dreamsanddisasters | Tiny Talon Dick (Plus is an E N A B L E R)

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Tiny Talon Dick (Plus is an E N A B L E R)

[ 'Stay. Inside,' Father had said. 'This isn't your concern.'

And no matter how much Damian had snarled back that it wasn't fair, that there wasn't any sense in barring him from patrol (it was just a boy, just another threat amongst many, what was so special about this one?), Bruce had left Alfred with strict orders to ensure that Damian stayed on lock-down while he left for the streets of Gotham.

Presumably to find that would-be assassin. The child from the Court of Owls. Although Damian wonders if there's anything about it that could be called a child anymore; wonders what might be behind that mask. Something about the voice, quiet and inflectionless as it'd been, declaring that the Waynes were its targets, had set Batman off, had frozen him solid.

Damian's fought the Court of Owls before. He's taken down one of the adult assassins - shot an arrow through its eye, and when that didn't work? Strung it up and beheaded it. Immortal though they were, the monsters could still die. He doesn't see what's so worrying about a pint-sized version of the same.

Pennyworth is being irritatingly clever for a butler, and unusually effective at keeping him caged. He's not falling for any of Damian's tricks, not this time, and both Redbird and Robin remain out of his access. The Cave is closed to him, and Damian's left to pace the boundaries of his room wearing nothing but a scowl and his satin pajamas (no suit, no daggers, no hooded cape), dinner ignored and left to grow cold as he presses his forehead against the chilly glass. Titus is more than happy to lay out in front of the fire, but as much as Damian hates the winters here, he wants to be out there. Fighting crime, throwing his frustration at whatever villain he can dig his fists into. The night is dark, almost inky, with thick, fat flakes of snow silently falling down; he can't even see the grounds through it, just glaring at his own reflection and the powdery puffs of white when they swirl close out of the pitch black.

Drake was allowed out tonight to attend his precious gala, with Cain accompanying him. Todd wasn't, but he left anyway. Smart enough to take off the second Pennyworth had swapped his focus to corralling Damian into his room before the butler tried the same move on him. Ridiculous. ]

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[Wayne Manor was almost impenetrable; but only almost. And he was very good at attacking things that were only "almost."

Batman and Robin were almost unstoppable. Almost. And it was the Court's opinion that they had gotten too big for their britches; the 'family' thought that they owned Gotham-- The Waynes sat upon their golden laurels and thought they were untouchable. And they'd killed one of their own. An eye for an eye would make the Court's stance clear.

Their Talon had spent the last few weeks preparing to take them down a notch. Not a single minute was even spared to rest.

He'd lured the Batman away from his belfry with death of a family friend; a loyal member of the Wayne Enterprises board, who'd been planning to submit a bid for mayor but ran a risk to their own mayoral candidate and one of his public works projects. Most obviously, it was a warning-- it also made a handy distraction.

He'd disabled the outer defenses. A part of the security system, no doubt, would pick up that he had entered-- the butler had been lurking downstairs, and tried to intercept him, but found it impossible to actually pinpoint someone that moved so seamlessly, so quietly, and was so small. The butler had done a better job at putting up a fight than he expected (later he would be chastised for being cocky), and a short ruckus sounded throw the hallways that threatened to give up his position. But the man was dispatched-- not killed, a simple nerve strike he wasn't expecting-- and abandoned in the kitchen.

And the Talon immediately pressed himself into the shadows of the household an began moving upstairs, towards the bedroom where he's sure the youngest Wayne sleeps-- keeping on guard, certain that he'd be down to investigate the noise at any moment.]

[ Titus' ear perks up, the dog letting out a short whuff as he lumbers to his feet. Something's caught his attention - he shakes out his coat, tilts his head, and trots over to the door.

Damian ignores him, and ignores the sounds of Pennyworth puttering around, up until the point his hound's snuffling suddenly shifts to a deep, warning growl, barking sharply at the door with his hackles raised. Damian glances away from the window, mouth thinning.

