A/N: Still uploading on mobile, so apologies for mistakes. The next chapter will explain why Dick is so obsessed/possessive of Jason. Their 'partnership' will start soon as will other confrontations.

I had other stuff I wanted to explain, but writing on mobile is frustrating lmfao

In the bleak, black night, a lithe figure perched atop a roof. One could nearly mistake him for a statue, the way he held still as death with skin nearly as gray as the unforgiving stone he rested upon. It almost seemed as if he wasn't even breathing. Watching, always watching. Predatory gaze, sharp as razors and twice as lethal, was fixated on a nightclub of some renown crawling with patrons. That is where his prey waited. Carmine Falcone. A Sicilian mobster heading one of the oldest gangs in Gotham. No longer, not after tonight. He should not have tried to cross The Arkham Knight. Should not have tried to take what belonged to The Talon. His fate was sealed the moment he dared think of such mutiny.

At the moment, Talon debated on how he wanted to catch the rat. He could simply walk into the club. It's not as if any could stop him. All those flashing lights and pounding bass left him considering other options. That serum The Court injected him with enhanced his senses, particularly his sight and auditory senses. All those people he would tear down, their screams added to the deafening music and blinding lights, would be just another form of torture to the assassin. A masochist, he was not. And it is of no doubt that such an ostentatious entrance would draw unwanted attention of the caped variety. Now was not the time to alert The Bat of his existence. His time would come. It was just a matter of waiting for the right moment to strike. Waiting, always waiting.

Cutting through the back would be effortless. Security wouldn't even need to know he was there. A simple snatch and grab with no evidence would be most efficient. Child's play to this creature with years of stealth discipline beneath his belt. However, he wanted the mobster to know what he did and why death was coming for him. Wanted everyone to know that they cannot touch what belonged to The Talon without unholy retribution. His constant desire to be in the spotlight, all eyes on him like that time long since past in Haly's warred endlessly with the ingrained training to remain a soundless wraith. He had been born and raised to be a showman. From the circus to the manor of a billionaire, and even the shadow of The Bat, he'd always been in the limelight. The Court had no need for an assassin who would get caught. So, they had beaten that desire for attention like a wayward mutt until it retreated. They no longer dictated his life.

He threw himself from his perch and fell toward the pavement with sickening speeds. Somewhere in his memories, he knew he used to enjoy this, the sensation of flying, the rush of the fall. Now it was just muscle memory. The Flying Graysons truly died when Richard Grayson's heart took its last beat, even if this rapacious spector went on with his face. He swung effortlessly to the club's roof and landed with virtually no noise. It was unnatural, the way he ghosted through the streets without so much as a whisper in his wake. Even the infamous Batman was unaware of the revenant stalking the city he thought was his. The Bat was wrong. Gotham belonged to no mortal. She was a wicked and greedy siren. No, Batman belonged to Gotham. Here he was born. Here he would die. Her Gray Son would ensure she got her due. He was cold and empty inside, but there was just the faintest spark, a sort of hunger. For the first time in years, Talon felt. He found himself almost eager to confront the one he once viewed as a father. There would be no tears shed on his part. After all, when has a corpse ever cried?

Deft hands made short work of the locks and he slipped into the building, intent on catching his target. Each move was serpentine smooth as he clung to the shadows. Cold, voracious eyes landed on a meandering guard, armed and unaware of the skulking predator. The man was of average height with a broad muscled build. There was a look to him. It reminded Talon of a cobra; cruel and venomous. He was just another on the seemingly endlessly list of remorseless horrors walking the streets. The heavens would not mourn his loss. The assassin crept ever closer.

The guard didn't notice the approaching killer. Futile as his efforts would have been, he could have prepared or tried to escape, perhaps radio a warning. Instead, quietus drew ever near. Closer and closer still, until he was but a breath away. He could feel the body heat radiating off of the man. That hunger in the former hero rose. The monster crawling beneath his flesh screamed for satisfaction. He did not hunger for flesh or blood, but something more. Talon craved the fire of his very soul. All that the assassin had been was ripped violently away, leaving a frigid husk in its place. Every person he saw had that heat in them; that spark of life he's been denied. He wanted to tear it out of them with his bare hands and shove it into his own chest. Maybe then he wouldn't feel so empty. So cold.

Talon wrapped his arms around the man's throat and mouth, effectively cutting off any chance to cry for help. As he strangled the air from the struggling man's lungs, he leaned even closer until his lips nearly brushed the guard's ear. The howling in his bones reached a crescendo. His jaw ached to tear the man open. To return what had been taken from him.

