Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime.
He was going to die here.
The young lawyer knew it. He knew it ever since he got the letter in the mail, the white piece of paper with only an owl printed on the front. He knew it once his colleagues starting avoiding him like the plague. He knew it from the feeling that he was being watched as he walked down the city streets. He'd been in denial for the last week, desperately hoping that the letter was a prank, a cruel joke, not the calling card of death that threatened every citizen in Gotham. That perhaps he'd get lucky.
He was wrong. There was no such thing as luck in Gotham. Luck was only granted to owls that perched on the edges of buildings in the dead of night. The rest of them were mice. Prey.
He pressed his hand to his shoulder, trying to stop the blood that was pouring out of his wound. The small throwing knife had hit an artery. There was no other way a man could bleed this much otherwise. His thumb, slick with blood, traced over the blade, feeling the crest on the end. He could tell from the curves and lines that is was of an owl. Bloodthirsty. Alert. Ready for the kill.
It wasn't the only wound he was sporting. There were two in his legs, and another in his side. They'd hit him all at once, shattering through his office windows and sinking into his flesh. The impact had sent him onto the floor, right next to his chair, and crawling under his desk to try to hide his files took almost all his energy. The papers were hidden in his back pocket now, smeared with blood. Trashed. But still admissible to a court of law.
He just wanted to put Harvey Dent away. Get the two-faced lawyer some help. He should have known better. The court had their loving talons in Harvey. And now they would bury them in him too.
He heard the broken glass near the window crunch. They were here. He could see boot clad feet walk across his office, stepping on each sharp piece of glass. The noise of the shards snapping made him want to throw up. The pieces were easy enough to avoid, but they one pair of feet kept stepping on them anyway. Like the cracking was a source of amusement. There were two of them from what he could tell, two sent to kill him. One had larger feet and walked with a sense of ease that was disturbing given the amount of blood on the floor. The other seemed to be taking care with every step, avoiding the glass.
"Hello! Mr. Lawyer man? Where'd you go?" One of them said, their voice a sing-song. Like that of a child, singing for attention. There was a slight grunt and he saw one of them fall slightly to the side. The other one had to have pushed him.
"Don't play around, Dick," the other said. He sounded younger, more serious. The use of names made the lawyer's breath catch in his throat. They weren't even bothering to keep their names hidden. "We're working."
"You're no fun, Timbo." The one with the larger feet said, his voice falling out of the sing-song. Back to being serious. Brutal. He walked over to the desk and grabbed the edges. The lawyer knew what that meant. They knew were he was. They were going to take away his hiding spot. The lawyer gripped the blade in his shoulder. He wasn't going to make it out of this alive. He'd lost too much blood. But maybe, just maybe, his attackers wouldn't make it out of this one either.
The desk flipped over. The lawyer pulled the knife out of his shoulder in one firm movement, throwing it right towards his attacker. It hurt, but with all the blood loss, he really didn't care. It soared with a sense of grace, embedding itself right in the man's eye socket. The lawyer expected the man to fall down, to collapse howling, but instead he flinched, reaching up for the blade. With a firm movement, the man grabbed the end and pulled it out. Like it was a splinter. Before the lawyer could take that in, a long blade ran him through from behind. The second attacker had been prepared. The lawyer made a noise, a death rattle, and collapsed to the floor. The sword went with him.
Tim Drake stood over the body and sighed. He hated the fighters. They were always messy. He reached down and patted down the man's pockets, searching for the papers they came for. They were easy enough to find, and he pulled out the blood soaked evidence with a blank expression on his face. It was almost funny how a few papers had cost a man his life. He tucked those into his own pocket, not caring about ripping them, and then reached for his blade. As he pulled it out, he could hear a few of the deceased man's ribs crack. It was a sound he was still getting used to.
"How's the eye, Dick?" He said, turning to the other man. Dick was fiddling with the blade, twirling it in his two forefingers. It was clean, along with Dick's new wound. No, blood. No nothing. Talon benefits that Tim had yet to receive (and never would if Bruce had something to say about it).
"It's alright. I'll just have to stich it up. I'm just glad he didn't get you." He looked down at the corpse. "Got the papers?" Tim nodded. "Great. Uncle Harvey will be thrilled."
"Uncle Harvey or Uncle Two-Face?" Dick snickered and walked over to his little brother, throwing his arm over his shoulder. His footsteps splashed in the blood all over the floor, staining the leather on his boots. Not that it really mattered; there was a collection of a dozen of different blood types on the things already. He pulled in Tim close. The contrast of Tim's pale skin to Dick's deathly white was noticeable from a distance even in the darkness.
"Does it really matter? Either way, we're in for ice-cream." He let Tim go and reached into his pocket, pulling out a silver coin. Their family token. He threw it onto the body, letting the owl side face up. "Now let's get going. It's game night."
The left the blood soaked office behind them.
