Of Crows and Choices
Choices—we all have them. No matter what anyone tells you, no matter what anyone says, we all possess free will. What often feels like a lack of choice is, in truth, the perception of being trapped by consequences. Looking back, I used to believe I had no choices, but I see now that was a lie I told myself. I wasn't constrained by the absence of options—I was bound by the fear of outcomes.
Choices are not prisons, not really. No matter how much it feels that way, it’s never the choice itself that confines us—it’s the potential consequences that become the bars of our mental cells. It's almost ironic, sitting here on the edge of a fire escape, contemplating choices and their aftermath.
The hardest part is always the consequences. You can never truly predict how things will unfold. Well, sometimes you can, but that can be just as tormenting. Take the guys I’m watching from the shadows right now. They’re not good people—petty criminals, street-level thugs. I have no doubt they’ve convinced themselves they had no choice but to steal, hurt others, and break the law. Maybe their circumstances really were so dire that they felt they had only one path to take. Or maybe they’re just greedy, sadistic, and thoroughly unpleasant.
That’s the crux of the issue for me. If I take them down, am I stopping desperate people who were forced into this life, or am I serving justice to those who deserve it? This constant introspection—overthinking, even—is its own kind of burden. Empathy, when taken too far, can lead to hesitation. And hesitation, when you have powers like mine, can cost lives—lives that could have been saved.
Right now, I’m standing at the crossroads of choice and consequence. If I don’t act soon, someone might lose their life. I lean forward, clenching and unclenching the metal gauntlets on my hands. Their tips end in talons of black metal—sharper than a razor and stronger than steel. These magical weapons are the source of my powers and the burden I’ve chosen to bear. I am the Corax now: vengeance on black wings, spite given shape, karma with claws.
It was choice that brought me here, that granted me these powers, that made me the champion of the goddess Morrigan. I am her Battle Crow—the instrument of her divine will and the bearer of the Crow’s Talons, the enchanted gauntlets I mentioned before.
"They chose to, even if they think they had no option," she reminds me, her voice dark, silky, and sibilant as always. She is the spirit of the Talons—an immortal being who serves as my built-in mentor and co-pilot. A sort of magical onboard AI, I suppose.
"A warrior does not ask why his foes raid his lands; he simply stops them," she adds, her wisdom rooted in a time and place far removed from the here and now. Or is it? I have to ask myself: how much have people truly changed? Are humans really any different?
I grew up seeing a lot of the worst parts of human nature: abusive people, petty people. There were good ones too, though. They were the ones who kept me trying—kept me standing up to the bad ones, no matter how often I ended up hurt, both physically and emotionally, for it.
I see them moving now—six of them, armed. Mostly with improvised weapons, but the fact that they have weapons at all means they fully intend to use them. I have to make my choice now and live with whatever consequences follow. That’s what it means to be a hero, I suppose: making hard choices, never really knowing if they were the right or wrong ones.
I wish it were easier. I wish I could spend my time saving people from accidents or fighting forces where right and wrong don’t come into question. A fire doesn’t need you to weigh the morality of saving someone from it. Gravity doesn’t have a tragic backstory to explain why it’s pulling someone to their death. And water doesn’t drown someone because it believes it’s delivering justice for some perceived slight.
Well… not normally, anyway.
They’re about to break into someone’s apartment building. I see a crowbar in one of their hands, and their posture makes it clear they’re ready to hurt anyone who tries to stop them. I take a deep breath and make my choice.
I fall like the night—silent and dark—slamming my feet into the armed robber below. He collapses under the impact, the air driven out of him in a single gasp. The others turn, and I see it in their eyes—that brief flicker of hesitation when the brain is torn between fight or flight.
I understand why. They know who I am. By now, most of the underworld does. I’m the guy they say slashes out criminals’ eyes like an angry crow. A dark, merciless spirit who sees your sins. A half-dozen other stories, too, some of which I may have encouraged myself.
If the stories aren’t enough, my appearance usually is. The matte black armor, the beaked mask, and the feathery cloak draped over my shoulders all tend to make an impression. Intimidation is an art, after all.
They start to move. Looks like they’ve chosen fight over flight. I was sort of worried that would be the case.