Muscles coiled and the struggling ceased. Talon dropped the body to the floor with disinterest. The throbbing hollowness remained. Another useless sacrifice. He spared but a glance before he continued down the winding hall. As he passed by an opened door leading to the club, he spotted his prey watching the dance floor like a king lording over his court. The pounding of the club was like screeching in the assassin's ears. He could hear the patron's singing and laughing, talking and fighting. There was so much life, so much heat, he was nearly drawn in. How he wanted to rob them of it all. For a moment, he envisioned killing them all. Body after body after body. Perhaps that will dull the ache. But no, not now. Keen gaze returned to the mobster.

The boss looked up as he felt the cold wings of death pass over him. For a moment, he thought he saw a sleek black figure standing opposite of him, watching with unblinking, incandescent eyes. But just as quick as he saw it, it was gone. He blamed it on the stress of dealing with these morons and the flashing lights playing with his vision. He shook his head as he made his way back to his desk, ready to count his earnings. Carmine was waiting on a report from Roberts on the 'deal' with that new player, The Arkham Knight. What a fucking name. Leave it to this city to spit out another crazy costumed freak. Things were easier in the old days, when Bats didn't fly around and beat the shit out of people and clowns were actually funny. No one had any class or taste any more.

He sat down and took a sip of his bourbon, not looking forward to the long night of working with these idiots, but at least he would profit. Might as well be him who gained from this new mook. He nearly choked on his liquor once he noticed someone else in his office. They had a slender body, effeminate in structure and oh so pretty to see bending over the rail to watch the sites below in their tight, tight black suit. 'Is that latex?' For all his knowledge on weapons and armor, Falcone fell short in the variations used in the capes and tights community. All he saw were pleasant curves and the enticing lines of yellow curling over inviting hips. Carmine blinked in surprise, confusion clear on his face for a moment. Confusion, interest, and a touch of anger. He didn't send for any whores. Hell, he didn't even hear his door open or close. He most certainly didn't appreciate others entering his office without his consent, no matter how nice the sight.

"Who the hell let you back here?"

Nothing but silence met his inquiry. Then, the owner stood, all liquid grace and enviable poise. Those lovely hips led up to broad shoulders, which, admittedly, Carmine was taken aback by. He felt almost ill when he saw the face to the voice. Gray-washed skin looking more at home on a corpse than a living person was lined with black veins, as if someone injected ink into his blood. Vibrant gold eyes stared at the mobster like a starving panther. He felt his heart stutter then pick up pace. This...this was not natural. Whatever this thing was, it needed to die. Quick as he could, he drew his gun and pointed it at the monster. It didn't even bother to look at the magnum. The way It watched the mobster made him feel as if he were pointing his fingers and not a weapon of death.

Talon took a step forward. 'BANG!'a bullet tore through his chest. He looked at the wound with vague interest as the bullet pushed itself out and stitched itself shut. There was a whispered 'oh god' that came from Carmine. Talon looked back at him with a slow tilt of his head. Then, he took two more slow, silent steps. 'BANG BANG'. Two steps, two bullets, two wounds that closed. The noise of the gun rang in his ears like a siren on repeat. It was irritating how loud it was. Quiet, he wanted quiet.

"Why -BANG- won't -BANG- you -BANG- die?!"

Each word was punctuated by another shot from the gun. Pity he sound proofed his room, otherwise his men would be crawling all over this place. He may not be what the feds considered a 'super villain', but he was no small-time crook hawking on a corner. He had an empire, men in every corner of this god-forsaken shithole. Carmine shouldn't be so easily accessible, he had top-notch security. This fucking thing should not have gotten in here. Where the hell were all his guards?! He went to radio for help, but faster than his eyes could register, the monster threw a knife and stuck his hand to his desk. No amount of hard reputation could suppress the pained scream that left the mob boss.

Talon watched in vague interest as the man fought to remove the knife while guttural sounds of torment left his throat. Clawed gauntlets rested on the mahogany desk with quiet 'clicks'. He rounded the furniture, dragging the sharp digits across the surface with an unsettling scratching sound. The gouges left in their wake told of just how lethal they were. Carmine paled from terror and blood loss. The more he struggled, the more he lost. Talon invaded his personal space until the mobster was nearly bent backward in an effort to escape his presence.

