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The target laughs often.
[Talon] knows about laughter - it is when [wrong] is done, and pain happens, and then masters laugh. This is a clear, consistent pattern that [Talon] understands.
But the target laughs when [Talon] cannot see any [wrong]. And when pain happens to non-hostiles, it does not laugh at all. Instead, the target makes soft cooing sounds [Talon] has no context for. [Talon] does not like the cooing sounds; they make something in its chest ache, like a yellowing bruise.
The target is rarely alone. More often it is in a two, or in a crowd of non-hostiles. Sometimes it is in a three or four or five with non-targets.
The target wears the face of an animal—a small predator [Talon] has learned commonly lives among non-hostiles—as a mask, much as [Talon] itself wears the face of [Owl].
Soon after leaving the labyrinth, [Talon] had seen some of these animals and allowed itself a little time to observe them. This was worthwhile, as it allows [Talon] to classify some of the non-targets that the target interacts with.
First, there is the older predator, who wears black armor and carries a whip. It is smaller than the target, but [Talon] is able to map the interactions it observed between the animals onto them. The older predator is parent, the target is child-but-now-grown.
There is also the smallest predator. It tries to disguise itself by covering its body in torn scraps of fabric, but [Talon] isn’t fooled. Every interaction it sees between the target and the smallest predator makes it clear they are the same species underneath.
The other non-targets with whom the target interacts are harder to quantify. Most are fighters, their training evident in their movements, but not all are killers. The one with yellow hair and purple armor has no instinct for the kill, makes no effort to track or catalogue weaknesses and openings in those around it. And there is another non-killer who moves using a chair on wheels and seems to have no use of its legs. This should surely render it useless as a combatant, and yet it shows no fear of the fighters who surround it. In fact, when it makes sharp, angry noises, the fighters are the ones who change their behavior, as though Chair-on-Wheels were the one with power.
For a moment, [Talon] thinks that perhaps this means Chair-on-Wheels is a master, but there is no real fear in the bodies of the fighters. Rather, what [Talon] reads from their gestures and sounds is closer to the respect of [Fledgling] for [Talon].
Even the killers among the group are confusing. There is one who dresses in armor of red and black, who has training almost complete as [Talon]. [Talon] can see the instinct for the [kill] in the way it watches and reacts to those around it.
[Talon] has the chance to observe it when the target assists Red and Black in a street fight, watches Red and Black spot the openings for lethal blows, sees the unflinching strength of its attacks.
Watches it take none of the openings offered. Watches it let every one of its enemies live, even though there is lethal intent clear in their every attack.
Red and Black is a mortal, fundamentally different from a [Talon], but still, [Talon] can’t keep from returning to that scene. Turning it over and over in its mind. Red and Black is trained to [kill], but whoever its masters are, they allow it the freedom to choose whether to use those skills.
They allow it not to [kill].
If [Talon] had been allowed that freedom before… But thinking about that isn’t productive. All it does is make the old wounds, the ones on the inside of its chest that never heal, ache with the reminder of their existence.
It is best not to think about those wounds. Acknowledging them makes the pain worse, and sometimes the pain makes [Talon] [wrong].
Thinking about not [killing] is [wrong]. Thinking about the time before it belonged to the [Court] is [wrong].
The orders the masters gave were only in relation to the target. It is possible they intended [Talon] to kill the non-targets as well, and any non-hostiles who got in the way, but [Talon] has no way of knowing.
None of the non-targets would be a match for [Talon] one-on-one, not even Red and Black. But together, they are sufficiently skilled, and sufficiently numerous, to be a concern.
There is a good reason for [Talon] to [kill] only the target, and any relief [Talon] feels about that is meaningless. A [Talon] cannot disobey, and so it cannot have thoughts or feelings about [killing] beyond a desire to complete its mission.
The [Court] had not specified how many days this mission was to take, but the target does not spend the night alone, and so [Talon] cannot make a move on it before the end of the first day. Red Helmet touches the target often, allows itself to be grappled and pinned to the target’s bed, even though it is larger and stronger than the target.
[Talon] is aware of sex, has witnessed some of the masters engage in the act during its stealth and reconnaissance training in the labyrinth, but that had been rough, perfunctory.
The target and Red Helmet’s coupling is not like that. Though some of the actions are rough, there is a… gentleness to them. A focus and care that [Talon] does not understand.
Afterwards, they sleep curled together; the target wrapped around Red Helmet, skin to skin. Before sleeping, the target opens the door to the room, and one by one, the three animals, small predators like the target’s mask, make their way into the room, finding comfortable spots around the sleeping mortals for their own rest.
[Talon] has been trained to go without sleep for far longer than a single day, but it finds a strange lethargy seeping over it as it settles in for the night’s watch. It is cold on the rooftop where [Talon] is perched, but the room it observes looks warm, five bodies pressed together, with thick blankets and many pillows.
