@heruglyphs : sender takes a bullet meant for receiver.
your eyes are trained, there's something delicate about the stretch between the tip of your fingers & the tip of the arrow. there's no tight grip, even on the hand holding the spine of the bow itself. it requires a precise attention across all aspects of your body, & leaves you less attuned to the sounds behind you. this is where the problem lies, at least for tonight. the quietest of breaths slips through parted lips, & out into the cold air ( visible to anyone near you, it almost startles you to see a physical representation of your own existence )... pop!
shoulders flinch upwards towards your ears, a quick turn akin to that of a pirouette leaves you facing one eighty degrees from your original target, of whom is now most likely running in the opposite direction. the figure of dick shadows you, his palm pressed against his shoulder. it doesn't take you long to put the pieces together, & you're back in motion. the knocked arrow now is quickly sent into the throat of the man who left your friend ( meant to be you ) bloodied. " shit. " the bow is dropped to the floor & you step back now in front of him to assess the damage... your face reveals nothing, a stoic representation that is a stark contrast to the heart that pounds now in your chest. a brush with death is not new, & usually leaves you wanting more... but that's when you're the only player in the game.
" fuck. are you okay? why'd you do that? " it's a rhetorical question that you don't want to hear the answer to. the only light shinning down unto you both is that of the moon, & your chest heaves with frustration ( not at him, not even at the man you heard breathe out huffed breaths behind you now / how bruce would be appalled ). " does it hurt? let's go, get in my car we'll get you help. c'mon, now. "