"What the hell do you want?!"

Rather than answer, Talon slipped impossibly closer until he could feel the sickly hot breath of the man fan across his face. Brilliant, piercing depths stared with unsettling intensity. It almost felt as if he were searching for something as his eyes roamed over each minute feature of Carmine's face before settling back on his eyes. He couldn't handle staring into those soulless pits for longer than a moment before he averted his gaze. If Death ever had a face, it'd be this.

"Carmine Falcone. You tried to take what was mine."

The boss in question racked his brain for any time he ever crossed paths with this...thing before. Even if he had, he would have kept a million damn miles away and definitely wouldn't have tried to knock him. There's bad decisions, then there's goddamn suicidal decisions, and robbing the fuckin' reaper was the latter. His throat felt tight and dry as he went to talk. Pain coursed through every cell in his body from the knife still stuck through his hand.

"What are you talkin' about?! I never tried ta rob you of anything! Never seen your face in my life, I swear!"

Talon didn't respond, didn't budge from the way he hovered like a carrion over a corpse. Carmine stuttered over his bargain. He dealt with all sorts of devils everyday. Everyone had a price, even monsters like this.

"Listen - listen, if I knocked over somethin' of yours, it wasn't to my knowledge. I'll pay you for any damages or loss. Then, we can go our separate ways. I'll leave your stuff alone. How's that sound? We got a deal?"

Still, nothing but silence and staring. It was driving the man mad. Each breath made the wound in his hand throb as it moved around the sleek throwing knife. Finally, the yellow-eyed demon stepped back quietly. It's voracious gaze never wavered.

"You tried to take my bird, Carmine. My Little Wing."

That...okay so this creature was insane, that's great. How do you bargain with crazy? It's why Carmine stuck to the old-fashioned ways and mostly kept out of the way of those costumes.

"Wha-"

"Call him, Carmine. Call Roberts."

Shit, Roberts. He still never reported in. Turning over that new punk should have been easy. How did this thing know about that plan? His phone was being pressed into his free hand. When did that creature grab that from his pocket? The Roman was shaking hard enough from pain and fear, he nearly dropped the phone. It was difficult to piece together cohesive thoughts beyond the intense throbbing of his wound. He dialed the burner Roberts carried and listened to the endless ringing with growing dread. Then, a voice answered, but not the one he wanted to hear.

"Ah, Carmine! I was wondering when you would wisen up and call. Gotta say, I'm not too impressed with the trade. I'm thinking we should...renegotiate the terms of our contract. What do you say?"

It was The Arkham Knight. This night was just getting better and better, wasn't it? So this nutter in the black worked with Knight? Was he the guy's attack...demon or whatever? He sent this thing after Carmine? The gangster's voice shook as bad as his body and did absolutely nothing to hide the situation he was in.

"A-absolutely, Knight. Sorry for this...miscommunication. Now, would you kindly call off your pet?"

Instead of an immediate response, there was a hush of uncomfortable silence. Then, The Arkham Knight spoke, and the tone in his synthesized voice was none too reassuring.

"What pet?"

Before the mobster could answer, Talon grabbed the phone and crushed it as if it were made of paper. All the while, he stared at Carmine as if he were one second away from devouring the criminal. Carmine stared back at the thing in horror. Knight had no fucking idea who this was. He didn't have this thing on a leash. It was a freelance nutjob, which meant his chances just got dimmer.

"You tried to kill him. My Little Wing. He is mine. No one touches what is mine."

Fuck the knife in his hand, he's about to just try and sprint away. There was a possessive tone in Talon's voice that made it sound as if Knight were merely a toy, a thing that belonged to this creature. Shit, was Knight just the front? This was the one behind it all?

"No no no, you got it all wrong. I never intended on killing Knight. Just...just knockin' some heads. Not his!"

Talon shook his head slowly. That blank expression never so much as twitched since he turned around from the railing. It was more than unnatural, it was fucking unholy. The eyes are what really screamed of his intentions.

"You wanted to cheat him. I think he deserves a gift, don't you?"

At this point, the head of the Falcone crime family would be willing to put on a goddamn tutu and recite the Nutcracker for this whackjob if it meant Carmine would get out of this and never see those horrifying yellow eyes again.

"Name it and it's done."

Then, for the first time since he appeared, Talon smiled. It was just the smallest curl at the corner of bloodless lips, almost unnoticeable, but by god did it drop the room ten degrees and drive the air from the gangster's lungs. The last thing Carmine remembered was shrieking as the knife was torn from his hand and then nothing but black.

