Without Hope

Test: Failed

"Talon," There was that soothing voice again, one that haunted him and picked at something in the back of his mind. He wished that the voice would stop speaking. It made his brain hurt, an unceasing agony that he could not explain. The blurry face that was above him held an unnerving smile; one that held both evil but goodness. Something wet and sticky was pooling around him, something that smelt of iron. He didn't understand it. He couldn't remember it. Why was there a red liquid seeping into his clothes? Why was he here?

Turning his aching neck, he looked at the other body that was lying on the ground. There was a little girl. One who had her small, blue eyes opened wide, glassed over, and lifeless. One who had her small blouse ripped, with the same scarlet blood dripping over and over again on the darkening ground. One who had her mouth opened wide with a soundless scream that no one would ever hear. Had he did this? Had he killed this little girl? He looked down, looked down at his dark clothes, at the drying blood, his hands stained with the maddening color that surrounded him.

He flexed his hand, discovering the new feeling of limbs cracking and blood flowing back into the numb. He looked up again, only to see the face that was still posed above him, whispering the same thing over and over again in an infuriating white noise.

"Talon," This time, there was something firmer in the voice, as if some renewed energy that he could not feel was just sprinkled in the air.

"Talon," Now, he could clearly hear the sickening voice, his head no longer stuffed underwater. His tongue was completely useless. He had wanted to yell at the man above him. He just wanted to yell 'stop', and just curl up and close his eyes. Unfortunately the soothing and confusing whispers fighting in his mind stopped him from doing anything. He flexed his hand again, while none of his other body parts responded to his orders. It was comforting to be in control of something. Though he couldn't do anything else, just moving his head back and forth and stretching his hand was a great accomplishment.

The blurry face above him got clearer after a few more minutes, that seemed like hours to him, and he could finally see the outline of the bitter blue eyes, the black, raven hair. In absurd detail, he saw the flecks of sweat that lined the man's face, the black irises in his cold eyes.

"TALON!" The voice was louder, more clear. As if he was a bear that had just hibernated and was waking up from the long, deep sleep, he started to feel. He could feel the curves of a knife that he held in his hand. When had that gotten there? He could feel the built up tension in his muscles, the stinging sensation in his heart. There was something dark, something that he had never experienced before, something that sprung up from his tingling heart and made his insides frozen with an unbearable cold. What was this feeling? Several words came to mind; guilt, disbelief, disgust, self-hatred…

There was something wrong with the situation. There was something wrong with the notion of him killing somebody, much less a little girl. Why was it wrong? He didn't understand. The warm handle of the knife that seemed to be forever engraved into his hand started to sting with his guilty conscience. He wanted to drop the damn thing, but now he couldn't move a single limb in his body.

The man above him finally stopped. He waited for a few more seconds, not believing his luck. His ears had already felt like they were going to bleed out, but now the momentarily lapse of rest from those haunting whispers filled his mind with a better, more resolved feeling.

He ran his broken tongue over his teeth, feeling them scratch up against it. "R-robin," He blurted out, using up all of his effort to force out the word.

Everything was coming back to him, everything except for his scrambled memory. Why had he said that? It was the only thing that came to mind, robin, robin, robin, over and over again. What was wrong with him? Why was he saying this? His body was responding, and he tried to stand up, sluggishly putting one hand on the ground. The red ground. He had forgotten about the blood. There was a lot of it, and even though the ground was a dark black, the blood just soaked right through.

The man in front of him… his name came back to him, his name was Owlman. But what was his name? Owlman had been calling him Talon, though he knew with a stubborn certainty that his name was not that. Nor was it Robin, but he knew that it was close. Robin… the word was still repeating itself in his head, but not with the heavy voice of Owlman, no it was a soothing, lulling voice of a female.

"Robin," the voice echoed throughout his mind, and then a more masculine voice said it too.

"Robin," a sudden picture of a man and a woman, holding each other, looking down on him, flashed in his brain. He knew he was hallucinating. There was no way in the world someone could look that kind. He could also still smell the iron that lingered beyond the picture.

Now, instead of the steady mantra of the word 'robin', lost voices echoed in his head. Voices that somehow brought steady tears running down his face. Why was he crying? What was wrong? Behind the murmuring voices, a distant noise was shouting at him. But he chose to ignore it.

"Our little robin!" A soothing voice echoed, churning his insides with a white surprise. It was the voice of his mother, Mary Grayson. He was Richard Grayson. His father was John Grayson. Everything was coming back to him, and he could feel his body reacting. He could feel himself flinch away from the Owlman's touch. He wasn't Bruce, but he sure looked like him.

"Who-who're you?" Dick slurred, shaking on his knees. "Y-your r-real name isn't really O-owlman is it?" He took a step back away from him, and slouched on a brick wall. He looked around, and saw that they were in an alleyway.

"W-what happened?" He looked at the girl, whom was still lying there on the ground, the red blood still continuing to pour out of her open stomach wound. He turned back to Owlman, whom was not saying anything. Instead of the answers Dick thought he would be receiving, he only stared at him with cold, calculating eyes.

"Test one; failed." The voice came out as a whisper, and suddenly Dick felt nauseas. His vision turned black as his stomach gave loud protests. He dry heaved, onto the ground; he hadn't eaten anything in days.

There was a hand over his eyes, and his awoken brain suddenly fell back into a deep slumber again.