Watchful-A Vigilante Flash Fiction Story
October, Halifax—somewhere just off Barrington Street. It’s cold, it’s windy, and me I'm the The Cunning Corax, Halifax's avenger on black wings or whatever the media is calling me now and I’m on a rooftop, bored out of my skull. Growing up on cartoons, movies, and comics, I figured vigilantism was all beating up bad guys, dropping cool one-liners, and getting hit on by sexy femmes fatales. Reality check: bad guys hit back—or worse, they shoot—and my best quips arrive an hour late, usually in the shower. As for the femme-fatales? Zero. Which is fine; the ones in my rogues’ gallery are crazy, and not in the fun way. Most nights it’s patrol until your legs ache, scrape for leads like an actual detective, and avoid the police because, newsflash, masked vigilantes aren’t exactly legal. The harbor wind tastes like nickels, and Barrington’s neon blinks last call at my boots.
Sometimes I wonder why anyone with superpowers does this at all. You get awesome abilities or skills that could make life easy, and people either go full villain or put on a mask and say things like “Justice wears a mask.” Which—I’ll admit—I’ve said. I lean into the brooding dark anti-hero thing. I’m pretty self-aware about what I look like looming on a roof, cape billowing. And okay, it’s pretty damn cool. But you’d think we’d hear more about people who get powers and just… live their best life. Instead, power either turns you into an asshole or a dedicated champion of justice. It’s weird. You never hear about someone who got super strength and made bank working as a guy who, uh… lifts and hauls… stuff.
You’re rambling, James, a woman’s voice cuts in—only I can hear it. She’s wise, and weirdly sexy; toes-curling, radio-late-night, ruin-your-focus sexy. Which would be great if the voice didn’t belong to the Crow Spirit who lives in my head. She’s probably a giant bird. That kind of kills the “half-naked Celtic goddess” daydream. Not that I don’t still hope—that if I’m stuck with a murderous magical co-pilot, she at least looks as good as she sounds.
And you’re distracted. For someone with such remarkable willpower, your mind wanders with relative ease. She is annoyed, obviously. I’d be annoyed too if I were an ancient battle-spirit bound to a horny college geek who tripped over his own shoelaces and fell into the cairn she was buried in.
But here we are—me, the Champion of the Morrigan. Kickass powers, awesome magical clawed gauntlets, and an ancient spirit in my head with a voice that could stop a heart if she drizzled it into your ear. She gives me pointers. Occasionally suggests I apply Bronze Age warrior logic to modern problems.
Where was I? Lost my train of thought. It happens when you’ve been parked on a roof for three and a half hours because a slimeball I dangled over the pier swore someone was moving illegal arms near Barrington Street.
By the by, I know the roof-dangle is a classic, but in Halifax you do the pier dangle. Guys absolutely freak when you threaten to dunk them in the North Atlantic—especially if you’re doing it from a dockside crane. The harbor smells like creosote and cold iron; gulls heckle me like unpaid interns.
Let more of them fall into the water. The others will fear you more.
The Crow Spirit, serving up her usual morbid logic. I don’t think she regards death with the same severity I do. Either that, or she really likes killing. Maybe both.
I answer in my head—I can talk to her by, like, thinking at her, for lack of a better term. If you had your way, I’d have littered the underworld with corpses.
Given how hard you’ve hit some of them, they might wish you had. You don’t avoid broken bones or lacerations. We both know a few won’t walk again. A few won’t see. she casually answers.
I’d argue, but she isn’t wrong. There’s a difference between the heat of battle and cold-blooded assassination—between stopping a threat and killing a defenseless guy. And yeah, okay, I don’t really hold back when a fight gets hot. If I claw a murderer’s eyes or cripple a human trafficker, I’m not losing sleep. Screw those guys.
Speaking of bad guys—I hear motorcycles. V-twins chewing up the night.
Bloodied Brotherhood. Our local criminal biker club: violent, freedom-loving, allergic to authority. Led by Sister Sin—bona fide occultist with a personal grudge and enough dirty magic to ruin my night whenever the mood strikes her.