The Arkham Knight paced the warehouse floor with growing agitation. His men kept a safe distance - was any distance truly safe from his guns? - in fear. Ever since Knight came back from chasing that assassin, he was on edge. It was like nothing they'd ever seen before. Then, the phone rang and their boss went to work. However, that just made everything worse. They could see it in the way his posture stiffened and the way he went quiet. He'd always been good with words. No one knew who was beneath the mask, but he sounded smart, the way he could recite those boring old books and used words above their paygrade. But this call left him in silence until -

"What pet?"

Whatever he heard wasn't what he wanted to hear, judging by the way he stared at the phone then launched it at the wall with more force than any of them could replicate. It hit the wall with a thundering crack and shattered into pieces. He sure was packing some hard muscles under that high tech armor. That's when the pacing began. It's been at least fifteen minutes and he was still going at it. Sometimes it sounded like he was talking to himself, but none of them were brave enough, or dumb enough, to get any closer to really find out.

He stopped suddenly and pointed at one of his lieutenants, a stocky man who only ever went by 'Razor'. One guy told him it was a dumb name and Razor stabbed him twelve times. No one commented on the name since.

"You, I want any and all information on that assassin you can gather. Sightings, names, victims, hideouts, his favorite pizza topping for all I care. Anything you can find - NOW."

Razor snapped a crisp salute and a 'yessir' before running out the door. Lucky bastard. Well, he did have to try and study an assassin who got through their security, security meant to keep out the goddamn Batman, and killed a shitton of armored men like it was nothing. On second thought...maybe they could pool their money and order him a nice floral arrangement for his funeral.

The Arkham Knight resumed his furious pacing with renewed vigor. Another unlucky soldier by the name of Greg had the duty of asking Knight what to do about the dozen or so bodies piled in the corner. They were starting to stink due to bowel release and they really didn't want to be caught by Batman because of that. Greg, however, would rather get eaten by Croc at this point than interrupt...whatever it is his boss is doing. His friend, Bax, elbowed him, which hurt because Bax was built like...well...like a really well-built guy with lots of muscles. Greg was getting paid for his aim, not his poetic abilities, okay?

He stepped forward just a bit, which felt way too much like walking down death row for his liking. Even that little shuffle forward was caught by his boss. That eerie, high-tech helmet swung in his direction and Greg suddenly re-evaluated everything he's ever done in his life. Was it just him, or was it really hot in here? He was sweating worse than his dad at a confessional. Just as he opened his mouth to stutter out the question, someone burst into the warehouse. As Knight's full attention was drawn to the intrusion, Greg thanked every deity he could think of, which was about three but whatever. It was the thought that counted.

It turns out that the interruption was another of Knight's men who looked like he saw a ghost.

"Boss, there's...there's a gift out here for you. It's uh...I'm..I'm not sure. We didn't want to open it without telling you, but it's big. And leaking."

A big, leaking present in the middle of the night in Gotham was never a good thing. There were a whole number of people it could be from, and all of them a nightmare. The Arkham Knight rushed out the door to see what was left for him. He had a distinct feeling about the contents and the one who sent it. The thought of being right made his skin crawl. This assassin was far too invested in Knight for his liking. He almost wanted to scream.

As he entered the unassuming shipping yard, he immediately noticed the out of place object. It looked like whoever sent it grabbed the first box they found and used it. It was just big enough to hold a grown body, which Jason would bet is what he's about to see inside. Still, he scanned the outside for any possible surprises. Nothing. Just an ordinary box. An ordinary box that was starting to pool at the bottom. Right.

With clear caution, he went to open it. The few soldiers around him stood at the ready. One never could be too careful in this fucked up city. He half expected an explosion when he pulled back the flaps, but again, there was nothing. As he did expect, however, was one body inside. Carmine Falcone's, to be exact. And he wasn't quite dead yet, just severely injured. Either the assassin wasn't thorough enough, which Jason sincerely doubted, or this was some seriously fucked up way of trying to gain his friendship. His stomach rolled.

Jason considered leaving Carmine right there in the box outside, but decided against it. First, he wanted to kill this fuck himself for what he tried to do. He also wanted to question him on who did this, just to confirm his suspicions. So, he grabbed the collar of the mobster's suit and lifted him up. There was a chorus of 'jesus christ's and 'holy shit's from those around him. Falcone wasn't quite as injured as he originally appeared. It was just blood smeared across his face and clothes from the now-bandaged hand. Jason's stalker kept him from bleeding out. How nice. Falcone's head lolled to the side, clearly unconscious.