To me, though, they’re moving slowly. Well, not actually slow, but it feels that way. My senses are sharp enough to read their attacks almost before they make them. Their movements telegraph everything the moment they begin. And my spatial awareness? Let’s just say I never thought heightened spatial awareness could count as a superpower, but it’s saved me in a fight more times than I can remember
The first one lunges at me with a two-by-four—a clumsy, sluggish move and a poor choice of weapon, all things considered. I catch the flat edge and, with the kind of strength some might call peak human condition, snap his own weapon back and bounce it off his forehead. He crumples to the ground, reeling in pain.
This is all going to happen so fast they might not even have time to realize how hard they’re going down. A part of me wishes they weren't running on adrenaline right now, or that they had more time to realize it might be in their best interest to give up.
A chain whips toward me, but I duck under the blow and drive a hard kick into my attacker’s midsection, sending him crashing into a steel dumpster with a metallic thud. Another lunges at me with a baseball bat. I catch it mid-swing with my talons, yanking it out of his hands and casting it aside with disdain.
"Strike! You’re out!" I quip, unable to hold back a grin. I can’t help enjoying this—the fight, the adrenaline. There’s a part of me, the part that was beaten down and bullied as a kid, that sees this as closure. Closure against the kinds of bullies who once made me feel weak and powerless.
I’ll probably feel bad about this later. After all, there’s something hypocritical about enjoying the act of bullying them. This fight is, in some ways, the equivalent of me grabbing their hand smacking them with it and mocking them with, “Why are you hitting yourself?” They don’t have the weapons or the training to be much of a threat to me.
That’s why I’m not using the talons. They haven’t done anything to justify me going all out, nor have they done anything bad enough to make me want to show them how an angry crow truly fights.
Knives are next. Now, knives are proper weapons—a force multiplier I can respect. Fast, sharp, aerodynamic.
Two come at me with blades—one wields a switchblade, the other a butterfly knife. Fancy. The remaining thugs have slowed, falling back a step. Looks like they’re starting to realize just how outclassed they are. If they’re lucky, they’ll drop their weapons and give up.
As much as the darker part of me revels in this, another part hopes they’ll surrender peacefully, so I don’t have to enjoy hurting them as much as I do. Am I a bastard? Probably. But maybe I’m a magnificent bastard. Yeah, I can live with that.
Two blades coming at me, two attackers. I’m not in the best position to dodge, but that’s where my armor and cloak come into play. Despite what movies might have you believe, armor isn’t just for show, and mine is no joke. The knife slashes at me, biting into the layers of protective material, but I doubt it even reached the titanium plate before being deflected.
I twist and trap the butterfly knife in my cloak. It’s weighted and made from ballistic fiber. The blade bites into it, but not deeply, and with a sharp yank, it’s out of his hands.
Now it’s my turn.
I’m not going claws-out, but I’m still wearing metal gauntlets. A balled fist wrapped in metal, combined with my physical prowess, may as well be a punch from a heavyweight boxer wearing full plate armor. The first guy goes down in a heap, and honestly, I can’t blame him.
The other guy, the one with the switchblade, gets a snap kick. It floors him and sends his face into the concrete. He won’t be getting up anytime soon.
The remainder drop their weapons as their losses sink in. I turn to them and, in my darkest voice, growl, "Take your pals, get lost, and don’t ever let me catch you causing trouble in my city again!"
They seem inclined to agree, scrambling to put as much distance between us as possible. I could take them down, leave them gift-wrapped for the police, but it’s not like I have much evidence. Besides, I wouldn’t stick around for the cops to arrive—what I do isn’t exactly legal.
I’ve made my choice. I can’t say I know what the consequences will be. All I can do is hope for the best—hope they decide to make better choices in their lives. That’s the thing, though: you never really know. All anyone can ever do is make the choices they feel are right and hope for the best.
As for me, the night is young. Crime never sleeps, and the crows are always watching.
—The End
Choices are not prisons, not really. No matter how much it feels that way, it’s never the choice itself that confines us—it’s the potential consequences that become the bars of our mental cells. It's almost ironic, sitting here on the edge of a fire escape, contemplating choices and their aftermath.
