{the erring talon}

-Yet a voice tells us that weakness is a crime-

He moved in silence, flitting like a wisp in the night. But it was not night. It was late morning, and Jason Todd was gone. That was not too troubling. The boy had been stolen, sure, and he was now awake when he had been comatose previously. Talon wasn't concerned. The boy was far too easy to track, and it seemed silly to think that anyone who had been the target of an assassination only a day previous was carelessly strolling through a park.

Talon hid. He did not want unnecessary attention, and it was easy to become invisible. The day was chilly, a brisk December morning that made him feel rather sickly. He hated the winter, and wished the Court would stop sending him on missions during this time of year. It hindered his abilities, and that was too bothersome to deal with.

The news that Jason Todd had almost been killed the day previous had been curious. The fact that he'd awoken, and was now out of the hospital, almost made it simpler by comparison. After all, if this hadn't happened, there probably would have been tighter security precautions. Talon was almost thankful to whoever had decided to go after the ward of Bruce Wayne. Almost.

Talon felt a little dead, and a little sick. The sky was a haze of grayish clouds, which parted somewhat for a break of sunshine. Talon relished in that, and he watched Jason Todd and his comrade disappear down an alley. Talon could have done away with them there. But he waited. And he listened to them, his mind fluttering and wandering, wondering vaguely what it might be like to have a friend.

It felt like needles and blasphemy just to think about it. So he carried on, following them to an apartment building. Getting inside was easy, and Talon was inside the apartment before they were. He hid away, waiting for the precise moment to strike. He wanted them to feel comfortable. He wanted the false security to set in, just so he could make it go fast, and then he could go back to sleep.

He made a mistake. While listening to the boys talk, he'd gotten too curious. He found a set of silver claws in a dish by the door, and when he picked one up, the keys in the dish clinked. He froze, and dropped the silver claw back into the dish. It clinked again, and he stiffened, mentally berating himself for being such a fool. His curiosity had gotten the better of him. He was too mercurial, too much of a child who wanted to know everything and understand things. He hated himself for being so weak, and he wished that he could escape himself somehow.

He entered the kitchen with seven knives in hand. He was still unseen, but not for long. The boy was suspicious, and he had heard him. Now they were locked in a battle of seen and unseen, their senses tingling as they both addressed each other to be where they were. Who would move faster? That was silly, it would be Talon. But the boy had good instincts, and he dove for Jason Todd before Talon had thought he would.

He flung the knives, and they tore through the thin fabric of the wheelchair's back, slicing it into strips of fluttering green cloth. He watched all seven burrow themselves into the wooden panels of the wall opposite, and Talon's eyes narrowed. He had not expected this to be difficult. He had not wanted it to be a fight. He just wanted to kill them quickly, nicely, just so they wouldn't have to suffer. He leapt atop a countertop, balancing on its edge as the nameless boy kicked the wheelchair at him, sending it flying and toppling over. Its wheels were spinning wildly, screeching as they spun and spun and spun.

Talon grasped another knife as he watched the boy hide Jason Todd beneath a table. Todd was shouting, but that was unimportant. Talon wished he could spare the boy, but it was no good. He was too dangerous to leave alone. He wasn't a little blonde girl who had dreamt up an injured Talon in her bathroom. He was an adult, or nearly so, and he had to go. I'm sorry, Dick thought, whipping his knife at the boy's shoulder. He had been expecting it, but as Talon had judged, he was not quite so quick. When he dodged, the knife sliced through his shoulder, and the boy gasped as Talon dove, the tips of his feet slamming into his chest. Talon flipped back, listening to him go down, and he grasped another knife, throwing himself atop the boy.

Before he could get the tip of his knife in his neck, however, the boy had wedged a knife through Talon's ribs. The boy was younger than Talon had thought, with big, almost... familiar blue eyes that were horrified and confused, but he forced the knife deeper, and Talon heard his own breath hitch. His knife was hovering over the boy's jugular, and he felt his teeth bare in irritation, gritting in pain.

The boy kicked Talon off of him, and dove for the table, flinging a few chairs away and reaching for Todd. "We have to go!" gasped the boy.

Talon stood up, pulling the kitchen knife from the wound. It might have stung a little, but Talon couldn't be sure. He was angry though. He brandished his own knife in his right hand, in the blood soaked kitchen knife in the other. He felt cold. Numb. In his soul, he was rotting, and something had frozen within him. He breathed, and he stepped forward, his eyes meeting the boy's. He stood slowly, his shoulder blooming red against the cotton of his shirt. His eyes had gone cold, no longer horror-struck.

"Who are you?" the boy asked, his voice clipped.

Talon lurched forward, and the boy dodged him, sliding to the side. Talon had seen that. His leg jutted out, and the boy stumbled, flipping onto his back and knocking the bloody knife from Talon's hand with a swift kick. The boy spun on his hands, landing in a crouch, and Talon blinked.

