but they have never truly understood how terrifying it would be if the least of those we have fought gained powers.
"They call the magic tricks we've run up against supernatural, but even Slade is nothing compared to the power given to those who trade their souls for it. You could have destroyed the world ten times over by now. That fact that you haven't is good enough for me to not interfere. I trust you because you have proven yourself a good person, dead or not."
He turned away from her, but not before she caught a glimmer of a smile forming on his face. "So." He temporized, clearly at a loss as to how to respond. "What did you think of my playing?"
"Didn't hear a note." She let out another dry laugh at his incredulous reaction. "You didn't think I'd voluntarily subject myself to the effects of your song, did you? I wore earplugs. I didn't realize that what you did was reach straight into the minds of your audience and plant images and emotions there. You use the instrument as a sort of focus, right? A concentration point."
He nodded, and she stepped up and placed her hands on the balcony rail. "How annoying. I'll have to tell the others that I was wrong. I told them that your powers probably came from the saxophone itself. I do hate being wrong."
He was silent, and she was silent, looking at the rooftops. A fall breeze left her reaching for her cloak before belatedly remembering her disguise. She returned her hands to the bar, ignoring the sensation of pebbling skin.
"You realize…" She commented gently, "What you're striving for won't happen quickly. Child neglect has been going on since the beginnings of life. Almost every civilization in the universe has some form of abuse that goes unnoticed. It may-"
"Does it go on where you came from?" He cut in, keeping his eyes fixed on the buildings.
Raven blinked. "No." Azarath had always prided itself on that fact.
"Then there is hope for Earth yet, even if it takes me centuries to show people what they are doing."
They were quiet again. Another wing gust left her shivering, but failed to so much as touch him. Suddenly, she smiled. "Your work is imperfect."
His head came up, a puzzled and mildly affronted expression on his face. "What do you mean by that?"
"Don't worry. It was a compliment." She straightened and turned away, walking towards the staircase door.
"Will you be coming back to hear me play again?"
She shook her head. "No. It's a minor miracle that this experience failed to trigger an apocalypse. Actually listening to your performance might undo me."
He gazed at her with the disconcerting, all-knowing eyes of the dead. "…I understand. I am sorry for endangering your control, Raven."
"It's not your fault," She said, twisting the handle and stepping into the dark landing. "I will see to it that the Titans do not interfere with your life's work. Not that we could, really." She laughed quietly to herself, slipping the ring back on her finger. Her brown hair stirred in the air, sifting across tan skin. "Goodbye, Saxophonist."
The door clicked behind her, leaving the ghost behind. As the fall breeze parted around him, he wondered if even he could play the requiem of a machine…