I lean out for a better look. Yep: Bloodied Brotherhood. Their bikes are tattooed with pentagrams, half-naked devil-girls, and every mail-order demonology sticker they could find. They really commit to the bit—occult brotherhood of demon-worshipping badasses. Thankfully, most are just big, mean, and well-armed. Lucky me: instead of cult daggers, I get sawed-off shotguns and tire irons.
Exhaust mixes with salt air; wet asphalt throws their noise straight up to my perch.
Now I have to ask myself if the intel’s right, because even I feel a little bad about dropping down to beat up a bunch of guys out for a midnight ride—even if most of them are proper jackasses who think they’re tough as hell and are happy to break faces to prove it. I really don’t like bullies. Enough that I’d enjoy kicking their asses just for the satisfaction of watching people who use power to hurt others feel weak.
Still, I’m here to watch—boring watching. If they’re running illegal guns, I need to see who they’re selling to, if anyone. As much as I’d love to clean their clocks—and maybe take one of those sweet bikes for a joyride, because I don’t have moral objections to stealing from bad guys—that’s not why I’m here, or why I’ve spent the last few hours freezing my ass off. Sodium lights buzz; fog beads on my knuckles.
They idle into a dark parking lot. A car rolls up after—a case study in good money wasted on bad taste. It’s old, borderline junker, but someone dumped cash into fresh white paint and faux-gold rims. Flames would be on brand. Like dressing a bruise in glitter.
I already know whose car it is; it screams Fine Boyz—the other gang that wants my head. Perfect. Smugglers, traffickers, pimps, and jerks who think “gangster cool” is a personality trait. They treat guns like accessories. The muffler coughs; bass thrums; sweet chemical cologne fights the salt air.
Paint does not bless rust.
I have to agree with the Crow Spirit on that one. It also tells me these guys are low on the Fine Boyz ladder; the higher-ups can afford nice cars and real gold on their gaudy pistols. Not that the fake-gold ones shoot any less effectively, but money is everything with the Fine Boyz—the higher you climb, the nicer the toys and the better the kit. I’ve seen their leaders pull military-grade hardware and gold-plated magnums.
Gold is louder than steel. It rusts the mind.
You’re just saying that because you like silver more than gold. But yeah—their greed is the vice that gets the Fine Boyz in trouble more often than not, and it’s also what makes them ambitious. They’ve got their fingers in damn near everything. I’ve seen their trafficking ops, broken into their illegal brothels, and raided one of their warehouses. They’ve got more than their share of people in power wrapped around their fingers—tighter than their gold rings.
Silver is a weapon. Gold is a costume.
I sigh and smirk, because despite how she acts, she has almost human quirks. She likes silver—a lot. Thinks Romans were despoilers, Vikings sea-wolf scum, and may or may not have a fangirl crush on Cú Chulainn. Little things that make her weirdly endearing and, honestly, downright likable sometimes. I guess that’s why I keep her around. That, and she gives damn good advice—and she’s magically bound to my soul and probably inseparable until I die.
I turn my full attention back to the weapons deal—not hard with my low-light, long-distance, and ultraviolet vision. Bird-sight; perks of being the Battle-Crow. Stakeouts get easy when you’re basically running 20/5 instead of 20/20. I can pick a mouse off a sidewalk from stupid far away. Low-key great for keeping tabs from a safe distance—and it saves me a fortune on binoculars.
Watch the hands, not the mouths.
“No guns exchanged yet,” I reply, and lean in—focus. See if I can catch anything on the wind. Fun fact: crows have pretty good hearing too. Didn’t know that until I got the crow powers. Kinda neat, right?
Wind steals words. Find the echo.
The bikes tick as they cool. Chain rattles. I sift the alley hum for voices under the bass.
Thanks for the tips, Captain Obvious. I answer with a mental eye roll or something like that.
At least I outrank you, Private Dumbass, she fires back—quick as ever.
I grumble in my head but keep listening. Not much of use; sounds like the guys from the car are talking about the weekend flea market and “good deals.”