The hardest part is always the consequences. You can never truly predict how things will unfold. Well, sometimes you can, but that can be just as tormenting. Take the guys I’m watching from the shadows right now. They’re not good people—petty criminals, street-level thugs. I have no doubt they’ve convinced themselves they had no choice but to steal, hurt others, and break the law. Maybe their circumstances really were so dire that they felt they had only one path to take. Or maybe they’re just greedy, sadistic, and thoroughly unpleasant.
That’s the crux of the issue for me. If I take them down, am I stopping desperate people who were forced into this life, or am I serving justice to those who deserve it? This constant introspection—overthinking, even—is its own kind of burden. Empathy, when taken too far, can lead to hesitation. And hesitation, when you have powers like mine, can cost lives—lives that could have been saved.
Right now, I’m standing at the crossroads of choice and consequence. If I don’t act soon, someone might lose their life. I lean forward, clenching and unclenching the metal gauntlets on my hands. Their tips end in talons of black metal—sharper than a razor and stronger than steel. These magical weapons are the source of my powers and the burden I’ve chosen to bear. I am the Corax now: vengeance on black wings, spite given shape, karma with claws.
It was choice that brought me here, that granted me these powers, that made me the champion of the goddess Morrigan. I am her Battle Crow—the instrument of her divine will and the bearer of the Crow’s Talons, the enchanted gauntlets I mentioned before.
"They chose to, even if they think they had no option," she reminds me, her voice dark, silky, and sibilant as always. She is the spirit of the Talons—an immortal being who serves as my built-in mentor and co-pilot. A sort of magical onboard AI, I suppose.
"A warrior does not ask why his foes raid his lands; he simply stops them," she adds, her wisdom rooted in a time and place far removed from the here and now. Or is it? I have to ask myself: how much have people truly changed? Are humans really any different?
I grew up seeing a lot of the worst parts of human nature: abusive people, petty people. There were good ones too, though. They were the ones who kept me trying—kept me standing up to the bad ones, no matter how often I ended up hurt, both physically and emotionally, for it.
I see them moving now—six of them, armed. Mostly with improvised weapons, but the fact that they have weapons at all means they fully intend to use them. I have to make my choice now and live with whatever consequences follow. That’s what it means to be a hero, I suppose: making hard choices, never really knowing if they were the right or wrong ones.
I wish it were easier. I wish I could spend my time saving people from accidents or fighting forces where right and wrong don’t come into question. A fire doesn’t need you to weigh the morality of saving someone from it. Gravity doesn’t have a tragic backstory to explain why it’s pulling someone to their death. And water doesn’t drown someone because it believes it’s delivering justice for some perceived slight.
Well… not normally, anyway.
They’re about to break into someone’s apartment building. I see a crowbar in one of their hands, and their posture makes it clear they’re ready to hurt anyone who tries to stop them. I take a deep breath and make my choice.
I fall like the night—silent and dark—slamming my feet into the armed robber below. He collapses under the impact, the air driven out of him in a single gasp. The others turn, and I see it in their eyes—that brief flicker of hesitation when the brain is torn between fight or flight.
I understand why. They know who I am. By now, most of the underworld does. I’m the guy they say slashes out criminals’ eyes like an angry crow. A dark, merciless spirit who sees your sins. A half-dozen other stories, too, some of which I may have encouraged myself.
If the stories aren’t enough, my appearance usually is. The matte black armor, the beaked mask, and the feathery cloak draped over my shoulders all tend to make an impression. Intimidation is an art, after all.
They start to move. Looks like they’ve chosen fight over flight. I was sort of worried that would be the case.
To me, though, they’re moving slowly. Well, not actually slow, but it feels that way. My senses are sharp enough to read their attacks almost before they make them. Their movements telegraph everything the moment they begin. And my spatial awareness? Let’s just say I never thought heightened spatial awareness could count as a superpower, but it’s saved me in a fight more times than I can remember
The first one lunges at me with a two-by-four—a clumsy, sluggish move and a poor choice of weapon, all things considered. I catch the flat edge and, with the kind of strength some might call peak human condition, snap his own weapon back and bounce it off his forehead. He crumples to the ground, reeling in pain.
