The world is red through the lenses of the suit, scarlet overlays sprawling across the jet-black visage of the Gotham night. Police scanners crackle in the ears of the cowl, white text blinking along the edges as the computer struggles to transcribe several different radio communications in real-time. Robbery in progress, domestic disturbance, shots fired.
All the while Terry sits perched upon the edge, ready and waiting. Somewhere far beneath his feet he can hear the retort of a handgun as it fires. Once. Then twice.
"Those shots came from an alleyway just south of your position."
The old man's voice overrides the malaise of the city's cries, cuts through the chaos like a hard, stone knife. He toys briefly with the idea of cracking a remark- I'm sorry, Bruce, did you want to drive?- but he reconsiders.
He doesn't think himself capable of forming complete sentences tonight.
"On it."
With that, he leaps from the rooftop, a dark spot against the darker horizon as he whistles toward the concrete fifty stories below. Thirty. Now ten.
He deploys the wings just as he can begin to make out the lines in the sidewalk, the sudden impact of the wind flattening against his arms ringing out with a rough, leathery sound like a bat taking flight. He retracts them just as suddenly, dropping while he's still a good ten feet from the ground. The soles of his boots clap the earth with a sharp staccato like gunfire.
"P-please, don't hurt me, please-!"
A third shot pierces the night, shatters the woman's voice midsentence like a rock through glass. Terry sprints to the wall of the building and sidles up to the mouth of the alleyway, peering past brick as he surveys the situation in a glance.
One gunman. Two bodies. The old-fashioned lead and iron revolver still-smoldering from the heat of the last shot fired. The mugger is already on his knees, rooting through the pockets of the corpses that he just made. The blood is still warm as he flips nonchalantly through the wallet that he finds before discarding it blithely, cursing beneath his breath. Then he moves on to the contents of the purse.
Terry trembles, bones aching as though every inch of him has been crushed beneath the weight of a hydraulic press. A tremor shoots down his spine as his fists clench tightly at his sides, quaking with a feeling he can't quite put to words.
"McGinnis."
He can't hear the old man at this point. Maybe he doesn't want to. Stepping out from behind the corner, he finds that he can't hear much of anything anymore. Only the sound of his boots cracking pavement as he approaches the killer with an uncharacteristic lack of style or stealth. His whole body burns.
He knows the name of what he's feeling now: rage.
"Hey."
No clever introductions. No dramatic entrance. Just a throaty greeting, grinding out from behind gritted teeth like granite through a sieve. The mugger turns and freezes beneath the cold, white gaze of the Batman.
Terry doesn't hesitate.
His knuckles crash across the bridge of the thug's nose, tear through the bone and cartilage like a foot stomping cardboard. He follows it up with a left hook from hell, snapping the goon's head back with a sharp, sterling noise, the reinforced gloves splitting his skull. Blood pours and eyes roll.
"McGinnis."
He's on top of him now- knees on his chest, caving his sternum- as one hand coils around his throat, the other forming a club with which he uses to pummel the side of his head like a hammer. At some point he's started crying, tears burning as they well up against the inside of his mask. It blurs the world and distorts his vision until everything is a mess of blood and anger and gore.
"Terry!"
He wakes with a start, blinking from out of his fury with a strangled gasp. He's been holding his breath since he started fighting, and now his lungs are on fire. Cold, desperate oxygen fills his chest as he stands, backing away from the pulp that was once a man. It's a miracle that he's still breathing.
"The cave. Now."
"Bruce, I'm fine." He can barely speak. It's like trying to talk in the middle of a nightmare. The air feels thin and heavy all at once as he moves, legs working automatically. Retreating back to the darkness from whence he came. The moon falls behind the clouds as he staggers deeper into the abyss.
"Like hell you are."
"I don't need a fucking sermon!" he explodes, fist slamming against the wall. Flakes of brick chip beneath his bruising knuckles. Swinging at demons, arguing with shadows. "I fucked up. It's over. Move on."
"It's not that simple, Terry."
"I know that, I know that! Don't you think I know that?" He's crying again, bawling inside his cowl. Some Batman. His back hits the building and he slides to the floor, eyes level with the dirt and garbage and blood. Faces flash like neon across his vision as his thoughts race, head pounds. Dana. Max. Matt. Mom.
Dad.
"Tonight's the anniversary, isn't it?"
Terry stiffens, nods. Two years to the day.
The comms go dead, and for a moment there's only silence. Save for the ever-ringing sirens of distant police cruisers.
"Can you finish this patrol?"
It's not a question. But the fact that he asks it like one speaks volumes. Terry nods again, chokes back a sob. "I need a minute."
"Batman doesn't get a minute."
Terry straightens, feels his heart chill. He swallows once and rises, shaking only slightly as he returns to his full height. He towers over the bleeding criminal and his victims, lingering upon the scene with eyes glazed over with static and anguish and something darker-still.
Then he turns, buries those feelings deep within himself until only a promise remains.