Though [Talon] is used to cold, it cannot rid itself of an aversion to it. Its future is only cold, endless cold, and so it finds itself drawn to warmth while it’s still an option.
At least the target has this night of warmth before its death. [Talon] has no choice about the [kill], but it prefers that its victim not suffer more than necessary. Let the target have this night of warmth with Red Helmet and the animals. Tomorrow, it dies.
And tonight, [Talon] sits in the cold, fighting against the desire to close its eyes, and refusing to think about the endless sleep that waits for it at the heart of the labyrinth.
The target doesn’t stir until long after the sun has risen. Like [Talon], it is more at home in darkness than light.
The streets of the city are filled with movement and noise by the time the three animals persuade the target out of bed to feed them. The animals [Talon] had observed the previous day, out on the street, were hunters, capable of feeding themselves, but though they look the same, the three who inhabit the target’s nest seem incapable or unwilling to do the same, switching between pleading cries and angry screams until the [Target] leaves its bed to put food into bowls on the floor for them to eat from.
Red Helmet emerges from the bed as the [Target] is preparing its own meal, pressing against the target’s back to watch over its shoulder as it chops and heats, and then they eat together, sitting shoulder to shoulder.
There is so much touch in the target’s life, and all of it is gentle, careful. Purposeless. None of it is intended to hurt, or even to teach.
[Talon] has observed mortals before. The masters of the [Court] do not count, but there had been training up here in the surface world. Once it graduated from [Fledgling] to [Talon], it was let out of the labyrinth occasionally, to familiarize itself with operating among mortals.
But it has never before studied a single target this long, or this intently.
It had not spent enough time among the mortals to realize that they communicate by touching, as do the animals who inhabit their nests.
There is meaning in the way the target leans into Red Helmet, the way Red Helmet’s hand lingers on the target’s shoulder or back as they move around one another. Even the animals know this language, touching the target and one another often, butting their heads against its hands, or rubbing their bodies against its legs when it stands.
Could [Talon] learn this language if it continued its surveillance long enough?
Could it learn the touches that would tell the target that its death is… unwanted?
But to what end? [Talon] may not wish to [kill], but it has no will of its own. It is only a weapon, wielded by the masters of the [Court]. The masters say the target must die, and it is [Talon’s] role to make their will reality. That is simply how the world functions.
To think otherwise is as good as calling the [Court] [wrong], and they cannot be [wrong], anymore than [Talon] can fly, or the sun can shine at night. The [Court] are the ones who determine what is [wrong], and punish [Talon] accordingly.
[Wrong] has no meaning except what the [Court] gives it, just like [Talons].
After they have finished their meal, the target leads Red Helmet to the shower. Even here, there is warmth, the water hot enough that the glass steams up, temporarily obscuring [Talon’s] vision, though what it hears from the sensors it has trained on the nest makes it clear enough that they are having sex once more.
Afterwards, skin pink from the heat, they dress in loose fabric, rather than the armor [Talon] has observed them wear on the streets, and move to the only room in the nest that [Talon] fully understands.
This is a training room. The equipment might be a little different than [Talon] is used to, the mats thicker and the temperature warmer, but it is similar enough to be comprehensible.
The ways they interact, too, are familiar, and yet strange. [Talon] knows the rhythms of a fight meant to teach, rather than kill, sees the deliberate restraint in both their attacks. Red Helmet is strong, unpolished but with quick reactions and raw power, and a mutable style that is hard to predict. The target would lose, were it a fight to the death, but still, [Talon] notes the speed and grace in its movements, and the flexibility that allows it to escape every pin or grapple.
What is unfamiliar is the pleasure it reads in both their bodies. The open smiles on their faces. The lack of fear or punishment when mistakes are made.
The way the target does not try to escape the final grapple of the match, but only uses its freedom to pull Red Helmet closer, press its lips to the smile on Red Helmet’s face and laugh into its mouth.
[Talon] understands that mortals have bonds with one another that [Talon] has no experience with. It has observed this on its missions outside the labyrinth. It has seen it in the way certain of the masters respond positively or negatively to one another. That is simply a fact, with no deeper significance, because those bonds belong to the lives and experiences of mortals.
But this… Even when the pain from the unhealed wounds forces [Talon] to turn away for a moment, the image repeats in its mind. A bond formed through training, through gentle violence. That is…
Such thoughts bring nothing but the old pain, achieve nothing except making [Talon] [wrong], but still, the longer it watches, the more it feels like something [Talon] could have, if only it had someone to share them with.
If only it weren’t for the cold place, waiting for [Talon] to return and be consumed by the ice, like the other [Talons].
