Wolves of a Feather

Deathstroke the Terminator

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Chapter Twenty-One

Deathstroke the Terminator

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Tim smiled to himself as he walked up the street. It was getting dark, the snow making his footsteps muffled. He hadn't meant to stay so late, but he had enjoyed spending time with Dick and Jason. At first, he had ignored the numerous text messages and missed calls from Damian. He knew if it was anything street related, Batman or Alfred would contact him. His curiosity won out in the end and when he stepped away, he listened the voice message. He had could admit he had presumed it would be the young alpha making various demands and ordering Tim home.

Instead...

He had listened to Damian's voice message three times. He couldn't help but wonder just how much it had cost the young, prideful alpha to leave him that message. The anger Tim had felt during their fight was all but gone. He tried to imagine the look on Damian's face when he came home, his shy but admittedly handsome smile that he only ever seemed to show Tim. The omega had thought about calling Alfred for a lift, but the snowy air was refreshing.

He would probably have to call soon though. He was in civilian clothes and Dick's new home was right on the edge of town. Still, he could enjoy the quiet for a little while. His own shoes crunched in the snow. Many of the buildings this end of Gotham were expensive and odd looking, each trying to outdo the other with their contemporary architecture. It was a little spooky though. The sun set quickly in the winter and there was a stark lack of people. No cars passed him as he trudged along.

Maybe it was the lack of sound or maybe it was years training under Batman, but something paused Tim mid stride. He listened but there was nothing around him except the distant rumble of slow traffic and a slight wind through the buildings. So why was he suddenly on alert? What had changed in the last ten minutes?

Hackles raised; he scanned the empty street. A garbage bag, partly buried in the dirty slush of the roadside gutter flapped about. There were a couple of parked cars, more high-end apartment buildings. Most of the light came from their windows, the streetlight below dim in comparison. One of the streetlamps was broken altogether. His eyes drifted to it, a shiver threading its way down his joints.

Something was very wrong here. He hit the call button on his phone just as a glint of something metallic moved in the shadows. Tim threw himself down in the snow, narrowly avoiding what might have been a dart. Clothes wet and freezing, Tim rolled and scrambled up as figures peeled from the side alleys.

He recognized the costumes and felt the oxygen catch in his already frost-frozen chest. His fist clenched as he dropped back into a fighter's stance. He ignored that voice in the back of his head that told him he was disgustingly outnumbered and alone on the edge of town where it would take more than half an hour for Alfred to reach him. They came for him, their movements more snake like then anything. Claws swiped for him. He dodged. He blocked a kick, another figure already lunging from his left. He swung away and around, punching the figure in neck even as he had to swerve to avoid another clawed hand.

He had to get off the street! Maybe on the rooftops he would have a better chance. He ducked another swing and punched hard. His fist connected with the masked figure's floating rib, and he felt it break against his knuckles. The Talon didn't even grunt. They just kept coming. Tim turned and ran, his hunters just inches behind.

Breathing in the snowy air was painful. His own breathes sounded raspy and thunderously loud. The snow seemed to slow his every stride, crippled his every movement. He socks and shoes were sopping wet. He couldn't feel his toes. On instinct he jinxed to the right and another dart flew by his ear. Apparently, they wanted him alive. On the off chance that he made it out of this, Damian was never going to let him live this down!