Disclaimer: I own nothing. Be it Azrael or anything else I may write in the future.
I was inspired by what DC is doing. I am taking characters and writing them the way I would if I were to be given control (generally darker).
I took requests, and I wrote my own take on Azrael.
I present my first oneshot: Azrael - The Hero Gotham Deserves
Gotham; a disease ridden hell hole, where the damned rule and the innocent suffer under the heels of unrelenting demons, thrust upon the society that birthed them.
It had been a week since the once-sidekick assumed the mantle of the Dark Knight after his mentor relinquished his mortal coil whilst doing battle with a creature from the very depths of Hades. With him was a child who took the name of his predecessor, a name or title passed on through multiple children who would eventually grow too old for the role.
He would try. He really would, this new Batman – for he fooled nobody. It was not the same as the old. But in the wake of the original’s death, the flood gates unleashed a torrent of evil on the already sinister place. The new Batman and his new Robin tried to restore order, but they weren’t enough. Their style of justice would never be enough. They needed help, but they did not know, nor did they understand his mission. Now, they were far too busy to get in his way. This was for their own good, and for the good of Gotham City.
Azrael, the avenging angel, stood atop a cathedral, looming over the head of a grotesque gargoyle. Its sharp teeth scowled down on the street below. Gargoyles had a duty to protect against evil spirits. Azrael smiled beneath his mask as he felt a sense of kinship with the stone creature.
He turned his attention to a nearby alley, where a group of three degenerate hoodlums crowded around a family; mother, a father, young son, and a young daughter.
He kicked off of the ledge, grasping his cloak as he glided down. The metal in his armor weighed him down slightly, and he had to shift his body to maintain flight.
He came down onto the moist concrete with a metallic thud. The thugs and family turned to stare. Both wore a look of horror upon their faces. He was, indeed, an imposing figure of the night. His dark red cloak enveloped him, the hood shadowing his white mask, keeping the slits for his eyes hidden in the darkness. His armored breastplate was covered by a white cloth over the chain mail, upon which stood proudly the bright red cross, matching the distinct design of that worn by the Knights Templar of old. The same cross spread across his face. His hands were dark red, as were his metal boots. His legs and arms, however, maintained the steely appearance of a knight from a time long gone.
“Go. Take your children and run. Now!” He commanded the family. They ran past him hurriedly in pure terror. One of the thugs – the one in the black hoodie – reached into his pocket for a firearm. From within Azrael’s right steel gauntlet sprung a foot-long blade. Azrael rushed forward, slicing the thug’s hand off as he aimed the gun. Before his pained cry could come, he was silenced when the blade circled back, slitting his throat on the second cut.
The other two stood on weak limbs. One with a piercing through his bottom lip brandished a metal bat, while the other with a tattoo along his cheek held chains, wrapped around his forearm for leverage. From within his cloak Azrael drew a broadsword from its sheath on his back. The one with the tattoo ran first, swinging the chain at Azrael’s left flank. In return, he swung his cloak at the man, the sharp metal at the hem cutting his eyes. He faltered just enough so that his momentum was slowed. Azrael’s sword swung at the still dangerous chain to meet it. The chain wrapped around his sword. The thug starred in fear as Azrael yanked back, making the man impale himself upon the blade.
He let him drop with the sword still buried within the man’s abdomen; he would retrieve the sword afterward. “Nowhere to run.” Azrael declared, the metal of his mask making his voice echo in a ghostly manner.
The last thug gulped, swinging his bat at a downward arc. Azrael blocked the hit with his left gauntlet. With his right hand, he wrenched the bat from the thug’s grasp, slamming the butt of it into his stomach. The thug fell to the ground in a heap of garbage.
He was panting heavily, eyes wide. “Who are you?!” He cried out.
“Azrael. I do the job nobody else can." The vigilante said as he stabbed the thug through the chest with his right gauntlet blade.
He looked at his blood stained dagger, and retracted it into its housing. He then retrieved his sword, sheathing it as well. He gazed into the night sky; it was a full moon that night. The time was only just passed midnight.
There was still so much more work to be done.
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