Titus has good senses, and is well-trained; he'd noticed Ducard hiding in the trees, and he notices now that something is amiss.

(Father, out of the house, chasing after a ghost of a boy. Just him and Pennyworth, caught in the same damn scenario.

At least this time he's not wearing a neck-brace.)

Silently, he slips over to the fireplace, fingers brushing against the fire iron (quick, whiplike, with a nasty hook) before opting for the spade (slower, but with heft, a broad, flat edge that can split a yule log in two - or sever a neck). He doesn't have much protective wear on, not even his gloves, or he'd heat it up in the embers first.

Oh, well. He can make do with what he has. Even silk can become a weapon; she taught him as much.

Titus has already given his location away more than likely, and it's too dangerous to try and slip out into the hall, but Damian can work with this. The pillows are stuffed beneath the covers, and with a quick, silent climb he's perched above the door. A sharp motion commands his dog to quiet, back off, go to the foot of the bed. Titus isn't happy about it, growling and whining, but Damian is firm.

He throws his voice to where the bed is, adopting the drowsy tones that Jason speaks with in the morning before he's fully awake. ]

Hush, mutt. Go to sleep. [ An irritated grumble, words slurring together, trailing off into quiet. Convincing. Just a young boy at rest, peaceful beneath the covers.

And above, a young assassin waits, eyes focused intently on the doors below and spade gripped tight, a furious curl to his lips flashing sharp little teeth.

Pennyworth better be unharmed. ]

[He makes it all the way upstairs and the kid still hasn't come out to investigate-- he can hear the dog growling (another minor factor, he can't underestimate the dog but he'll have to be dealt with quickly or follow the same fate as his master. It was a weakness they always tried to beat out of his head, but he didn't like getting rid of people that weren't part of the job, even if they got in the way).

He nudges the door to the bedroom open when he reaches it, barely making a sound as it swings open, and Talon waits just outside the door frame, looking in and investigating, studying from afar. The yellow goggles and dark mask was almost humorous in the way that it made him look even smaller than usual, the way it made his eyes look owlishly too big.

And finally, he creeps inside with a knife slipped into the grip of his hand, stepping quietly across the carpet, almost keeping to some kind of invisible edge, and rounding over towards the bed. But he stops, abruptly, but so calmly that it's both natural and not.

He doesn't see anyone sleeping in the bed. But he didn't think to look up fast enough (no doubt another chastisement, when he returns.)]

[ Damian has a message of his own to send to the Court, and this not-a-boy is it.

Come into his house, attack his manservant, and try and assassinate him? The monster will be sent back in pieces. Six would be a fitting number, a strong warning.

He drops, a sudden pajama'd swish through the air, spade swinging downwards with his full body weight as he throws himself in an ambush atop the intruder, face set in cold, grim calculation. ]

Nice try!

[ He's not intending for a killing blow to start, but to knock it out; capture it alive and interrogate it. Damian is very good at playing worse cop. He has no doubt he'll get his answers, and Father will be proud of his resourcefulness.

Titus moves when he does, darting out of the way and snarling at the edges of the fight, ready to jump in and protect his boy even if Damian's ordered him to stay out. ]

[His head jerks when he hears movement; his ear barely catches the action, and he moves immediately, throwing himself forward onto one hand and rotating around his pivot to swing back onto his feet. The boy is armed, but the Talon is fast. He has to keep moving, even if the space is small compared to rooftops.

He whirls around, unresponsive to the gloat as always-- it's doubtful if he's even listening, if he even cares, or if he even can listen. His focus is too sharpened, and he has to keep track of both this child and the dog.

So he keeps his breadth of the dog, and whirls around to throw the knife in his own hand towards the boy's own hands gripping the spade. And he doesn't even wait for it to hit its target before he there's another blade in his hand, and he makes his own lunge forward towards his prey.]

[ Knives. Damian rolls to the side, dodging the blow meant for his hands. Titus barking behind him, and Damian's attention is torn from the enemy long enough for him to snap back at the hound. ]

Titus, go! Pennyworth! Go!

