A/N: This is a belated response to Sakura123's challenge- number four. I think I was the only one to do it, and I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own nuthin'. Just for the record.
Hark, Hear the Angels Roar
"Hey man, you're uh… you're bleedin' pretty bad," the voice was shaky and rough, a sleep-voice and a drug-voice. The speaker could have been an old man or a young woman, a boy or his mother. Whichever way, it was still riding high.
"So you can still see, huh?" came the answer. The junkie curled into a protective ball when the tall man stepped from the shadows. Scars were scattered over his bare chest and arms, tiny tattoos like the chalk lines prisoners drew to pass the time. He smiled at the junkie, a twisted, wrong smile that didn't belong on a human face, and barked a short laugh as he wiped the blood from his shoulder. The cut was small, but it continued to bleed, washing over the four smaller lines it crossed, which were already starting to smooth and close. A greedy red grin, like the one on the man's face. He laughed again and twisted, bending his head and licking the blood away until it stopped flowing. His tongue was red and long and, it seemed to the junkie, surrounded by sharp pointy teeth. Or perhaps the tall man had been born with those awful teeth, and his mother had thrown him out on the street, knowing him for the monster he'd become.
Once the blood stopped flowing the man stretched and turned his eyes to the road, keen, fire-bright eyes that saw better at night than in daylight. The junkie vaguely remembered hearing screams coming from the doorway that the tall man had stepped out of, but those faded into soggy memory as the drugs started to wear off. The tall man wavered in front of the junkie's vision as he pulled a shirt over his scarred chest, slipped a glinting knife into a sheaf at his side, and set off at a dead run down the alleyway. A car pulled up and popped one door open, giving the tall man just enough time to vanish inside before screeching off again.
As the high came falling back down again, plummeting much faster than terminal velocity, the junkie started twitching, eyes rolling back into a pounding skull, before slamming into unconsciousness.
The next morning, the cops showed up and broke down the door that the tall man had been standing in the night before. They removed five body bags from the warehouse, five blood-filled bags that really didn't have much in them that could be called bodies anymore. A tired looking police captain stood looking at the bags, a deep sadness in his eyes. But the junkie didn't notice, and lay unmoving, still curled into a fetal position against the wall.
Later that day, along with the mutilated corpses of five police informants, the coroner tried to identify a teenager who had OD'd in a back alley near the wharf in the Narrows. A teenager, just a kid really, who'd had too much ecstasy and nothing to do with it. The tired captain would forget about the teenager, who was just another nameless face in a sea of nameless faces. He would focus instead on apprehending the tall man with the red, red tongue and the sharp teeth that may or may not have been real.
Two days after, the tall man would stand in front of a small assemblage of city officials while a psychotic psychoanalyst testified in his defense. A determined district attorney would watch with contempt in her eyes as he was led away and chase after the psychoanalyst, confront him, and be met with defeat: "Well, the work offered by organized crime must have an attraction to the insane."
Later when he was closing in on her with a knife back in his hand, Rachel would wonder if Crane hadn't been right about him after all. Under the fear there was something else, a glint that chilled her to the core, perhaps more so than his next words: "How much you wanna bet I can make you bleed?"
For all those who are reading my other two fics: Batman and Superman are on hiatus until winter break, which is just a few weeks from now. I apologize profusely for the delays, and hope to get everything back on schedule soon.