This is all going to happen so fast they might not even have time to realize how hard they’re going down. A part of me wishes they weren't running on adrenaline right now, or that they had more time to realize it might be in their best interest to give up.
A chain whips toward me, but I duck under the blow and drive a hard kick into my attacker’s midsection, sending him crashing into a steel dumpster with a metallic thud. Another lunges at me with a baseball bat. I catch it mid-swing with my talons, yanking it out of his hands and casting it aside with disdain.
"Strike! You’re out!" I quip, unable to hold back a grin. I can’t help enjoying this—the fight, the adrenaline. There’s a part of me, the part that was beaten down and bullied as a kid, that sees this as closure. Closure against the kinds of bullies who once made me feel weak and powerless.
I’ll probably feel bad about this later. After all, there’s something hypocritical about enjoying the act of bullying them. This fight is, in some ways, the equivalent of me grabbing their hand smacking them with it and mocking them with, “Why are you hitting yourself?” They don’t have the weapons or the training to be much of a threat to me.
That’s why I’m not using the talons. They haven’t done anything to justify me going all out, nor have they done anything bad enough to make me want to show them how an angry crow truly fights.
Knives are next. Now, knives are proper weapons—a force multiplier I can respect. Fast, sharp, aerodynamic.
Two come at me with blades—one wields a switchblade, the other a butterfly knife. Fancy. The remaining thugs have slowed, falling back a step. Looks like they’re starting to realize just how outclassed they are. If they’re lucky, they’ll drop their weapons and give up.
As much as the darker part of me revels in this, another part hopes they’ll surrender peacefully, so I don’t have to enjoy hurting them as much as I do. Am I a bastard? Probably. But maybe I’m a magnificent bastard. Yeah, I can live with that.
Two blades coming at me, two attackers. I’m not in the best position to dodge, but that’s where my armor and cloak come into play. Despite what movies might have you believe, armor isn’t just for show, and mine is no joke. The knife slashes at me, biting into the layers of protective material, but I doubt it even reached the titanium plate before being deflected.
I twist and trap the butterfly knife in my cloak. It’s weighted and made from ballistic fiber. The blade bites into it, but not deeply, and with a sharp yank, it’s out of his hands.
Now it’s my turn.
I’m not going claws-out, but I’m still wearing metal gauntlets. A balled fist wrapped in metal, combined with my physical prowess, may as well be a punch from a heavyweight boxer wearing full plate armor. The first guy goes down in a heap, and honestly, I can’t blame him.
The other guy, the one with the switchblade, gets a snap kick. It floors him and sends his face into the concrete. He won’t be getting up anytime soon.
The remainder drop their weapons as their losses sink in. I turn to them and, in my darkest voice, growl, "Take your pals, get lost, and don’t ever let me catch you causing trouble in my city again!"
They seem inclined to agree, scrambling to put as much distance between us as possible. I could take them down, leave them gift-wrapped for the police, but it’s not like I have much evidence. Besides, I wouldn’t stick around for the cops to arrive—what I do isn’t exactly legal.
I’ve made my choice. I can’t say I know what the consequences will be. All I can do is hope for the best—hope they decide to make better choices in their lives. That’s the thing, though: you never really know. All anyone can ever do is make the choices they feel are right and hope for the best.
As for me, the night is young. Crime never sleeps, and the crows are always watching.
—The End
I was in the mood for some flash fiction staring The Cunning Corax one of my favorite characters to write from the Specials Universe. The Corax is a character with a long history for me, one I originally created when I was about 13 or 14 years old. Back then, I’d spend my lunch breaks at school sketching superheroes and dreaming up their stories.
Admittedly, Corax has come a long way since those early days, but the essence of what made him compelling to me has stayed. Part of the reason I created the Specials Universe was to breathe new life into these old ideas—concepts that had been sitting in faded notes stuffed in binders or gathering dust in the back of my mind. Writing about him again feels like rekindling a creative spark, connecting with a piece of my younger self while refining it with the perspective and skill I’ve gained over the years.
Crow-themed characters are always cool - and I love how the crow motif is more than just an aesthetic here.