[ He needs Titus out of the room, unwilling to risk his dog's life, or to risk the distraction. Commanding him to find Pennyworth will help him quickly locate the butler later. Two birds, one stone.

The command works. Titus, pup that he is, whines and pleas but darts out of the room at the second iteration of go, and Damian--

--Damian took his eyes off the enemy for a second too long. He's quick to jump back, but the lunge catches him, the blade slicing through the flimsy material of his button-up top to cut a gash into his side, and he snarls, swinging the spade up at the Talon's head in furious retaliation. ]

[The dog is gone, and that's good enough for him; it's possible that the dog may come back, but he should be done, or close to it by then, but it still means he has to hurry. The boy is too skilled and he's already lost the element of surprise for it to be a clean job like he usually does.

He moves again, but the spade nicks the side of his head, damaging the material of his mask. But he's a Talon-- made of tougher stuff than human. So he ignores it, shakes it off with barely a twitch of his head.

He turns his body sideways and strikes out with his free hand to grab the length of the spade, tightening his grip in an effort to wrench it away and out of the enemy's hands. The hand still holding the knife is poised, positioned out and across his torso with the blade towards Damian, should he try to make a forward move.]

[ (You have got to be kidding him. Can this one twist its head around, too?)

Damian grunts when the creature gives the spade a yank, tightening his own grip on it and digging his heels in, but the thing is strong and the wound to his side sends a pulse of pain through him when his core tenses. Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he releases the spade, darting backwards to give himself space between it and him.

The rest of the fire iron set is behind it, and Damian is boxed against the window, trapped and weaponless, back pressed to the glass.

Even silk can be used as a weapon. Or curtains. With a yank, he's ripped the curtains off the rod, throwing the heavy fabric at his enemy -- a bid to buy himself the precious few seconds he needs to shove the window open and jump down into the fresh bank of soft snow two floors down. Space. Room to maneuver. And the ability to break into the first-floor study and grab one of the swords off the wall.

(Damian's not making this chase easy on the Talon. Not at all.) ]

[He takes the spade with ease, spinning it over the back of his hand as he reeled back and grabbed it again in a rare case of showmanship. At least it had the practical implication of letting the momentum wear out so the Talon himself wouldn't fall back.

Before he give the spade a swing of his own, however, the curtains are covering him-- it's not exactly restrictive, and he's already taking his knife to the fabric to rip himself free, but it slows him down and he loses visual.

His stare is blank as always as he watches the boy tumble out the door. But there's a slight jump in his chest-- that could almost be construed as panic if he were in the business of being in charge of his own faculties.

He rips the knife through the fabric with more force, more zeal, until he's freed from its grip. He abandons the spade on the wayside and follows the boy's trail, hopping onto the window sill and barreling out into the snow and rolling through the drift once he makes contact with the ground.

Ironically, he appreciates the open space more. But he can't let the boy get away from him, and he immediately starts following the trail left in the snow. He shouldn't have even let him have the chance to run away.]

[ Not a hard trail to follow, with blood soaking Damian's pants leg, and the stains in the snow lead right back around to a broken window and a drafty study with a sword display sans one historic blade.

Damian has his options. A handful of seconds ahead means he has just enough leeway to sprint down the hall, swing around the corner to where the grandfather clock stands, and quickly turn its hands to the right time. ]

Iftaḥ yā simsim. [ Open sesame, there are the poles, and Damian's spinning down one as fast as he dares. He doesn't care if the creature follows him - he wants it to, because if it's down here, it's not up there with Pennyworth and Titus.

He needs to get word to his father, and he needs his gear if he still intends to capture this thing alive. The Cave has both.

(The Talon really had made a terrible mistake, letting Damian get the slip for even a moment. The boy will stand and fight, but he's smart, and will do everything in his power to make his enemy's life hell at the same time.) ]

[He jumps into the first story window without a second thought, gliding through the halls and following wherever the trail leads-- and he's close behind, doesn't even have to stop at the clock and doesn't spare the mind to even wonder about it. The pole is barely more than a guide, and he uses one hand to grip and slide down into the depths below.

