Gotham nights are wretched when raining.

On days like this, not even stray cats and dogs would want to wander around. The streets in the slums are worse than usual, flooded by the stank smell of sewage. A few pedestrians straggle along the narrow roads. They hunch over, just managing to shield themselves with clothing pulled up over their muddy heads.

Holding an umbrella half-flipped by the wind, Jason quickens his strides. Once he's past this alley, he'll be home. This thought slows him, until at last it forces him to a stop in the middle of the narrow path, his face raised towards the bloody sky.

He doesn't want to go home.

He doesn't want to see his mother lying on the bed, eyes vacant, a half-broken needle plunged into her withered arm.

There's no one left to play with him outside. Those with a home have gone home, while those who don't must have also sought shelter. When not raining, this place could be quite rowdy. In addition to wandering packs of ferocious stray animals, vagabonds would lean against the walls, smoking and humming an off-beat tune. Later still would come the brightly-clad sex workers, half of their faces intricately made up, the other half blurred by neon lights.

"Who is there?!"

A faint whimper emits from behind the garbage can - a child's voice. Jason lets out a silent breath, putting his switchblade back into his pocket - one can never be too careful on these streets.

"Guess." Jason walks over, thinking that maybe a friend has escaped from the orphanage again, but he sees a stranger's face.

The stranger is drenched, having been in the rain for God knows how long. Upon seeing Jason, he tucks himself in even further against the garbage can, as if trying to become one with his flimsy shelter. The boy looks a few years older, with the same black hair as Jason. His eyes are baby-blue, however, and more intensely so than the sky

Heh. Jason knows a noob on the streets when he sees one.

"Who are you?" Blue Eyes asks. The fear and suspicion in his voice lessens a notch upon seeing a child younger than him.

"I'm Jason Todd, leader of all the kids on this block." Jason stoops down beside him, covering him with part of his umbrella. "New, aren't ya? I'll shield you from now on."

Jason has never been considered kind, or one to meddle; he can barely take care of himself. However, another kid has been threatening his position lately, and so he needs more minions.

Blue Eyes stares at Jason, skeptical. "You look scrawny though..."

"Don't look like it?"Jason takes out his switchblade, flicking it flawlessly between his two hands, more seasoned than most adults. Blue Eyes stares, transfixed.

"First rule of being on the streets, don't ever fuckin'judge someone by their appearance. You'll die."

"Really...." Blue Eyes huddles his knees close to his chest.

His helplessness irritates Jason.

Why does he look weaker than me, when he is older? Fine, fine. I'll take him under my wing and train him. After all, kids are easier to adapt than adults.

"You haven't told me your name. That's not fair."

"I'm Richard Grayson, but my family calls me Dick."

"Dick? How fuckin'crude. How about changing it to a celeb name, Superstar."

"No. My family and my... friends all call me that. I like it."

"Fine... I'll call you Dickiebird then. If anyone makes fun of you, I'm not helping."

"Up to you." Dick is stubborn despite his delicate, girlish appearance.

"Hm, not bad for a newbie. But you could get beaten up."

"You don't seem that obedient either."

This Dickiebird is right . Jason gropes for words and scratches his face, a little embarrassed. "How long have you been like this? As in homeless."

Dick glances at Jason, and then lowers his head. "Three days, I think."

"You said you have family? Why did you run away? Did they hit you? Or are they alcoholics or druggies? Oh God, are they..."

"They're dead."

"Oh."Jason closes his big mouth, awkward.

Silence lingers, making Jason believe that Dick is not of many words. He likes people like this - less talk more action. Usually the talkative ones die first.

"How come you didn't go to an orphanage? That Wayne idiot built a lot - I hear they are all great."

Dick manages a miserable smile. "Compared to the number of orphans, that kind of orphanage is rare. I had bad luck, having been taken to one of the private ones. They ordered me to make deliveries - beating me if I don't. I've seen so many kids die..."

Jason is no idiot, immediately catching on to the type of deliveries Dick is talking about. "I know about this. One of my friends does these errands. Lots of pocket money."

"If I'd done it well, I'd be better off... but this is hurting people, and I don't want to."

"So you ran away?" Jason thinks Dick must have a dick for a brain.

Dick nods. "The next time they asked me to do it, I ran two blocks with the package... I hope they think I died."He pulls out a bundle of clear plastic that has been tightly wrapped around a large package of white powder.

Jason swallows back his stunned shriek, quickly stuffing the package back into Dick's jacket. "Oh my God... are they idiots? Getting a kid like you to deliver so much... And never take it out in front of other people, or you'll be dead for sure."

"I don't even dare go to the police. I was worried they have accomplices." Dick forces a smile. "I wandered around your territory for three days, not daring to speak to anyone."

"Then why are you talking to me?"

"Because you talked to me first, and shared your umbrella with me. Your jacket is soaked."

Jason shrugs, trying to look grown-up. "What are you going to do with that?"

