Stilled Blade

[madimpossibledreamer]

I called this one a 'collection of short stories' when I first wrote it, but I never had an idea of how to follow up, so it's certainly not that.  That being said, I still really like this one--unlike some of the others it's aged well.  It's snappy, with good metaphors and tone and action.  And, of course, the main plot, but I'd spoil everything if I added that.
On a different note, a new subscriber approaches!  Hello, zubiemom!  I hope you enjoy your stay!
~Dreamer~
(...sooo tempted to put mood as I'M BATMAN.)

Main Points:
Batman AU
Summary: Batman saves some familiar faces.
Word Count: 671
Rating: Teen?  Maybe?  For violent implications even if nothing happens?

            He hears a scream in the night and drops from the top of the building he’s perched on—like a giant gargoyle to the rescue.  It’s instinct now, and instinct has saved his life, and the lives of others, more than once.
            He spares no more than a fleeting glance at the civilians.  They are unhurt—that’s the only important thing to note.
            The thug in front of him sneers and raises a gun.  A well-placed kick sends the weapon spinning away into the grime of the alley, out of sight.  He hears a yelp of fear from behind him and hears the pattering of feet moving away from him as fast as legs can take a man.  He allows a smirk to cross his own face.  That means he only has one criminal left to subdue—and he’s more than a match for one, alone, without his training and expertise.
            He barely feels the fist hit his armored chest.  The lead-powered fist that hits back pays back plenty.  An angry gurgle meets him, and a switchblade makes an appearance for a short while before it, too, is lost to the shadows.  It’s able to draw a bit of blood from his unarmored cheek, though.
            The mugger decides upon a different tactic.  He grabs the woman, now somewhat limp with shock, and threatens her with…yet another knife.  The man has too much of an arsenal—but it’s a good thing he can’t begin to compete with the crimefighter’s own.  A Batarang flies from his hand and makes the brute howl in pain, conveniently letting go of the woman.  Batman manages a harsh, “Stay behind me,” and pulls her out of harm’s way.
            He grabs the crook and uses his immense strength to haul him off his feet, using the wall behind the man as a prop.  “That’s enough,” he growls, narrowing his eyes to make sure the guy gets the message.
            He hears a siren and knows, like so many times before, this is his exit cue.  That being said, he won’t leave the robber alone with innocents who could get hurt.  Not free, anyway.  He casually pulls his version of handcuffs out and makes sure the man isn’t going anywhere.
            “Freeze!”  He’s danced this dance so many times, he doesn’t even look up.  He knows that the police have taken up shooting stances and are just waiting for the slightest threat to start shooting.  Having patrolled a place like Gotham City as much as he has, he knows that such offhand reflexes can save one’s life.  So, too, can bulletproof armor.
            His grappling hook flies up, almost of its own accord.  As he flies up, cape flapping around him, for some reason he can’t define he looks down for a split second.
            What he sees stuns him and burns itself into the back of his brain.
            It’s a scene he’s seen all his life, minus the dead bodies.  Thomas Wayne, looking a lot smaller than he’d remembered him, is staring up in mute astonishment, something akin to anger flickering in his eyes.  His mother, Martha, is crying, the shock burning through her.
            And in the broken little boy in whose eyes he reads incomprehension he sees himself.  Not just metaphorically—he is that little boy, and in neither his own place nor that of the little kid can he figure out what just happened.
            He’s been trying to stop those bullets in that same alley all his life.  Now that he’s done that, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
            He pushes himself on, patrolling everywhere, because if he stops, if he lets himself think, he’ll freeze up.  He needs to wear himself out, so that when he does stop, when he wants to think, he’ll have a good, long sleep in order to try to work things out.
            He stops for a second on one roof, crouching, silhouetted against the moon.  It’s here he belongs, here in the darkness and the night.  And for one second, it’s peaceful.