Obviously code for drugs, guns… drugs and guns… or worse. I wish the deal were happening here—would make my life easier. I could wrap this up, kick their asses, and leave them broken and battered for the RCMP to scoop. Instead, these bastards are making me do more detective work. Some crooks have no respect for my precious time.
At least I get their plate numbers. My long-range detail is great, and the ultraviolet sight is… useful. Super useful—or really gross. I avoid cheap motel bedrooms (and certain people’s bedrooms) because I see things I can’t unsee. Anyway, back to when it’s useful: security inks, tamper seals, tags made with UV paint. Speaking of UV tags—I pull a small spray can from my utility belt and parkour my way down. I say parkour because it sounds cooler than “jump and climb.” Also because I do parkour. So yeah: I parkour down.
I cover ground quick and quiet—peak-human speed and agility, baby. When I’m wearing the Crow’s Mantle, it’s like all my physical stats are set to max. Yes, that’s a TTRPG reference, and no, I won’t apologize.
Mark the path. Not your name.
Someone sure likes interrupting my internal monologue tonight I answer the spirits latest wisdom.
I ghost along the wall and watch them from the shadows. I’ve learned sneaking isn’t so different from stealth games. It’s as much about knowing where they’re looking—and where they’ll look next—as it is stepping quietly and breaking line of sight. The physical skills help, so do the bird senses, but there’s a cerebral element to the art of stealth.
Dim light paints cones on the asphalt. I keep to the penumbra, move on the bass hits, breathe when the wind does.
The urge to pounce is strong. It’s not the Crow Spirit—it’s me. I get twitchy around bad people, especially the ones who hurt others to get ahead. Justice-trauma acting up from the bullied kid who used to get his ass kicked for standing up to other kids’ bullies and his own, I guess. At least I’m aware of it, so that’s a plus—and probably a good chunk of why I do the whole vigilante thing. My introspective, anxiety-prone brain will chew on this later, because why sleep when I can be haunted by my own disorders and life choices, am I right?
Anyway—I creep toward the car. When they’re deep in conversation, I pop the cap on my UV can and spray a crude crow tag only I can see. If they swap plates later, I’ll still have a bead on this polished piece-of-crap ride.
Mark. Move. Don’t nest.
Wow—starting in on the bird references now, huh? Let me guess: gonna hit me with “take flight” and “don’t ruffle any feathers” next? I snap back snark set to kill rather then stun.
Ooh—she’s quiet. Looks like I shut her up. I’ll take that as a win and slip back into the shadows, because like I said, most of being a vigilante is watching, waiting, and being bored as heck—but it’s worth it in the end. When you bring down a guy who thinks he’s untouchable, or crack a trafficking ring and cut open a shipping crate full of women being treated like cattle… maybe that’s the real reason people like me do this. The reason cops do it, or anyone in law enforcement with a spine: there are good people out there—innocent people—who need someone strong and willing to put in the work to protect them from the strong who’d use them.
And as satisfying as breaking bones would be, I’ve learned you sometimes have to watch to learn where the dragon’s head is. Shaving off scales might be fun, but it doesn’t stop the wyrm from squirming.
So, for now, I make my way back to my perch. The deal isn’t going down here, but I’ve got more leads and a tagged car I can find again—something to impress on a few Fine Boyz that telling me what I want to know is better than wearing a body cast.
Vigilantes. Vigilant. Keeping the Vigil—guess it’s implied in the job title. Maybe the boring part of being a hero is still part of being a hero.
I settle on the parapet, fingers numb inside arcane iron. I file the plates, sketch the route options in my head, and ping myself with a reminder to sweep the “flea market” later. My UV raven dries under the bumper lip; the sodium lights in the distance make a halo in the puddles.
Patience is a weapon.
“Yeah,” I breathe, watching exhaust ghost the lot. “you aren't wrong.”
Makes me feel better about the last three and a half hours. About the long, lonely patrols and the nights of watching ahead. Because, sure, it’s boring. Helping people isn’t all flash and fistfights. Sometimes it’s putting in a night of boring ass work and keeping watch, so when the dragon finally shows its head, you know exactly where to cut.
A crow drops onto a dead camera dome and shakes rain off its wings. Three quick caws. A verdict.