Dick thinks for a moment, and then takes out the package again. He violently rips it open, flinging out all the cocaine. The powder flies into Jason's eyes. He swears, rubbing his lashes and regretfully watches Dick, who might as well be burning wads of money.

However, this is the best solution. A wealth that can't be protected will only draw Death.

Jason pats Dick on the shoulders, sighing. "Looks like you've mastered the second rule."

There is too much powder for the flow of rain to wash them away immediately. The drugs compile like melting snow, lingering on the ground but for a moment before being absorbed into the filthy water. White streaks swirl, sinking into the sewage...

He jolts awake, finding himself staring at a receding fluid, a light-coloured nourishment liquid that immersed his entire body. It spins down the drain along with his blurred memories. By the time he fully wakes, the dream-like reminiscences have faded to a mere few specks.

Through the water-strewn observatory window, he sees a man with a white mask operating the controls. He must be the dealer sent to activate him. Just one person? Excellent.

Soon the doors of the freeze chamber open with a faint gasp. Using them as support, he slowly exits. His senses are dulled; even when walking on the cold marble floor, he feels as if stepping on cotton. Instead of bones supporting blood and flesh, he perceives flimsy threads.

Watching the Talon hobble out of the chamber, the White Mask grips his suit with nervousness. This well-built assassin is in his prime in terms of fighting strength, and despite his currently stiffened state, he will be fast as a cheetah within three hours.

"Hello, Number 139." The White Mask lifts his chin, attempting to consolidate his authority; he is a member of the Court of Owls, and above any lowly Talon. "Welcome back to reality."

Fuck you . Number 139 would have said it aloud if not for his disobedient vocal cords.

Who am I again? Not Number 139, dammit. I have my own name. In the dream, I told it to someone. What is it?

As if in answer to his confusion, the White Mask places a file on top of the laboratory countertop. It doesn't contain his name, however, but a mission. Number 139 flips through the file, and then looks back at the White Mask, quizzical.

The White Mask dares not approach, and stays an observatory distance away.

Number 139 is different from other assassins, who are used more often. Instead, he is frequently locked away, a collectible item hidden from the prying eyes of guests. Only when the mission is extremely difficult does the Court risk awakening him.

The White Mask has read through the Talon's bio beforehand: master marksman and deadly close-combatant. In addition to guns and knives, he is skilled in making explosives and poisons. No empathy. No sense of honour. Due to an incident, brainwashing has failed. Strong sense of self. Erratic memories. Successful past escapes. Extremely Dangerous. Uncontrollable.

A moment passes; Talon seems to recover a bit more. He picks up the file again. His brain is still slow, and could only decipher the most basic of meanings. He needs to dispose of a failed Talon, and complete their botched mission.

Why am I always cleaning after others?

He studies the photo of his target - a pair of baby-blue eyes.

Have I seen him before? Will he know of me? Alright then, before I kill him, I'll ask him. If he does know me, then I won't kill him - I'll keep him by my side as a trophy. I don't have to listen to what they say. I do what I want...

Breaking out of his stream of thoughts, he lifts his head to look at White Mask, his icy green eyes reminding him of the panther he keeps at home.

But Talon is not his pet, nor is he his master.

The White Mask is naked, stranded deep in the woods with no way of defending himself.

"Now... What time is it now?"

"You have no need to know. You are awakened only to finish this mission."

"Hmph."

Talon does not inquire further. He puts on his armour without another word, and starts to arm himself. White Mask watches him pry each bullet out of the cartridges, and then insert them back. At first his movements are still stiff, but gradually increases in speed and precision. This Talon appears to be using his own methods to take back control of his body.

Having armed himself with as much weaponry as possible, Number 139 throws the intricate owl hood to the side. He doesn't like it.

"I don't want that. Where are my goggles?"

Up until now, Number 139 has not demonstrated any signs of danger. The White Mask slacks: "The Talons of the Court must wear the hood. It is the law."

"Oh, really."

Number 139 spins around and kicks White Mask. The man teeters, collapsing to the ground. His mask slips, exposing a youthful face. He's only in his twenties, immature and laughably full of himself.

"What...What are you doing?!"The young man struggles to rise, but is pressed down hard by the Talon's foot. Fazed, he looks up at the assassin towering over him, the barrel of a gun pointing straight at his forehead.

"Number 139, you can't kill me! I am a member of the Court!"

Talon continues as if he does not comprehend. "The thing I wanted. Where is it?"

Only now does the young man realize that if he did not provide a satisfactory answer, he would be carried out with a hole in his head.

"It-It's in the cabinet beside you."

Talon glances at the cabinet, but does not move. He looks back at the young man, and flicks his thumb over the slide-lock. The metallic click of bullets loading grates over the young man's ears, the sound of a Death God's scythe.

"What are you doing?!" The young man violently struggles, but to no avail.

"If they sent you to wake me, then it meant they have sentenced you to die." A stiff smirk graces Talon's lips, one that lifts at an odd angle.

"And my name is Jason Todd, you bastard."