It's their base-- they call it 'the Batcave,' that his feet touch down on the floor of.

The Talon knows that he has made a grave mistake. He's allowed the boy to come this far to his bunker. Even if it affords him a glimpse into their operations, it's a gross mistake.

The only way the Court will let him out of this alive is if he makes sure the boy dies despite this. He has to.

So once again he takes to the shadows-- he can't just go rushing forward like when they were in the house. The boy has the home field advantage, but he stays quiet, follows the trail of blood he's left.

He stays calm. He has to, because it's the only way.]

[ Damian has a terrible, awful sense of humor, vicious and biting and more about intent to injure than anything else. When he smiles, it's all shark, no boy; blood scented in the water.

He doesn't make any efforts to hide himself. He's bleeding, breathing heavy - no easy way to hide that. So when the Court's agent follows the trail, it leads him right to the Batcomputer, and to Damian, perched stoically on a chair meant for a much larger man. There's a utility belt around his waist, another sword in his hand, and he's wearing the sharp smile of a boy who knows he's already won, the screen behind him flashing emergency red, dimly lighting the memorial cases against the back wall.

He taps the sword against one of his heels, still barefooted, snowmelt soaked into the hem of his pants and toes curling and uncurling to ward off the cold. ]

Batman. Red Hood. Red Robin. Black Bat. [ Almost conversational. ] Batgirl and Oracle, too.

[ Everyone had received the distress signal. The smile drops off his face as he slips off the chair back to his feet, spinning the swords in his hands in clear challenge as he advances on the Talon. ]

Come on then - come try and finish the job.

[He waits-- looking at the boy with a critical eye behind the goggles. Almost like he's studying, waiting to call the bluff. It doesn't read as much but it's hesitation. Freezing up. Like a panicked child caught looking in a cookie jar.

That was not a trait he had ever been trained or allowed to posses.

So; it seemed like no matter what, he was dead either way. Even if he managed to get away, the Court didn't like that kind of attention. So he really should've known better.

He wasn't afraid of dying, if there was nothing he could do.

But some part of him was still scared. And it makes his stomach feel sick. But he doesn't know why.

Talon's still like he's already a dead man; he's quiet until suddenly he's not. He's moving and there's a knife in each hand now, and he's actually yelling, a grunt like he's angry, and rushing forward to meet Robin in his advance and swing his weapons without hesitation, and without discrimination, but still an alarming degree of precision.

The least he could do is not disappoint them completely.]

[ It's waiting, standing, and even Damian has to tense, uncertain what it's waiting for. Damian's gotten word out, but he's still injured, still under-prepared for a fight against a Court assassin; there shouldn't be anything that would give it pause.

The yell is the first time he's heard one of them express anything like emotion. He's never looked under the masks, has never wanted to look, assuming the immortal fighters were little more than animated husks, jiangshi commanded by their masters, but suddenly he wants to see.

Damian meets the Talon's attack, short swords flashing up to block the daggers with ease. Swords are his specialty, especially dual-wielding. Blades in hand, even without armor or shoes and even bleeding heavily from the stab wound to his side, he is a force to be reckoned with and a fury in battle.

And this fury is throwing everything he has at knocking that stupid mask right off the assassin's face, switching from defense to unrelenting offense. ]

[The mask is already loose from the encounter with the spade to the side of his head; and it's a little more loose now when the Talon is forced to go on the defensive.

His armor is solid protection, and he can deflect the blade of the swords even with the smaller knives, swiping and stabbing at any opening he can find (to the boy's credit, there's not very many). But it's no longer completely clinical, and he's grown a fury to match Damian's own.

He doesn't realize it as first when his mask is hooked and ripped right off his face by the tip of a blade.

And underneath he somehow still looks so much like a kid. His face is still round. His black hair is tangled and messy like he just got roughed up at school. But his tan skin almost looks like it's been drained to look sickly and pale, there's a hint of something in his veins just under the surface, and his blue eyes have been steeled and dulled during his service.

