Fruition Of Lies

Misunderstanding

Proverbs 4:23 "With all watchfulness, keep thy heart, because life issueth out from it."

It had taken him a while to notice it, the difference between himself and the other Talons. One specifically, was his eye color. The fact that the two were different -blue and gold - unnerved some of his fellow Talons. His Master had told him once that his eyes were just a failure in his conversion that would change as he grew older. That the blue would eventually fade into a powerful yellow. It was one of the only explanations the Court had ever given him. At first, he thought it was out of pity, but as he grew older, -and his eye never changed- he realized it was some sort of sadistic game the Owls liked to play.

But as Talon grew, despite the words of his Master, some things never really fell in line. His eyes, one always remained blue. He liked to think that the blue was his old self fighting back. Dick Grayson, from somewhere deep inside his broken mind, trying to break free. He liked to believe. But, his eye wasn't always a clear cerulean, sometimes when he was stressed or in too much pain, it's hue would flourish with bright gold colors. Brighter than his other eye ever was on a regular basis. Shimmering like the stars his Mother used to show him at night. But Talon's eyes weren't what made him different. Just unique.

It definitely wasn't the lucidity that crept along the edges of his brain, pushing away dark shadows. The alertness to the objects and sensations around him. Talons as a whole tended to move sluggishly as if they were trapped in a fog -when not on a mission,- but it was the zombie-like deliberateness that Talon himself lacked. If the enemy knew what to look for, they'd be able to spot the bird's sleeping brain. The dead brain. It's what gave people like Deathstroke and Joker an advantage over Talons. Something changed the way their brains functioned during the conversion. It always took them longer to process and react to information, although in battle it never seemed like that. It had been forcefully trained out of them. Their bodies moved surprisingly fast. Instinct, you could say. A downfall of the reanimation process, his Master had said, the desecration of the brain. It was the one fault that made up the perfect weapon. But, Dick was different.

However, a Talon's movements were never of their own accord, no matter how sporadic they seemed. Always controlled, always directed. The Talons never acted unless ordered to do so. Free will was nonexistent. If an enemy was ever lucky enough to catch a Talon, torturing it for information was useless. The pain was something Talons had learned to expect, so much so, that it was part of their daily lives. Torture was counterproductive when they were only ever given a name and face, hidden away inside a folder. Never were they given the reason, and they weren't "awake" enough to ask. The Owls made sure of that. If you wanted anything useful, you'd have to find members of the Court, and that was next to impossible.

But Dick's free will was still there, hidden deep inside his bones, away from prying eyes. He could still -mostly- think for himself. Movement was something he had a hard time making his own, though. He'd fall back into the patterns of obedience when in front of higher members. No matter how much he'd like to spit at the masks and claw their eyes out, scream at the way they'd ruined his body, it was like a cat had caught his tongue. Like a puppet in a show that had no control over anything. He hated it. So, he fought to control his own body, winning the battles every now and again. The punishment was always worth the risk, in his fragile opinion.

The Court had taught him how to dance, they'd taught him how to fight, but they hadn't taught him to fly. That's what made him better, far more dangerous than the other Talons. More options were presented when fighting. Flips, handsprings, rolls. He always managed to keep an element of surprise, making him one of the only Talons that had never been caught, and the most known. Dick fought his way to the top. Not to make his Master proud, but to survive. He became feral and cruel, and over time, most of his kills brought him a sick form of pleasure. Something he'd come to despise deep inside, an old shell of emotion from someone locked away long ago. Someone that still fought to be free.