A/N: Pretty graphic violence in this chapter, so just giving a heads up.
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Running a hand through his fairly long, white hair, the pale man looked out over the city from his high balcony. He was enjoying the rich sunset, which had not seen in awhile. It was near summer, warm, and surprisingly clear. The days had been mostly gray, and the weather forecast predicted more clouds rolling in probably the next morning, but for now he would enjoy the scene.
Above him, some ravens caw'd. It was odd they would be in the city, but they seemed to follow the man everywhere. He looked up, smirking slightly. He liked when the ravens would follow him, particularly when he would go to dispense his form of brutal justice; he would do it all while letting himself enjoy a bit of pain, one of the few things his body allowed.
The man called himself Raven, as the nickname had been given to him back in the late fifteen hundreds. He kept it, as he no longer remembered his birth-name, Falke. It worked fairly well. He considered trying to pick out a proper name for himself one day soon, if he could find one he decided on. Perhaps he would allow someone to suggest a name for him.
Right now, he was fairly serene. When it got dark, he would be heading toward a seedy and dangerous area to intercept a potential tragedy, hopefully turning it around.
The city had various areas; upper class, middle class, lower class, and the shadowy underbelly where there were many organized crime rings of up and coming syndicates, crime families and empires. Mostly they fought each other and Raven did not get too involved, but when they would spread out and bring other people into their mess, he would take it upon himself to step in. He had single-handedly been responsible for eradicating one small crime family in a spectacularly gory fashion that made the investigators retch when they found the hideout; however, this only deterred the others temporarily.
Just recently, Raven had heard of one of the crime syndicates-a particularly bloodthirsty one who seemed to want to make a name for themselves-were planning some rather nefarious work; this work involved kidnapping the teen children of a rival group, one that was not particularly nasty in their ways, and dealt in much lighter things.
Raven may have been a man who had lost most of his purpose in life, but there were two things out of a scant few that he liked; pain, and turning that pain around on anyone who hurt him. It became almost an addiction to him. He did not necessarily like this aspect of himself, but he grew to accept it.
But he did not have an evil heart, so he chose to turn it around on people who deserved it. Unless he restrained, it would almost always end in the messy death of anyone he struck. He had inhuman physical strength, which to this day, even after about eight hundred years, he had no idea where it came from. He simply used it for what he could.
Being alive so long caused him to attempt to end things out of a desperation of almost nothing giving him joy; it had been about a hundred years since he tried, but it did not work. He still had the massive metal spike through his head, which he passed off as a sort of fashion statement. Given his choice of clothing, it actually fit the excuse. He kept it to remind himself of his state.
After a lot of self-convincing, he decided to modernize his clothing a bit; he had generally been about a century behind in his life. Looking much like a fellow that would be in a heavy metal or gothic club, he chose loose leather trousers and heavy combat boots; the latter were worn slightly open at the top and had obvious steel caps. A loose, black tank top always adorned his torso, as did a sleeveless dark blue hoodie and a sleeveless light longcoat on top of that; heat did not bother him, but he preferred his arms to be free. His hood was often worn up, a hole cut in the back to make room for the spike. The hoodie was cotton and often worn unzipped. His coat had a sort of stylized, very rough avian-like design on the back.
He pierced himself many times, enjoying the pain. He had several in each ear, one through his lower lip, one through his tongue, and one through each eyebrow; he had also taken it upon himself to go for both nipples and elsewhere, as well. He had decided to invest in a set of piercing needles, which he would occasionally slide through the skin on his arms or through his cheeks. These healed quickly as he took them out.
With the exception of his tongue, his piercings were small spikes, to match the spike in his head; in a bit of his dark humor, he found it fitting.
On the index and middle fingers of each hand he wore large claw-rings; these were used as weapons when he fought, thought they were not needed. He could crush bone with a single blow from his fist or boot.
Most of his time these days were spent writing, wandering the city and taking photographs, or just sitting in the back of the biggest library or in the corner of the seediest bar he could find. He somewhat enjoyed blindingly strong alcohol, which hardly affected him except to warm his stomach. He got very little in the realm of taste anymore; his drinks were basically limited to extremely strong alcohol, boiling hot and overly strong coffee, and the occasional water to fit in with society. Food was whatever kept his body running, which he did not even need to do, but he liked to do to still feel human. His lanky build-he was more powerfully built in his first life, when he was an active soldier-belied his massive strength.
People tended to steer clear of the rather tall and creepy looking man, though to most, when he was out of combat and not inflicting pain on himself, he was soft spoken and rather polite regardless.
Deciding to take a picture of the pleasant sunset-he quite liked photography-he decided to go hide out in his flat until after midnight, when he took off toward the hideout.