Fury and something too close to fear raced through Jason's veins. He carried the man inside and dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor. Now, to wait. He stood over Carmine, waiting for him to stir and realize just how royally he fucked up. In another two minutes, the unwitting captive shifted and groaned. He spit out a curse when he tried to sit up using his injured hand. Then, he looked around as he realized he was not in his office at the club. Carmine looked at the looming figure of The Arkham Knight, who was much more intimidating from this angle.

"Fuck."

Jason mentally agreed that 'fuck' was about the most accurate descriptor for this current situation. Instead of voicing that, he unfolded his arms and took a pistol from his holster. Dread filled the sicilian man. This is most definitely not how things were supposed to play out. Oh, how the tables turned.

"Mornin' Carmine. We're going to have a chat and you're going to answer everything or you're gonna have a few more holes in your body to match the one in your hand, got it?"

The mobster didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked around frantically. There was no sign of hungry yellow eyes or cold gray skin. No bronze claws. No soft voice. A feeling of ease spread through him, which was odd given his current position, but he was just a bit happy to be away from the one who did this to him. He looked back at Knight with a smirk.

"Yeah, sure. So long as you keep that demon away, I'll sing fuckin' Pavarotti for you."

"What demon?"

At the question, Carmine looked somewhere between mildly bewildered and affronted. That thing stabbed him through the goddamn hand for Knight, and the asshole didn't even know who he was talking about?

"Whattaya mean 'what demon'? The one who did this to me! Sure was talkin' an awful lot about you."

There was a bit more snark in Falcone's voice than Jason liked. He'd have to do something about that. Jason crouched down to get face to face with the mobster. The muzzle of his gun was pressed snugly to his captive's temple, letting Carmine know just how close to the line he was. There was still an indignant look on the criminal's face as he was clearly not used to being the one manhandled. However, he was at least smart enough to know when to listen.

"What did this demon look like?"

Carmine didn't want to think back on that ungodly face, but the magnum against his head was rather convincing. When he got out of this (when, not if), he would need to look into a better security detail. He closed his eyes to conjure a better memory of the creature.

"It had a tight black suit, kinda like it hangs around a bdsm club. Wore gloves with claws. Knives strapped all over the place. Looked like a fuckin' corpse. Gray skin, these...creepy yellow eyes and black veins. Looked like a person, but that ain't no person, believe me."

The suit and gloves sounded familiar, the knives were definitely familiar, but Jason never got to see his face. The description sounded like something he really did not want to be stalking him. A somewhat thoughtful look took over Carmine's face while Jason mentally reviewed what he heard.

"Kinda familiar, now that I think about it. What's that pretty boy's name? Wore black and blue? Nice ass but a real chatterbox?"

Jason was momentarily taken aback by that. He was describing Dick, there's no doubt about that. But that couldn't be right. Dick didn't look like some sort of demon and he most assuredly didn't kill. He was brought out of his feverish thoughts as one of the nearby guards piped up.

"Nightwing?"

Carmine snapped his fingers, as if struck by an epiphany.

"Yeah, that's the one. Add a mask and regular skin, he'd look just like him, 'specially from behind if ya know what I mean."

Jason momentarily saw red at the derogatory tone Carmine took. Sure, he held no love for his 'brother' since his escape, but that didn't change the fact that he hated others acting like creeps. To accentuate that point, he twisted the other man's injured hand. Falcone let out a pained cry.

"Focus, Carmine. What did he say?"

"FUCK! I was talkin' damn it!"

There was anger mixed with the pain. He wasn't the most docile of prisoners, that was for certain. At the sound of the gun cocking, he bit back any scathing retorts building up on his tongue. The pain in his hand made him want to pass out. If it kept this lunatic from doing that again, he'd play nice. For now, that is. There'd be hell to pay when he was free, though.

"Alright, alright! Fuck, he...he said somethin' 'bout me tryin' to take what was his. His b-bird or some crazy shit like that. Somethin' about a wing. A little wing! Said I tried to take his little wing. That n-no one can touch what's his. I think he was talkin' about you. Got a real crazy look in his eyes. Real possessive."