I rise, joints popping, and let the wind take the edge off my silhouette. The city blinks—bridge lights, bar signs, windows—and blinks back. I blink last. “Justice wears a mask,” I tell the quiet. “Patience wears thermal.” lines I like to think I deliver like any gloomclad bad ass hero with troubled emotional weight and a talent for violence.
Move, James.
“Moving.”
And I do—roof to roof, black on black, the Vigil walking, watchmen as much as avenger.
Sometimes I wonder why anyone with superpowers does this at all. You get awesome abilities or skills that could make life easy, and people either go full villain or put on a mask and say things like “Justice wears a mask.” Which—I’ll admit—I’ve said. I lean into the brooding dark anti-hero thing. I’m pretty self-aware about what I look like looming on a roof, cape billowing. And okay, it’s pretty damn cool. But you’d think we’d hear more about people who get powers and just… live their best life. Instead, power either turns you into an asshole or a dedicated champion of justice. It’s weird. You never hear about someone who got super strength and made bank working as a guy who, uh… lifts and hauls… stuff.
You’re rambling, James, a woman’s voice cuts in—only I can hear it. She’s wise, and weirdly sexy; toes-curling, radio-late-night, ruin-your-focus sexy. Which would be great if the voice didn’t belong to the Crow Spirit who lives in my head. She’s probably a giant bird. That kind of kills the “half-naked Celtic goddess” daydream. Not that I don’t still hope—that if I’m stuck with a murderous magical co-pilot, she at least looks as good as she sounds.
And you’re distracted. For someone with such remarkable willpower, your mind wanders with relative ease. She is annoyed, obviously. I’d be annoyed too if I were an ancient battle-spirit bound to a horny college geek who tripped over his own shoelaces and fell into the cairn she was buried in.
But here we are—me, the Champion of the Morrigan. Kickass powers, awesome magical clawed gauntlets, and an ancient spirit in my head with a voice that could stop a heart if she drizzled it into your ear. She gives me pointers. Occasionally suggests I apply Bronze Age warrior logic to modern problems.
Where was I? Lost my train of thought. It happens when you’ve been parked on a roof for three and a half hours because a slimeball I dangled over the pier swore someone was moving illegal arms near Barrington Street.
By the by, I know the roof-dangle is a classic, but in Halifax you do the pier dangle. Guys absolutely freak when you threaten to dunk them in the North Atlantic—especially if you’re doing it from a dockside crane. The harbor smells like creosote and cold iron; gulls heckle me like unpaid interns.
Let more of them fall into the water. The others will fear you more.
The Crow Spirit, serving up her usual morbid logic. I don’t think she regards death with the same severity I do. Either that, or she really likes killing. Maybe both.
I answer in my head—I can talk to her by, like, thinking at her, for lack of a better term. If you had your way, I’d have littered the underworld with corpses.
Given how hard you’ve hit some of them, they might wish you had. You don’t avoid broken bones or lacerations. We both know a few won’t walk again. A few won’t see. she casually answers.
I’d argue, but she isn’t wrong. There’s a difference between the heat of battle and cold-blooded assassination—between stopping a threat and killing a defenseless guy. And yeah, okay, I don’t really hold back when a fight gets hot. If I claw a murderer’s eyes or cripple a human trafficker, I’m not losing sleep. Screw those guys.
Speaking of bad guys—I hear motorcycles. V-twins chewing up the night.
Bloodied Brotherhood. Our local criminal biker club: violent, freedom-loving, allergic to authority. Led by Sister Sin—bona fide occultist with a personal grudge and enough dirty magic to ruin my night whenever the mood strikes her.
I lean out for a better look. Yep: Bloodied Brotherhood. Their bikes are tattooed with pentagrams, half-naked devil-girls, and every mail-order demonology sticker they could find. They really commit to the bit—occult brotherhood of demon-worshipping badasses. Thankfully, most are just big, mean, and well-armed. Lucky me: instead of cult daggers, I get sawed-off shotguns and tire irons.
Exhaust mixes with salt air; wet asphalt throws their noise straight up to my perch.