They watch you at your heath, they watch you in your bed.
As soon as Dick entered the kitchen, Cassandra lobbed a roll of gauze at him.
"Tim called ahead, huh?" Dick said, sitting down in his usual spot at the table. The monopoly game was already out, every piece already on the go space. Dick had gotten out of his uniform as soon as he got home, but he hadn't bothered to take a shower (Tim had rushed to take one, despite being a massive slob. The kid could stand any mess except blood). There was still blood splatter on Dick's wrists. Cassandra didn't comment on it, reaching forward to shuffle the chance cards. Coming home with blood was normal as long as it wasn't their own.
"Yes. Be more careful," she said, folding the cards over one another. The bright blue veins were stark against her black long-sleeved shirt. Dick rolled his one working eye while he pressed some of the gauze to the cut. The serum that flowed through his veins had already started to repair the wound, but it wouldn't be entirely healed until someone stitched it.
"Tell that to Tim. He's the one with blood to spill."
Cassandra shot him a glare. Since Bruce rescued her from Cain at age 6, she'd gotten better with words, but she still preferred gestures. As a result, most of the family had become fluent in every one of her movements. Dick could read this one easy. A wound was a wound. Blood or no blood. And she'd kick his ass if he implied otherwise.
"Okay, okay," Dick said, holding up his hands in surrender. "Where's everyone?"
"Out." More assassinations then. Typical. It'd been a busy week for the Wayne family ever since election season started up. It was surprising Cassandra wasn't out there as well. She got up and walked towards the kitchen counter pulling out a first aid kit. They kept it under the sink. It was pretty well stocked for a family who mostly didn't bleed, full of bandages (for all of them) and antibiotic cream (for Damian and Tim). Soon enough, she had out the material to stich up Dick's eye. Despite the fact that floss worked just fine on them, Bruce still ended up getting the good stuff. He said he just wanted the best for them. "Ready?"
"You bet."
By the time Cassandra had finished closing the injury and wrapping it, everyone was back. Tim was back first, having finished his shower. He'd put on a star wars t-shirt, one of the many relics of his old life and sat down at the table, playing video games on his phone. Jason and Damian came next, walking through the entryway soaked in blood. It was pretty par for the course. They tended to be messy. They managed to clean off pretty quick and by the time they both finished their own showers, Bruce was back. Their father hadn't bothered to change out of his own Talon uniform, it was spotless, but he had taken off the mask. It was a house rule; no masks inside.
"Any luck finding Oracle, B?" Dick said, tilting his head back to look at his father. Bruce looked down at his eldest son who would always be eternally 20 and shook his head.
"Not yet. They keep evading us." Oracle, a computer hacker, had been messing with the owls operations for far too long. A visit from the owls was overdue. "But we'll find them."
"And I'll slice their head off," Damian said, taking his own seat at the table. The chair was a little too tall for him and he scrambled over the side. Jason walked up to him and nudged his shoulder, almost sending the kid back off the chair. Damian made a growling noise, like he was a cat, and Jason reached over to ruffle his hair before he could consider retribution (not that retribution would be useful. Jason couldn't bleed).
"You keep thinking that, kid." He took his seat next to Dick and kicked his feet up onto the table. He ignored the pointed glare Bruce shot him. "Damian and I spotted Bluebird and the Spoiler today. You know, the two kids?" The entire table nodded. "They almost saved our hit. Well, almost is stretching it." He threw his phone to Bruce who caught it with one free hand. "We took photos. I think Cass is onto something, B. They'd be good additions. If we get them before Oracle that is."
"I wouldn't be… only girl," Cassandra said, her eyes alight. Since the teenage vigilantes showed up, Cassandra had been their greatest advocate when it came to not killing them. She'd like some sisters. And killing them would be a hassle. Bruce scrolled through the pictures. Bluebird giving a dead man CPR. Spoiler racing after his son's trail. Both of them fighting some muggers on 10th. They did, indeed, show great merit. If only they would stop trying to get in their way. He threw the phone back to Jason.
"I'll think about it," Bruce said. He took his seat at the head of the table and reached for a set of dice. They were an old set, a set Alfred had given him back when he was still a child, after his parent's death. Years after the court kidnapped him, and he took the society over (by force), he snuck back into the manor to grab them with some other treasures of his childhood. Bruce rolled the dice in his hand and glanced up at his family. His brilliant, brilliant family. The one he never hoped to dream of after his parents. After Alfred. After the court.
A part of him hoped Alfred would be proud of him.
"Now," Bruce said, rubbing his thumb over the dots on the dice. "Who wants to go first?"
While they played on, six dead bodies would be discovered in Gotham. Six dead promising young men and women. Six lives stolen. On each of them they would find a silver coin, a promise of what happened when someone dared to cross the Owls of Gotham.
On her computer screen, Barbara Gordon wrote six more names. She had work to do.
Speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send The Talon for your head.