The rain in Gotham was relentless. It washed away the grime of the city, only for it to return the next day.
I was driving the Bentley along the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge. We had just dropped Miss Gordon off at the precinct (her father was late, as expected), and the Young Master was in the back seat, reviewing his notes on "Psychological Dismantling."
"Sebastian," Bruce asked, looking at the rain streaking the window. "That feeling I got when you looked at Tommy... can you teach me how to do that? To make people afraid without touching them?"
"It is called 'Projection of Intent,' Young Master," I explained, watching the road. "Most humans hide their true nature. To strike fear, you must let the predator inside you surface for just a fraction of a second. It triggers the primal brain of your opponent. They realize, instinctively, that they are prey."
"Prey..." Bruce murmured, testing the word.
THUD.
The car shook violently. The roof buckled slightly inwards, right above the rear seats.
Bruce gasped, looking up.
"Potole?" he asked.
"Unlikely," I said, my eyes narrowing. "Potoles do not typically land on the roof of a moving vehicle."
I glanced at the rearview mirror. Through the rear windshield, I saw a figure clinging to the trunk. Clad in a black bodysuit with gold armor plating, and a mask that looked like a stylized owl.
A Talon. The legendary assassins of the Court of Owls.
How fascinating, I thought. I've only been here a week, and already the secret societies are coming out to play.
The figure raised a gauntleted hand. Three throwing knives appeared between its fingers.
"Get down, Young Master," I commanded calmly.
Bruce ducked.
CRASH.
The rear window shattered. The knives flew into the cabin, embedding themselves deeply into the leather headrest where Bruce's head had been a second ago.
"How rude," I sighed. "I just waxed this car."
I slammed on the brakes.
The sudden deceleration launched the assassin forward. He flew over the roof, tumbling through the air, and landed in a crouch on the wet asphalt ten meters in front of the car.
He stood up slowly. He didn't speak. He simply drew two jagged, golden swords from his back.
"Stay here, Bruce. Lock the doors."
"Sebastian! He has swords!"
"And I have a schedule to keep," I replied, unbuckling my seatbelt. "We are already running five minutes late for dinner."
I stepped out of the car into the pouring rain. I closed the door gently.
The Talon tilted his head. He seemed confused that a butler had stepped out to face him, rather than fleeing.
"I assume you are not here to sell us Girl Scout cookies," I called out, my voice cutting through the sound of the storm.
The Talon didn't answer. He charged.
He was fast. Much faster than the thugs from the Falcone family. He covered the ten meters in a blur, his swords scissoring toward my neck.
Human peak physical condition, I analyzed. Modified. Enhanced.
I didn't dodge. I simply raised my left hand.
CLANG.
I caught the blade of the first sword between my thumb and forefinger. The Talon's eyes (visible through the goggles) widened. He tried to pull the sword back. It didn't budge.
"Gold alloy," I mused, inspecting the blade while holding it still. "Soft. Malleable. Inferior."
With a flick of my wrist, I snapped the sword in half.
The Talon didn't hesitate. He spun, slashing with the second sword. I caught that one too, snapping it just as easily.
Now unarmed, the assassin didn't panic. He pulled a knife from his belt and lunged for my heart. I sidestepped, letting him pass, and drove my elbow into his spine.
CRACK.
It was a sound that should have ended the fight. I felt the vertebrae shatter. The Talon collapsed to the wet ground.
I dusted off my sleeves. "Disappointing. I expected more from a man in a costume."
I turned back to the car.
Scrape.
Behind me, the sound of boots on gravel.
I stopped. I looked over my shoulder.
The Talon was standing up. His spine cracked and popped, realigning itself. He shook his head, cracking his neck, and drew two more knives.
"Regeneration?" I smiled. My crimson eyes glowed in the dark. "Oh, this is interesting. You aren't human, are you? Or at least... not anymore."
The Talon hissed—a dry, raspy sound—and threw the knives.
I caught them effortlessly, one in each hand.
"A toy that fixes itself," I chuckled, turning fully to face him. "Young Master Bruce will love taking you apart to see how you work."
The Talon charged again, faster this time.
I dropped the facade of the polite human. I moved at demon speed.
To Bruce, watching from the car, it must have looked like I teleported. One moment I was ten feet away, the next I was standing directly in front of the assassin.
I grabbed the Talon by the throat, lifting him off the ground.
He stabbed at my arm, his knife tearing through my suit sleeve and sinking into my skin. He expected blood. He expected me to drop him.
I didn't even flinch.
"That," I whispered, my face inches from his mask, "was bespoke Italian silk. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood out of silk?"
I squeezed.
The gold armor crumpled like tin foil. The Talon choked, thrashing wildly.
"You smell of decay," I observed, sniffing the air. "Preservatives. Electrum. You are a corpse. A puppet."
I slammed him into the hood of the Bentley. The metal dented significantly.
"Who pulls your strings, little puppet?"
The Talon gasped, "The... Court... sentences... you..."
"Objection overruled," I said.
I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out three silver dinner forks.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
I pinned the Talon to the hood of the car by his shoulders and one hand. The silver pierced the armor and the car's metal hood, riveting him in place.
He struggled, but the leverage was impossible to overcome.
I leaned over the windshield and looked at Bruce, who was pressing his face against the glass.
"Young Master!" I called out cheerfully, ignoring the undead assassin writhing under my forks. "Open the trunk, please! We are taking a souvenir home."
The Batcave (Prototype) - One Hour Later
The Talon was strapped to a metal operating table in the old wine cellar (soon to be the Batcave). I had used heavy steel chains. Even with his regeneration, he wasn't going anywhere.
Bruce stood next to me, staring at the assassin.
"He's not breathing," Bruce said, watching the chest. "But he's moving."
"He is a reanimated corpse," I explained, wiping my hands with a towel. "Kept alive by a compound in his blood. Electrum, I believe. If we lower his body temperature, he should enter a stasis state."
"The Court of Owls," Bruce whispered. "My dad used to say they were a nursery rhyme. 'Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time...' I thought they were a myth."
"Myths are often just history that people forgot to write down," I said.
I handed Bruce a scalpel.
Bruce looked at it, then at me. "What do you want me to do?"
"Study him," I said coldly. "This is your enemy, Bruce. They sent him to kill you. You need to understand biology, chemistry, and anatomy if you are to defeat them. Find out how he ticks."
Bruce's hand trembled. He was a child. This was a monster.
"I... I can't."
I placed a hand on his shoulder. "You can. Knowledge removes fear. Once you understand how he works, he is no longer a monster. He is just a biology problem to be solved."
Bruce took a deep breath. His eyes hardened. The tremble stopped.
He stepped up to the table.
"Sebastian?"
"Yes, Young Master?"
"Turn up the lights."
I smiled. The darkness in him was growing beautifully.
"Yes, my Lord."
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