I perch atop one of the oldest buildings in Gotham, a building that I recognize but can't quite remember anymore. Its archaic design and darkened stained-glass windows, coupled with its towering structure and abundance of nooks, crannies, and gargoyles to duck behind, makes it the perfect hiding place to go to for an examination of events, or perhaps of conscience. I think to myself that I used to know this place, used to come here often or else I wouldn't know the way, but I don't know why I know it. I can't quite put my finger on how I was first introduced to this monolithic edifice, or why I took an interest in it, but I'm pretty sure it was probably some sort of a refuge for me even then. It brings a strange sense of peace to my frenzied mind and frantic heart, my overtaxed nerves and busily-working brain, as if to say, "Relax, Angel. Take a deep breath. You're safe here."

But I can't help but think that I'm not safe, that nowhere is safe.

I bury my head in my hands, recalling the order Ra's gave me before I left: "Do not return until you've killed all that remain." This was a failure. No other word for it. I had Grayson right under my hands, could've killed him at any time, but I just…I didn't. And I don't know why.

And of all the stupid things to say, "Why'd you let me forget?" What the hell was that supposed to mean?

I think I know already. The briefest flash of something, I'm not sure what, ran through my mind when he called me by that name, when he called me Tim. If I could just think hard enough…but, no, it's already gone, the memory or whatever it was is already gone. I get a grasp on it, and then it fades, too fast for me to remember.

I decide to allow myself as much respite as I can get and sit back, leaning against a gargoyle and letting the stone's coolness seep through my clothing to my already warm, sweat-soaked skin. I feel so tired all of a sudden, so drained, like I could just lie down right here and sleep away what's left of my life, and I'm stunned that I'm not stunned that I know the feeling well, recognize it. It's the same feeling I always get when I'm coming off the drug. And then, sure enough, the burn starts up again in the pit of my stomach, escalating from slight annoyance to almost unbearable. I curl up a little more on my spot, drawing my knees up to my chest and pressing myself even farther into the gargoyle's solidness, hoping that it'll ground me, keep me rooted to this position so I'm not tempted to throw myself onto the street. What's happening to me?

When was the last time I could answer that question?

At last, after what feels like forever, the pain dies away, and my rigid body uncoils, slowly, as if it's afraid to do much just in case it hurts all over again. My head is just a little clearer, my thoughts a little more sensible. The only downside is that a pinching sensation starts up in my right hand, just beneath the knuckle of my thumb. I sigh. Of course my gun hand would cramp, right when I need it most. I grip my thumb and pull it back, hard, stretching it. I do it again and again, and eventually it rids my hand of the cramp.

I count my heartbeats, take stock of my breaths. They're still a little fast. I have to consciously think about it to slow my system down, to calm myself. While I have a moment, I reach into the holster on my leg and pull out my gun, checking it over. I never fired it, of course. I've already determined that to be a slip in judgment. But it doesn't hurt to be sure. I can almost feel…can almost remember that I never used to be this familiar with guns. I adjust my grasp on the weapon, fluttering my fingers a little for the sake of watching them move against the cold black metal. When did I learn this craft? Killing doesn't seem like the kind of thing you just pick up, the kind of thing you familiarize yourself with when you're not really paying attention. No, it's more the kind of thing that takes practice, takes discipline, like playing an instrument. This kind of skill…it takes time.

"There you are."

The bullet discharges from the pistol without even so much as a shred of hesitation. I don't even grace it with a second thought. I spin around and fire up into the air, in the direction of the voice. She dodges, leaping off the dome and onto the roof behind me. I'm on my feet in an instant and swing a wide punch at her head. She parries it easily, but she misses the real hit, the fist that has just collided rather forcefully with her gut. She doubles over, and then I have her on the floor, straddling her, pinning her arms down with my knees. My left hand is full of the strap of her vest, and my right hand is practically burying the barrel of the pistol in her chest. "Who are you?" I snarl.

She holds up both hands in a gesture of accepted defeat, or perhaps of calming, and replies gently, "Easy, there, Angel. My name is Sierra. I was sent to find you."