The room seemed to close in on Jason like a casket. This didn't make any sense to him. Little Wing. That was what Dick called him. Everything Carmine was saying pointed to Dick, but that...that wasn't fucking possible. That assassin...Maybe an imposter? Trying to get under his skin or something? It had to be that. Still, the rational part of him, the detective Bruce was raising, told him not to dismiss the possibility. To investigate, just to be sure. He suddenly had more on his mind than the desire for revenge against this fuck. He motioned for one of his militia to grab the injured gangster.

"Put him in the holding cell and make sure he stays there. I have something to check out."

He was already on the way out of the warehouse as he spoke. This was weighing too heavily on his mind to wait. Carmine let out an affronted cry as he was all but dragged away. What, did he think Knight was going to release him just because he talked? The asshole betrayed him. He'll be lucky if he gets a shot to the head.

As Jason made his way to one of his higher tech bases, that feeling crawled across his skin again. The feeling of being watched. He was here, right now. He might have heard that entire exchange. Jason looked around but didn't see anyone. There was that tightness in his throat and chest again. Whoever this was, and he refused to say it was Dick, made him feel like he was being hunted. It made him feel like he was back there. The desire to run was rising steadily. No matter where or how fast he went, that feeling was there. It was always there. If...if this really was Dick, then what the fuck happened to him? Jason needed to find out.

There were only a few places he knew of that could tell him what he wanted to know. The Cave's computer and that person's base. Jason didn't feel ready to try to hit the cave. Not yet. There were too many risks. That's what he told himself. How the hell was he supposed to find the base of someone if he couldn't even see them while they were fucking ten feet away?

Suddenly, he was hit with a thought. Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. He was trying to think from some random assassin's perspective. Maybe he needed to think from Dick's perspective. Where would Dick make a hideout if he went nuts and started killing people? Jason looked over the city critically. Well, he always liked being as high as possible. It's not much of a lead in a city full of sky scrappers, but it's something. He's probably somewhere abandoned if he really looked like Carmine said. Tall and abandoned, still not much of a lead. He'd have to go over his layout of Gotham again.

His steps were hurried as the trapped feeling intensified. The fight or flight response was absolutely screaming at this point. Jason swore no one would make him feel like this again, yet here he was, practically running from a shadow. It was absolutely maddening. There was an almost queasy feeling in his gut as the anxiety in him rose. This had to end. Jason refused to let whoever this was have this sort of power over him. Never again. He pushed into a condemned complex. The few squatters inside ran at the sight of the armored man.

Jason stopped and waited in an empty room. Sure enough, that feeling returned. He ground his teeth together.

"I know you're there, so come out."

Nothing. Not so much as a creak of the floorboards. He clenched his fists in anger and in an effort to hide the way they shook.

"I got your present. What do you want?"

The shadows remained still. He would have thought he was alone, but that uneasy feeling was so intense, he could practically feel the eyes on him. Then, a soft voice spoke right next to his ear. His heart nearly stopped then and there.

"I want what's mine."

Jason turned ever so slowly. Before he could get a good look at the assassin, arms wrapped around his neck. He fought immediately to breathe. Without hesitation, he stabbed the harpy blade he kept hidden right into the assassin's side. The man didn't so much as flinch, even as Jason twisted the knife. He tried again as he thrashed against the impossibly strong hold. Dark spots danced across his vision. No matter how he fought, the man never budged. It was as if he didn't feel pain. 'No no no not again, please not again.' The thoughts screamed through his head as he fought. Tears pricked the corner of his eyes. The panic attack rushed up on him as the memories became too much. It was too much like then. He couldn't...he...

"Hush, Little Wing."

The quiet voice was just as familiar as the words. It did nothing to ease his frantic struggle. His attempts were hardly coordinated as panic overtook his logic. The black grew and grew until it overtook his vision entirely. His body eventually went limp in Talon's hands. He laid Jason down onto the ground. Then, he yanked the blade out of his collar bone. Talon looked over the knife before tucking it into his belt. The wounds were already healing over. His brother had put up quite the struggle, however sloppy it may have been. Had Talon not been given the serum, he wasn't quite so certain he could have kept his hold on the bigger man.

He knelt down next to the unconscious form of his brother and drug a sharp claw over the thick armor on his chest. It made an unpleasant scratching sound. He carved a single thing onto the chest piece; an 'R'. Then, he picked up Jason and made his way out of the building. Baby brother wanted answers? Maybe Talon would give them. After all, Jason fell just as far from the nest as he did. Besides, Talon had questions of his own. So many questions.