He knew that authorities often had troubles with this place, but since it was in a forsaken part of the city they paid it little mind, as it was an abandoned building that people would meet up in to take care of shady deals and the like.
His keen ears could pick up voices. He found it odd that his hearing and sight stayed sharper than ever, even substantially better than a typical person-but his sense of taste, smell, and touch left him. Taste, he was thankful that he still had a few things that he could enjoy. Things that were heavily spiced, extremely sweet or just very strong still registered with him.
His sensitive hearing probably helped him save the people inside. He was able to hear them-muffled, so he could not tell what they were saying-but enough that he knew where they were. Carefully, he crept around to the basement doors, and with a quick flick of his clawed fingers, was able to rip the lock off quietly and without issue. He left himself into the dank basement, his keen sight using the bits of light to pick his way through and to the stairs that let him up to what happened to be the kitchen.
It was empty. He was thankful.
Not that he was worried about himself. He could take anything they had to give and then just turn it back toward them a hundredfold. But he feared that if a scuffle broke out before he could rescue the victims, they would end up killing them out of spite, and he did not want that.
He was also pleased the men were upstairs, probably planning out a few things. He was able to make his way to the room where the victims were much easier.
The teens-a boy and a girl-were tied to the chair, terrified. They had been roughed up, though looked okay. Raven could pick out the voices better now, and it did not sound good for them. They were planning on killing them to send a message, even after any money was paid. He got the impression this small group tended to cause anguish for thrills.
They could cause him all the anguish they wanted.
He crept toward the chair, reaching his hand out and snapping the ropes on the teens to let them go. He pointed outside, a deadly serious look on his face. The two did not hesitate; they ran and never looked back. They did not even look twice on how quickly he snapped the thick ropes; they didn't care. They just knew they were free.
He then kicked a chair over loudly, waiting patiently for the men to arrive; it broke when it hit the wall. His clawed fingers tapped on the wall ominously as he stood there, leaning against the wall casually, his boot resting against it and his arms lightly folded. He said nothing.
One by one, they ran in, shouting in confusion. When they saw the broken chair in the dim light, curses filled the room; there were roughly six men, all wearing a mix of either suits for the higher-ranked men, or more casual wear. Most were armed in some way. They were clearly the muscle used to kidnap the teens to hold them hostage, and as Raven heard, probably would be the ones who had killed them.
He took a loose, almost hypnotic, fighting stance. Raven did not study any particular styles, but simply used his body in ways that he knew how along with his brute strength to fight. He had learned quite a bit in his centuries alive, and even if he hadn't, his seeming inability to die coupled with his power would render that moot.
"Who are you?!" one yelled. "What have you done?!"
"Turned them loose."
"What?! Who do you work for?!"
"No one."
The biggest man ran forward, shoving Raven against the wall. He grunted...but it was not in pain. He grinned.
"You freak, what have you done?!"
Raven simply shrugged, shoving the man away roughly. He stumbled, looking surprised at the lanky man's strength.
The big man threw a punch, striking Raven square in the mouth. His head snapped back for a moment, though when he moved back forward, licking some of the blood off of his lips, he grinned.
The rest of the men came at him, though he decided to toy with them a bit; dodging some attacks, and lashing out with his clawed fingers to rip at some of their clothing, though he then would purposefully take some hits as well.
They didn't get them to hurt enough, though, even after a few moments. Their fists and even their knives did little.
The men finally began to shoot; as the bullets struck his torso and arms, he finally began to grow excited. His pupils contracted into pinpoints; in the light of the place, in his outfit, he looked almost like a demon of sorts. He dashed around, occasionally lashing out with his clawed fingers in a controlled manner, tearing at the men just enough to prolong the fight. The men did not know how he was still standing; but they seemed to start to grow slightly afraid at this point.
He finally shoulder-checked one man to the floor and walked over, wiping his mouth.
As he stood over him, the man lifted his handgun and fired. The bullet hit Raven next to his spike, above his eye. The wound was neat and small, as it was a small caliber weapon, but it should have killed him easily; he should have been dead several times over. His head bent back; he arched his back at a dangerous angle, and time seemed to slow for the men as they watched, waiting for him to fall.
When he stood back up and looked down, an enormous grin on his face and a stream of blood running down from the hole, the man became too terrified to even pull the trigger again. He began shaking. Raven's heart began beating faster; the pain of the hot bullet firing through his head had been something he had not felt in ages. He could feel the sting of the wound healing, and his tongue slid out to lick a streak of the blood from his face.
"Kill him, for christ's sake!" were the only words that he remembered hearing, if you asked him about this day. They had been yelling confused words; wondering why the white haired man would not die, but he remembered little of this.