"Who are you?" he found himself asking, his voice hoarse from disuse. He knew him. He knew he knew him. This boy was certainly no bystander. This complicated things.

The boy gave a grin that reminded him of a cat from a story he'd once known. Of shoes and ships and sailing wax… He drove the thoughts from his brain. "Come on," the boy cooed. "I asked you first."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Todd cried from beneath the table.

Talon flung his knife, and the boy dodged, grabbing the kitchen knife that Talon had dropped and diving at him. Talon was shocked by his stamina and agility, but that was likely because he was not used to his targets fighting back with such vigor. Or talent. He's good at this, Dick thought. He prayed the boy was old enough that the Court would deem him too developed to replace Dick as Talon.

The boy was not as flexible as Talon. That became apparent as they began to fight, knives slicing through air as they both whipped and ducked and stabbed at nothing. Their arms knocked against each other, and Talon kicked the boy back, his knife slashing against his cheek. He watched blood spill from the gash, sliding in a slight wave of red rivulets.

Talon struck him again, this time slicing open his shirt. The boy's chest now had a thin line running diagonally across it, straight and pristine as an artist's stroke. The boy kicked Talon back, flipping over him, and taking at stab at his back. Talon whacked him away, blinking as he felt the boy cling to him, his knife burrowing deep into his shoulder. His side wound hadn't even healed yet. This wasn't going well.

He punched the boy hard, his fist connecting with his jaw and sending him flying into a wall. Talon's nostrils flared as he tore the kitchen knife out of him yet again, and zipped forward, grabbing the boy by the neck and suspending him in midair. He slammed him against the wall again, watching blood run down his cheek like streaks of red tears. The boy winced, giving a soft choking noise. And he glared at Talon with such conviction, Dick faltered when he pressed the bloody blade to his bare chest.

That falter was all Todd had needed to crawl out from beneath the table and whack his leg with a cleaver. The shock of that forced Talon to drop the boy. Objective, Talon reminded himself. But Talon was losing a lot of blood, and he wasn't healing fast enough. Life, reminded Dick. He looked down at Todd, who had ripped out the cleaver, and moved to hit him again. Talon's knees were shaking as his foot slammed into Todd's shoulder, forcing the cleaver to fall.

Talon pulled out another knife. The bloody kitchen knife was still in hand, and pointed at the boy's neck. The other was pointed at Todd.

"I'm sorry," Dick said, aiming at the boy.

Something crashed through the window and barreled into him, sending him flying into the connecting living room, and slamming into the wall. He felt dizzy, shocked, and the pain was rushing into him. He felt cold, and he wasn't healing. Whatever had hit him weighed a ton, and Talon blinked rapidly as he slumped down, his head resting in the dent in the wall behind him.

He was punched, and he felt his mask crack. The fist was more like a brink, and Talon felt blood, warm and hot and sticky, running from his nostrils into his mouth. He was punched again, and his head snapped back. The third the first came, Talon had seen it coming, and he ducked, slamming himself into the bold red S shield the boy who had attacked him bore. Not Superman, Dick thought, feeling stupid. Superboy. Superboy stumbled back in shock, and Talon punched him, his fist cracking against the boy's jaw. He slipped away before Superboy could get a grab on him, and he flipped up and over the targets he knew he had lost.

He flung himself out the window, feeling himself whirling downwards, the frigid winter air hitting him harder than any wound afflicting him. He blinked rapidly as he landed in a crumpled, broken heap on the sidewalk. For a short, weakened moment, he was dead on impact.

He sprung to his feet, his body so battered that he buckled, imbalanced and shaking. The wind was biting at him, licking his wounds like salt. He looked upward for only a second, and he could see the boy staring down at him. He bolted after that, flinging himself into traffic and listening to cars screech and smash. His heart was pounding, and his bones all felt broken. His wounds were too much, and it was too cold, and he would die again soon if he didn't hurry and fine shelter.

If he thought that this death would be final, perhaps he would have let himself die. But he knew better. He would come back, and it would only be more painful. Slow and agonizing, wounds stitching back together at a thread of skin a minute. It all hurt, and he was running blindly, fleeing from his failure and praying that the Court didn't find out about his folly. There was small, wet flakes dripping from the sky and dissolving before they hit the ground. Talon felt ready to puke.

He found a building in an alleyway with a cracked window. He smashed it, and slipped inside, collapsing in a heap over shattered glass and powdered snow.


Note: Gr8 job, Dick, you're a shitty assassin too. They're all shitty assassins. Everyone is a shitty assassin, that should be the summary of this dumb fic.

Cred to Victor Hugo. He was most likely not a shitty assassin.