Now I have to ask myself if the intel’s right, because even I feel a little bad about dropping down to beat up a bunch of guys out for a midnight ride—even if most of them are proper jackasses who think they’re tough as hell and are happy to break faces to prove it. I really don’t like bullies. Enough that I’d enjoy kicking their asses just for the satisfaction of watching people who use power to hurt others feel weak.
Still, I’m here to watch—boring watching. If they’re running illegal guns, I need to see who they’re selling to, if anyone. As much as I’d love to clean their clocks—and maybe take one of those sweet bikes for a joyride, because I don’t have moral objections to stealing from bad guys—that’s not why I’m here, or why I’ve spent the last few hours freezing my ass off. Sodium lights buzz; fog beads on my knuckles.
They idle into a dark parking lot. A car rolls up after—a case study in good money wasted on bad taste. It’s old, borderline junker, but someone dumped cash into fresh white paint and faux-gold rims. Flames would be on brand. Like dressing a bruise in glitter.
I already know whose car it is; it screams Fine Boyz—the other gang that wants my head. Perfect. Smugglers, traffickers, pimps, and jerks who think “gangster cool” is a personality trait. They treat guns like accessories. The muffler coughs; bass thrums; sweet chemical cologne fights the salt air.
Paint does not bless rust.
I have to agree with the Crow Spirit on that one. It also tells me these guys are low on the Fine Boyz ladder; the higher-ups can afford nice cars and real gold on their gaudy pistols. Not that the fake-gold ones shoot any less effectively, but money is everything with the Fine Boyz—the higher you climb, the nicer the toys and the better the kit. I’ve seen their leaders pull military-grade hardware and gold-plated magnums.
Gold is louder than steel. It rusts the mind.
You’re just saying that because you like silver more than gold. But yeah—their greed is the vice that gets the Fine Boyz in trouble more often than not, and it’s also what makes them ambitious. They’ve got their fingers in damn near everything. I’ve seen their trafficking ops, broken into their illegal brothels, and raided one of their warehouses. They’ve got more than their share of people in power wrapped around their fingers—tighter than their gold rings.
Silver is a weapon. Gold is a costume.
I sigh and smirk, because despite how she acts, she has almost human quirks. She likes silver—a lot. Thinks Romans were despoilers, Vikings sea-wolf scum, and may or may not have a fangirl crush on Cú Chulainn. Little things that make her weirdly endearing and, honestly, downright likable sometimes. I guess that’s why I keep her around. That, and she gives damn good advice—and she’s magically bound to my soul and probably inseparable until I die.
I turn my full attention back to the weapons deal—not hard with my low-light, long-distance, and ultraviolet vision. Bird-sight; perks of being the Battle-Crow. Stakeouts get easy when you’re basically running 20/5 instead of 20/20. I can pick a mouse off a sidewalk from stupid far away. Low-key great for keeping tabs from a safe distance—and it saves me a fortune on binoculars.
Watch the hands, not the mouths.
“No guns exchanged yet,” I reply, and lean in—focus. See if I can catch anything on the wind. Fun fact: crows have pretty good hearing too. Didn’t know that until I got the crow powers. Kinda neat, right?
Wind steals words. Find the echo.
The bikes tick as they cool. Chain rattles. I sift the alley hum for voices under the bass.
Thanks for the tips, Captain Obvious. I answer with a mental eye roll or something like that.
At least I outrank you, Private Dumbass, she fires back—quick as ever.
I grumble in my head but keep listening. Not much of use; sounds like the guys from the car are talking about the weekend flea market and “good deals.”
Obviously code for drugs, guns… drugs and guns… or worse. I wish the deal were happening here—would make my life easier. I could wrap this up, kick their asses, and leave them broken and battered for the RCMP to scoop. Instead, these bastards are making me do more detective work. Some crooks have no respect for my precious time.
At least I get their plate numbers. My long-range detail is great, and the ultraviolet sight is… useful. Super useful—or really gross. I avoid cheap motel bedrooms (and certain people’s bedrooms) because I see things I can’t unsee. Anyway, back to when it’s useful: security inks, tamper seals, tags made with UV paint. Speaking of UV tags—I pull a small spray can from my utility belt and parkour my way down. I say parkour because it sounds cooler than “jump and climb.” Also because I do parkour. So yeah: I parkour down.