At least up until he realizes he's exposed. And he stops again, withdrawing himself from the engagement, looking at Damian with owlishly big eyes. Surprise. Maybe even so far as shock. Maybe even panic. This has never happened before. Was never supposed to happen.

He tries to swipe the mask back in a gesture that seems way too normal, all the grunts and yelling dissipated.]

[ The Talon is good. Even the adult version hadn't put up this much of a fight; Damian hadn't really had to work to string it up and finish it, even if the platoon had suffered heavy losses before that.

But the anger (and that is anger, radiating from it) is just enough to give Damian an upper hand, and the mask is stolen with a deft swipe of his sword-point, revealing--

Revealing a boy. Although at first glance, it's not a boy, more like the husk that Damian expects; not dessicated, but lifeless, almost like a doll whose porcelain form is dulled and crackling with age. No self-awareness in its eyes.

But then something changes in its expression once it registers the mask is gone. It backs off, and emotion floods its (his) face.

Something in his chest grows cold, seizes, and he feels sick. Damian doesn't recognize the face, doesn't know about Dick Grayson (not like Bruce knew, not like the horror his father had felt when he realized who the small assassin was), but he's never dealt well with this kind of violence against children.

It's one thing to see the assassin as a soulless shell, long dead before it became what it is. It's another to see him as a child, twisted and manipulated as they chipped away at everything that makes him human.

(Strikes too close to home.)

It -- he -- lunges for the mask, and Damian automatically dances back, instinctively engaging in the unexpected game of keep-away. ]

No. [ Denied. As uncomfortable as he is with the realization that he'd almost been about to kill a child, Damian's been raised to show no weakness, and he has no trouble with leveling a haughty stare at the other, as if daring him to try and take it back. ]

I think I'll be keeping it as a trophy.

Give--

[He started to speak. The word sounded cracked and dry, and he hadn't even hit puberty yet. He wanted to yell, Give it back, and it was utterly childish in the way he wanted to vent his own frustration and bury his face in the mask's hidden safety.

He cuts himself off immediately. A flash of panic cuts behind his eyes again, but this time both more immediate as well as far away, one more like remembering than dawning recognition.

The Court didn't like it when he spoke, because he was never very obedient when he spoke. And they always demanded absolute obedience. A tool was supposed to be obedient and silent.

He feels like he's going to be sick. He was-- he was letting too much emotion out, he had to focus, bring it back in, get back to the job. The boy could easily hand the mask over when he's dead. (But that, he doesn't like the sound of that anymore but it's his job and he has to.)

He tries to steel himself again(he can't lock it all away again, not right now on such short notice), and moves to bodily tackle Damian to the ground in response to his stupid game of keep away. He needed to finish this and get away and leave now.]

Maybe if you say please.

[ He smirks, taunting, immediately hooking onto the fact that he's accomplishing something. He's not sure what it is, what he's trying to do, beyond egging on a response from the boy. Signs of life.

(And how wonderful for him that all he has to do is be his own, asshole self to do it.)

Robin barks out a laugh at the attempted tackle, flipping and rolling out of the way. He slings himself up to crouch atop one of the memorial cases, reinforced glass easily supporting his (less than hefty) weight, and, to add insult to injury, one sword is sheathed so he can twirl the mask in hand. ]

I think it will look good on my mantle. Even though these goggles are stupid.

[It's like the kid is egging him on to speak again-- well, practically demanding it, really. But he refuses. He's not gonna slip up again and fall for it. Maybe the boy's just trying to waste time until the Batman arrives.

(But really, he doesn't like the goggles very much either. They're a bit big for him and make it hard to see the peripherals.)

If Robin was going to keep running, then Talon was going back on he offensive, and sends one of the knives flying towards the target on top of the display case. And now he's aiming all for vital points, not just to disable.

Still, it's kind of hard to look like a serious assassin when you don't realize there's an angry pout on your face.]

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