As two more bullets tore into his arm, he reached a peak that he had not in a long time; he could feel the muscle contracting around the ammunition, almost instantly pushing it from his flesh, and it all hurt like hell.
As the man on the ground tried to escape, Raven's expression changed to one halfway between rage at what he was going to do and sheer excitement of his situation; he then proceeded to smash his heel down onto his face. In a flash he destroyed the entire top half of his head, even denting the floor; the only thing remaining was the lower half and his twitching corpse; the red mixture of gore had spread out to nearly a meter around from the force.
The grin on Raven's blood-spattered face as he turned his head toward the rest of them caused them to freeze in terror.
At that point, it turned to slaughter; he had reached his peak of battle-rage; the masochism that fueled him turned to sadism. One of the few things that he enjoyed were people who could force him into his murderous state, and while it took about two dozen bullets and several stab wounds, they had succeeded.
They could not escape; they had no idea how he could reach so far out, but he seemed to dislocate his joints to grab one of the men to slam him into the floor with unspeakable force. His body gave under the power, twisting into a grotesque form upon striking the ground.
The rest did not take long for his rending claws to rip them to pieces; even if they could kill him, they could not catch him as he practically flew around the room, leaping off walls, attacking them from the air. The final man found himself cornered as he thrust his claws home into him; he followed with his other hand. He repeated this again, and again, stabbing him nearly half a hundred times. Blood flew, the expression on Raven's face manic. He stabbed him so quickly the man did not seem to realize he was dead yet, still staring blankly at the man in black.
He followed with a crushing kick, smashing his head in as the man doubled over. The mangled corpse hit the wall with a boneless thud.
Looking around, the haze begin to slowly drift away. The pain had subsided; his body had ejected the last bits of ammunition. In a fleeting thought, he found it curious that the piercings stayed in. Perhaps it was a strange subconscious thing, or perhaps it was something else. He didn't know. He just knew he was unnatural anyway and didn't think about it too much.
Leaving the carnage behind, he walked out. The two young teens were nowhere to be seen; he supposed they had run off. He hoped they would not run into more trouble.
Taking his time to head quickly back to his flat to clean himself of the blood and viscera, he threw on a new set of clothes-which resembled his old ones near exactly, with the exception of the hoodie being red instead of a dark blue-and left. He would clean the rest later.
He went to the small store that stayed open all the time on his corner; he grabbed a few items, including a very large cup of near-boiling coffee. He then took off to the top of the tall building next door to his, leaping lightly up the fire escape. He crouched on the top by the edge, looking out. He was glad he did not miss the sunrise.
Out of the pocket of his jacket, he pulled one of his favorite treats; a glazed cherry pie. He ripped the waxed paper off of it, taking a bite and smiling at the bit of sweetness that was still allowed to him. He felt calm, almost serene, now that his thirst for pain and battle had been satiated. He felt fairly satisfied that he had removed the general threat, as he had heard enough about them to decide he didn't want them operating in his general neighborhood. He supposed he wanted to genuinely try to make the world a bit of a better place, though he had no way to do that on a mass scale. He was fairly detached from goings-on; he had a small television which he watched from time to time, but the news would only tell you what they wanted you to.
He watched the sun rise, taking large gulps of the scalding liquid, which gave him a small shiver of pleasure. He had a second pie as well; fighting was one of the few things that made him hungry. It had been awhile since he had watched the sun rise, and he decided to take advantage. He knew the bad weather would be blowing in again this night. He would take that time to fill out a bit of his journal, which he had enjoyed keeping for the vast majority of his long life. He had many stories to tell.
A raven appeared in front of him, looking at him calmly. Raven glared, knowing what the bird wanted. Snorting, though with a small smile on his face, he gave the bird a small corner of his treat.
He may not have been the guardian his little corner of the city asked for, and not many even knew who he was, but he helped them as he could. He had no idea what else to do with his life.
He hoped, perhaps, he would find his purpose soon.
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A/N: I wrote this chapter as sort of an interlude. I thought perhaps taking him into the 'modern world', it could be cool, if it were, say, in a series, that the previous season ends with him going overseas, and the new season starts with this episode, where Raven himself said very little and the story was told more through actions and scenery. I can actually picture it in my head animated, too, done with very little dialogue and just rich scenery.
It's a bit of a risk to change up PoVs by chapters, but for the sake of the idea I had in my head I decided to give it a try. Does show some of Raven's darker side, which he has been known to have if you have read some of the earlier source material. I can almost see him start to lose himself toward his sadomasochistic murder-spree side if he hadn't eventually been given a purpose.