Author’s
Notes: Disclaimer: blah de blah don't own anything
except the fic blah
lawyers blah DC owns the universe blah.
***
By Santanico
***
“Listen. If you listen closely enough, you can hear everything.
“You can hear
the whisper of smoke rising over the rooftops, black fog disfiguring the face
of the sky. You can hear the hum and grind of rusted machinery, huge metal
behemoths gasping and choking and wheezing in strangled industrial
death-throes.
“You can hear
the sick gurgling of the water, thick as oil, in the harbor, and grunts and
curses and snatches of sea shanties on the salt-slick air. You can hear the
blood pumping through tattooed sailors’ veins as their ship slices into the
dock, hear the thrumming rhythm of their hearts, chanting drink and drugs
and sex.
“You can hear
crack babies screaming in filthy hospital wards as the acid rain sluices down
and gargles in the open throats of sewers. You can hear the strike of a match,
the crackle of burning paper, and if you’re really listening hard, you can
taste the tobacco in the back of your own throat. You can hear the footsteps as
they pound over the steaming pavements. You can hear the click of the gun’s
greasy metal hammer as it pulls back, and you can hear the shot exploding. You
can hear the bullet thudding into flesh, into muscle, into cracking bone.
“If you listen
closely enough, oh yes, you can hear everything. Every cry
from every starving mouth, every moan, every whimper. You can hear the
whole world dying, abattoir beast in pain. If you listen
closely enough.
“So you tell
me,” demands the Question, spinning on his heel, invisible eyes hidden behind
his featureless face, “You tell me then, Helena. What exactly should I
choose to listen to? How do I decide what to hear, and what to ignore?”
She, the Huntress, black and purple, an
aching bruise in the burning cold night. She looks at him
through cool, masked eyes, her arms folded over her chest. She shakes her head,
black hair whipping in the fetid wind.
“You’re getting weirder,” she says.
And maybe it’s the whisper of the wind as it travels
across the harbor, warping her words, picking them to pieces. And maybe it’s
the muted roar of traffic down below them, golden headlights speeding over the
bridge, into the
The Huntress’s voice. If you listen closely
enough, it could almost be someone saying the word love.
“Thanks,”
the Question says softly.