Before you get the wrong idea here, I am NOT writing this for my own amusement. In order to warn those of you who have found this letter in the future, I am writing this to detail each of the events that occurred after my...liberation. So that what happened before, doesn't happen again. We need to take a stand, uphold our values. Or else, everything devolves into a cesspool of chaos.

All depressing philosophical statements aside, where should I start? I guess I should start...four years ago, summertime.

My name is James Jacobs. I haven't exactly had a "normal" life, you could say. My parents are two of the best contract killers and assassins on the planet. Collin King is my dad. He's a lean, threatening, and incredibly lethal guy. He is often hired by intelligence agencies and mob bosses to...take care of business, so to speak.

My mom, Linda Jacobs, isn't much better. She's an assassin, and even more skilled than dad in hand-to-hand combat and such. She isn't really as scary-looking, though.

The two of them trained me from the age of three to be the ultimate weapon. They trained me in marksmanship, martial arts, tracking, stealth, endurance, man-hunting, and other such deadly disciplines. Taking on the persona of Blackhawk, I became a vicious killer, and thrived under my parents' tutelage. All until the summer when I turned fourteen...

I woke up from a mere two hours of sleep, the side of my head still throbbing from the beating that my father had dished out to me the previous night. I lifted myself out of bed and limped downstairs. Our house was huge, so calling it a house isn't really being honest. Mansion is more like it. The newly furnished living room filled with the distinct aroma of my mother's cooking greeted me as I trudged down the stairs.

I immediately took my place at my father's side at the table. I poured myself a glass of milk and began munching into my cereal. My father stared at me with a cruel glint in his black eyes.

"You have a long day of training today. Finish your cereal quickly," Dad stated, his demeanor calm and collected. I did as he told and followed him outside into the backyard. He tossed back a knife without looking, and I caught it by the hilt.

Dad then turned and faced me. "You're going to attack me," he said. "With all the rage, the unchecked power that you've been holding back."

I took a deep breath and spun the knife in my hands. Pushing out any remorse or doubt I had in me, I lunged at my father with the knife, as quick and flexible as a snake. My father grabbed my arm, and the next thing I knew, I was on the ground.

Being flipped over like that so quickly left a rather unpleasant sensation in the pit of my stomach. I performed a kip-up to my feet and studied my dad. I then stepped forward, spun, and kicked with my foot coming around in an arc to the side of my dad's head. Dad easily blocked with his forearm and backed away.

"Disappointing," he mused. "All the physical training, all the mental preparation. You're supposed to be the perfect assassin, boy."

I was about to leap at him, but my mother suddenly appeared next to me and blocked my arm. "You two have a job to do," she said. "I just got off the phone with our...contact. He wants a guy dead. The target's name is Bruce Wayne."

We took a helicopter to Wayne Enterprises. It was Wayne's day schedule, he was at work. Getting in would be easy enough; it was evening, most people were drifting out of the office. I rappelled down from the chopper down several stories, my feet on the windows.

When I reached Bruce Wayne's office, I burst through the window and landed in a barrel roll. Whipping out a jo staff, I expanded it into full form and began choking Wayne with it from behind. Pressing harder with my staff, I was about to neutralize Wayne once and for all.

"We have him, father," I said.

Suddenly, my eyelids began fluttering. A wave of drowsiness swept over me, and I crashed to the ground, succumbing to the cold blackness that followed.

I woke up in some sort of police interrogation room, the kind you see in the movies. Bruce Wayne sat across from me. I realized my hands were handcuffed behind the chair, and I glared at Wayne.

The philanthropist looked at me calmly. "Quite a stunt you pulled tonight. Fortunate that I had knockout gas emitters installed a couple of months ago," he remarked.

I did not reply.

Bruce leaned forward. "You're in quite a bit of trouble," he continued. "This goes beyond juvenile detention, I hope you know that."

I was already slipping a lockpick from my sleeve. I chose to keep quiet again.

Bruce got up and nodded to the guard. "Take him away," he told the guard before exiting the room.

I wiggled the lockpick in the keyhole of the handcuff. After a few seconds, they came off and fell to the floor with a metallic clank. The guard pulled out a gun on me, but I grabbed the man's arm and twisted it behind his back. With one hand, I handcuffed his arm to the leg of the table and shoved him aside roughly.

I then kicked open the door and ran down the hallway. Two more guards stepped in front of me, but I growled, jumped into the air, and slammed their heads together to knock them out. I rounded a corner to the vault. I was open, and three guards were attempting to move my equipment to a safe location.

I kicked one of them down and slammed another's head into the wall. The last one got off a round, but I rolled to the side and uppercutted him to the chin, sending him slamming into the wall and slumping to the floor. I quickly lockpicked the maximum security locker and retrieved my jo staff, shurikens, and knives.

Suddenly, a shadow alerted me to the presence of a figure behind me. I whipped around to see the Batman standing there, his eyes staring me down. He was quite impressive, but I was going to have to fight him. I twirled my jo staff in my hands and lunged at him, but Batman blocked my advance with his gauntlet.

I immediately spun and kicked at him, and Batman backed away and threw down a smoke pellet. I took out a throwing knife and hurled it where I saw his shadow. I then produced several more and tossed them at him.

He dodged them seamlessly, and I took the time to stab at him with a knife. Batman held my arm and forced me to my knees. I gritted my teeth, rolled forward, and broke free. Spinning around, I threw a knife at an electrical relay box. It exploded, less than a foot away from Batman.

Batman raised his cape to block the sparks, and the Dark Knight crumpled from the generator's fiery explosion that followed. I took the opportunity and turned, leaping out the window and plummeting towards the pavement below.

My father made me watch the security feeds later that night.

Typing on his keyboard at a quick rate, he tapped into the security footage at WayneTech. I gazed intently at the computer screen. I had executed each move with a superhuman efficiency, fluidity, and accuracy.

Batman himself was parrying and dodging with incredible speed, and my father punched the computer screen as Batman crumpled.

"You failed," Predator said.

I did not reply. I merely nodded to show my agreement.

Predator snarled and grabbed me by the neck. I gasped for air, and my father hurled me into the wall with crushing force. I collapsed to the ground and clutched my throat. My father kicked me in the ribs, and I keeled over from the pain. He then trudged up the stairs, and I shakily got to my feet.

I suppose you could say that was the beginning of my rebellious streak.