I cover ground quick and quiet—peak-human speed and agility, baby. When I’m wearing the Crow’s Mantle, it’s like all my physical stats are set to max. Yes, that’s a TTRPG reference, and no, I won’t apologize.
Mark the path. Not your name.
Someone sure likes interrupting my internal monologue tonight I answer the spirits latest wisdom.
I ghost along the wall and watch them from the shadows. I’ve learned sneaking isn’t so different from stealth games. It’s as much about knowing where they’re looking—and where they’ll look next—as it is stepping quietly and breaking line of sight. The physical skills help, so do the bird senses, but there’s a cerebral element to the art of stealth.
Dim light paints cones on the asphalt. I keep to the penumbra, move on the bass hits, breathe when the wind does.
The urge to pounce is strong. It’s not the Crow Spirit—it’s me. I get twitchy around bad people, especially the ones who hurt others to get ahead. Justice-trauma acting up from the bullied kid who used to get his ass kicked for standing up to other kids’ bullies and his own, I guess. At least I’m aware of it, so that’s a plus—and probably a good chunk of why I do the whole vigilante thing. My introspective, anxiety-prone brain will chew on this later, because why sleep when I can be haunted by my own disorders and life choices, am I right?
Anyway—I creep toward the car. When they’re deep in conversation, I pop the cap on my UV can and spray a crude crow tag only I can see. If they swap plates later, I’ll still have a bead on this polished piece-of-crap ride.
Mark. Move. Don’t nest.
Wow—starting in on the bird references now, huh? Let me guess: gonna hit me with “take flight” and “don’t ruffle any feathers” next? I snap back snark set to kill rather then stun.
Ooh—she’s quiet. Looks like I shut her up. I’ll take that as a win and slip back into the shadows, because like I said, most of being a vigilante is watching, waiting, and being bored as heck—but it’s worth it in the end. When you bring down a guy who thinks he’s untouchable, or crack a trafficking ring and cut open a shipping crate full of women being treated like cattle… maybe that’s the real reason people like me do this. The reason cops do it, or anyone in law enforcement with a spine: there are good people out there—innocent people—who need someone strong and willing to put in the work to protect them from the strong who’d use them.
And as satisfying as breaking bones would be, I’ve learned you sometimes have to watch to learn where the dragon’s head is. Shaving off scales might be fun, but it doesn’t stop the wyrm from squirming.
So, for now, I make my way back to my perch. The deal isn’t going down here, but I’ve got more leads and a tagged car I can find again—something to impress on a few Fine Boyz that telling me what I want to know is better than wearing a body cast.
Vigilantes. Vigilant. Keeping the Vigil—guess it’s implied in the job title. Maybe the boring part of being a hero is still part of being a hero.
I settle on the parapet, fingers numb inside arcane iron. I file the plates, sketch the route options in my head, and ping myself with a reminder to sweep the “flea market” later. My UV raven dries under the bumper lip; the sodium lights in the distance make a halo in the puddles.
Patience is a weapon.
“Yeah,” I breathe, watching exhaust ghost the lot. “you aren't wrong.”
Makes me feel better about the last three and a half hours. About the long, lonely patrols and the nights of watching ahead. Because, sure, it’s boring. Helping people isn’t all flash and fistfights. Sometimes it’s putting in a night of boring ass work and keeping watch, so when the dragon finally shows its head, you know exactly where to cut.
A crow drops onto a dead camera dome and shakes rain off its wings. Three quick caws. A verdict.
I rise, joints popping, and let the wind take the edge off my silhouette. The city blinks—bridge lights, bar signs, windows—and blinks back. I blink last. “Justice wears a mask,” I tell the quiet. “Patience wears thermal.” lines I like to think I deliver like any gloomclad bad ass hero with troubled emotional weight and a talent for violence.
Move, James.
“Moving.”
And I do—roof to roof, black on black, the Vigil walking, watchmen as much as avenger.
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