"Why?"

"Ra's al Ghul thought it would be best if you had some backup."

The feeling that I have in that moment is like shock, and it hits me like a truck going seventy down a deserted road. My gun hand withdraws from her chest, and I release her slowly, my fist struggling to uncurl and my knees shaking ever so slightly as I stand up. I back away from Sierra, holding my pistol up with only my thumb and forefinger, signaling surrender, and I look her over as she pushes herself up off the hard stone and brushes herself off. She's probably about eighteen or nineteen, with a complexion that's somewhere between light and dark and brown hair pulled into a long braid down her back. Her black top and pants are form-fitting, tight, showing off her athletic figure, and her vest is covered in pockets that I instinctively know are loaded down with gear. As I watch her, she pivots slightly to the left and right, checking for any damage on her own guns. This girl seems trained, but it's rough. Her haphazard rooftop dance, her inattentiveness to the fight and the way she let me catch her off-guard, it all reeks of amateurism. She's talented, maybe, but she's new. And it makes me wonder…did Ra's send her for backup, or because she needs to learn what it's really like out in the field?

Sierra is glowering at me. "Well, now that we've gotten introductions out of the way." She approaches me more cautiously than before, eyeing me in the same way you might eye a rabid tiger. "You're a hard man to find, you know that? It took me all night to track you down. You could've at least made it a little easier."

I set the safety on my gun and holster it, shaking my head. "Don't want to chance the Bats following me. A murky trail leads to a happy assassin." I cross my arms and give her another good once-over with my eyes. "So—why'd Ra's send you? Why not set the Men of Death after me as my 'backup'?"

Sierra rolls her eyes. "I am one of the Men of Death, genius. I'm new. He says I need to work on my team-playing skills."

"That's obvious."

All anxieties about a repeat of the incident that occurred only a few moments before fade with my comment. She gets right up in my face, ignoring the fact that she's leaving herself open, and growls, "Look, I don't know what your issue is, Angel, and I honestly don't give a damn about it. If you've got a problem with me, you'll just have to suck it up and deal, because I'm the only backup you're getting on this mission. And, for the record, I am way more capable than what you give me credit for." I scoff at her, taking my turn at eye-rolling. "Is this a sexist thing? Because if it is—"

"It's not a sexist thing, Sierra," I respond hotly. "It's just that I've got a job to do, and I can't afford to waste time conditioning some perky little pixie just out of training school!"

"You can afford to 'waste time' on whatever Ra's al Ghul orders you to!" She pauses, an almost haughty smile overcoming her features. "Or did you forget that?"

I feel my eyes narrow in a death glare. "Don't even talk to me about forgetting."

She shrugs, taking a step back and letting her muscles relax once more. "From what I hear, you've been in this longer than anyone else except Ra's himself. You, of all people, ought to know not to buck the chain of command. We're doing this for you. The details of the mission made that much clear to me. So be the good actor they all tell me you are and fake a little gratitude for me. It's the least you can do to repay me for six straight hours of scouring this hellhole looking for you."

A smirk pulls at the left corner of my mouth despite the fact that all I really want to do is frown at her. She's right, about the chain of command thing. I may be the pet project, but Ra's is the head man, and he can have me killed at any time for disobeying him. He's sent Sierra here for a reason. I'm just supposed to trust that it's a good one.

The problem is…I don't trust much anymore.

"You"—I jab a finger at her—"have an attitude, Miss Sierra. I'd debate whether or not to kill you right now and string you up by your ankles, but you're also, to your credit, very persuasive. Here's the deal: you want to work with me, you've gotta keep up with me. You can't lag, you can't slow me down, and you damn sure better make decisions quick. Do what I say, unless I say it's your call. But the bottom line is that you're an assassin. You work for the deadliest organization on the planet, meaning you better do your job, because I'm not doing it for you. Are we clear?"

She's trying not to let her relief show on her face. She probably didn't plan for what would happen if I told her I didn't need her help, or, worse yet, tried to kill her. "Crystal," she tells me.

I give a curt nod. "Good. Let's go."

So much for my refuge, I guess.