THE DEATH KNELL-Chapter 35: THE TALON’S CURSE

The Talons have no self-awareness. They are warriors, frozen in time by hypnosis, their very existence dictated by the whims of the Owl Court. They do not dream. They do not fear. They wait, suspended in unnatural slumber until their masters awaken them for one purpose: execution.

Once their mission is complete, they return to the Owl Maze, where they are once again frozen—silent, obedient, and awaiting the next call to arms.

The figure before Slade Wilson could be a man centuries old, his life stolen and repurposed by the Court's cruel machinations. Yet, despite his age, he moves like a phantom—silent, deliberate, and eerily precise. Slade knows better than to underestimate him.

The Talons are not merely assassins. They are engineered weapons, honed and refined over generations. They surpass even the infamous killers of the League of Shadows, their minds conditioned to forget fear, their bodies sculpted for combat. When they are brainwashed, they are not merely stripped of their identity—they are rebuilt. Ancient fighting techniques are burned into their muscle memory, allowing them to wield their deadly weapons with inhuman grace.

And the most terrifying part? They feel no pain.

Their weapons, crafted with the precision of Gotham's elite, carry another deadly advantage—poison. Even a scratch can mean death, the toxins engineered to paralyze and silence their victims before the final strike is delivered.

For the average person, encountering a Talon is a death sentence.

But Slade Wilson is no average man.

The Talons are chameleons, able to blend into society with perfect mimicry. They can replicate a person's voice, their mannerisms, their very presence. But in battle, their true nature is revealed—silent, predatory, their only sounds an unsettling combination of low murmurs, screeches, and guttural coos, mimicking the owls they serve.

There are always 100 Talons in existence. Of these, 99 serve as standard operatives, while one—the Zero Talon—is cultivated with special attention, surpassing the others in skill and lethality.

Every year, new recruits are harvested from Gotham's shadows. The Court finds orphans, street children, and lost souls, manipulating them into undergoing the brainwashing ritual that erases their past and reshapes them into weapons.

Slade watches the Talon in front of him, eyes sharp beneath the rain-drenched mask. This one is standard, an expendable soldier in the Court's vast army. But even so, he cannot afford to let her escape.

If she returns to the Owl Maze, the Court will know everything.

That cannot happen.

She must be forced to fight him—forced to fall.

Slade exhales, an amused smirk twisting his lips beneath his mask. He knows exactly how to provoke her.

"The Owl Court eats garbage!" he shouts into the storm, raising both middle fingers for emphasis.

A heavy silence falls over the battlefield.

Cindy Moon buries her face in her hands. Bruce Wayne, Oliver Queen, and Clark Kent exchange glances.

What the hell is Slade doing?

"Eat... eat... garbage..." The words bounce between the ruins of abandoned cars, carried by the wind and rain.

Above them, the Talon falters.

Yes, they are brainwashed assassins—mere tools of the Gotham elite. But their programming is precise. While they care nothing for personal insults, their conditioning compels them to protect the honor of the Court of Owls at all costs.

Slade's words have struck a nerve.

A ripple passes through the Talon's body, her head snapping toward him. Her glowing lenses narrow behind the mask.

"Allegiance to the Court!" she screeches.

And then—she dives.

A black shadow streaks through the night, merging with the rain, her tattered cloak billowing as she plummets toward Slade with terrifying speed.

Slade doesn't gloat. He doesn't celebrate the success of his provocation. His focus remains razor-sharp. The battle has only just begun.

Steel clashes against steel.

Two streaks of white flash past his vision—her claws, wickedly sharp and poisoned. One scratch could be fatal.

She fights like an owl hunting its prey—aiming for his neck, his stomach, the soft points where his armor is weakest.

But Slade Wilson is a predator, too.

He dodges, sidestepping with expert precision. Sparks fly as his blade intercepts her claws, redirecting the attack before it reaches him.

Observe. Analyze. Adapt.

His mind records every movement, memorizing her style, her footwork, her weaknesses.

'Skilled in claw combat. Prefers targeting the throat and abdomen. Tactics match historical records of Talon combat techniques.'

But she has a flaw.

Her mask—round, reinforced lenses narrowing her field of vision. A design meant to enhance her night vision but leaving her vulnerable in close-quarters combat.

Slade has a blind spot in one eye, but his brain compensates, mapping the battlefield with unparalleled accuracy. Her vision, however, is far more limited.

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That's his advantage.

The Talon doesn't hesitate. Her body moves like liquid shadow, flipping backward, daggers sliding from her belt as she re-engages.

Blades clash—again and again.

Rain streaks between them, bouncing off metal, soaking their uniforms. Sparks erupt with every collision, each strike heavier than the last.

Slade's feet remain planted, solid. Hers are not.

She relies on agility, her movements light and evasive, using the slick ground to slide in unpredictable directions. But her lack of firm footing leaves her vulnerable.

Slade records another weakness.

'Excellent weaponry. Poisons. Agility. Lacks physical strength. Armor is minimal. Protection almost nonexistent.'

Good.

Slade shifts, exchanging his blade for his shotgun. Point-blank range.

He fires—but she moves.

She twists midair, dodging just before impact. Too fast. Too precise.

But Slade already expected that.

The Talon never speaks, but her body does. Every movement is a language, a puzzle waiting to be solved.

And Slade has solved it.

The storm intensifies, rain pounding harder against metal and stone. The Talon's breath remains steady—unchanging, controlled.

But Slade's mind is already calculating the best possible conclusion to this fight.

Time to end this.

He lets her attack.

The dagger comes forward—

He doesn't dodge.

Instead, he shifts his stance, allowing the blade to skim past his armor—controlled, measured. At the same time, he strikes.

"Hrk—"

A dagger pierces her chest.

A sound like deflating leather escapes her as the blade drives deep. Slade rips the weapon free, stepping back as she collapses.

Rain washes away the blood, mixing it with the mud. Her body twitches, her mask tilted toward the sky.

Slade doesn't watch.

He crouches, wiping his blade clean on the tattered remains of her cloak. He examines the exposed wound, his mind already analyzing. No unnatural regeneration. No signs of enhanced healing.

Good.

He pulls a grenade from his belt, placing it carefully within the cavity of her armor. Without looking back, he strides toward Cindy and the others.

BOOM.

Fragments scatter across the battlefield.

The Court of Owls won't be reassembling this Talon.

Slade Wilson has his answers.

On this Earth, the Court does not possess Lazarus-like resurrection technology.

Tonight, they have lost a soldier.

And he has won.