Would the target understand, if [Talon] struck it with a pulled blow? It is not a weapon like [Talon], but it watches movement like [Talon] does. It knows the language of bodies and touch.
What would it be like to be one of the mortals who surround the target? To hear cooing instead of laughter when pain happens. To be touched by hands that aren’t trying to punish or hurt.
There are memories, half-formed and distant, from the time before the [Court]. The time when [Talon] was not yet [Talon], or even [Fledgling]. When it could not yet fight, or even walk.
There had been hands, huge and strong, supporting it as it took shaky steps. Guiding its first clumsy punch.
But that had still been training, and it had ceased as soon as the creature that wasn’t yet [Talon] could walk unaided, replaced by rougher touches.
It does not like to think of Teacher. It had trained the creature that wasn’t yet [Talon], and there had been pain, but Teacher had never hurt it for no reason, and had not laughed when it did [wrong]. Teacher had not been gentle in the way the target is gentle, but it had not been a master either.
But then had come the order that the creature could not obey. The life it could not take. And for this [wrong], Teacher had given it to the Court and the Masters to be made [Fledgling], and then [Talon]. Had made sounds for almost the first time in the creature’s memory, sharp and angry.
Teacher had walked away, and [Talon] had never seen it again.
[Talon] forces itself to turn back to the target’s nest, to ignore the wave of something hot and tight that rushes through its chest, like blood gushing from the wounds that never heal. The wounds Teacher made when it walked away without looking back.
It is purposeless to think of the time before the [Court]. Teacher is gone, and the creature is [Talon] now. It will always be [Talon], kept in cold sleep until the masters have need of it and awaken it for a few short days.
The target and Red Helmet are still on the ground, making soft sounds to each other. One of the animals has seated itself on the target’s shoulders.
Red Helmet laughs, though [Talon] cannot see any [wrong], and scratches the animal beneath its chin, making it stretch its neck to press into the touch.
If [Talon] were one of those animals, rather than an [owl], would it be touched that way? Is it something that belongs to fur rather than feathers?
Experimentally, knowing that it is [wrong] but unable to resist, it eases its fingers under the hood of its armor, rubs them softly against the tender skin beneath its own chin.
It doesn’t hurt, but nor does [Talon] feel any urge to press into it the way the animal does.
Some instinctive part of [Talon] knows that it would be different if it were another’s hands. If it were hands that could be trusted not to cause pain, as the animal must trust Red Helmet.
The animal is so small, so delicate, and the mortals so large in comparison, and yet it relaxes easily, knowing it will not be hurt, even though hurting would be easy.
[Talon] is small in comparison to the target and Red Helmet, and they are both strong. Either could lift it. Hold it.
Something [Talon] does not see, or does not understand, makes the target laugh so hard it has to reach up and steady the animal. And then, still supporting it, the target tackles Red Helmet into a sort of gentle grapple, arms and legs wrapped tight around Red Helmet and yet not trying to restrain.
This must be a common move, because the animal adjusts easily, moving with its larger host so it does not fall, and pain lances through [Talon’s] chest, so sudden and intense it looks down to check if it has been stabbed.
There is no blood. No injury. Only a desperate, painful wanting.
Once before, it had been given an order to end a life. When it had disobeyed, the world had ended. Teacher had walked away. The [court] had taken it and made it [Fledgling], given it a life of blood and pain and masters who can never be satisfied.
A [Talon] cannot disobey. It is not what they are.
But if it did…
No. Disobedience leads to punishment, to pain.
There is only obedience. Obedience which leads ever closer to the cold room, the endless sleep interrupted only by more [kills].
If [Talon] does not complete its mission, will the [Court] wake one of the sleepers? Will they hunt [Talon], or abandon it as a broken tool, no longer of use?
Without the [Court]…
[Talon] does not know if it can even exist without the [Court]. It had existed before them, but that had been when it was still the creature who belonged to Teacher. The court has remade it. Reshaped it.
It is [Talon] now. It is not some small, furred animal, living in warmth and light and laughter that does not hurt.
It is an [owl]. A creature of darkness and cold and obedience.
It is a hunter, and it must hunt.
Eventually, the smallest predator arrives, though not dressed in its disguise of rags but in soft fabric like the others. It is not as gentle as the target and Red Helmet. It is a killer, and those instincts are closer to the surface, less restrained, than they are even in Red Helmet.
And yet the target still touches it. The predator allows itself to be gently grappled by the target. Makes angry, puff-up-its-feathers noises that do nothing to hide the happiness underneath.
It has brought meat for the animals, feeds each of them a red and glistening mouthful, and shows its teeth when the target squawks about it like a startled bird.
Red Helmet moves as though it’s going to press its lips to the predator’s, then jerks back when it spots the red on the predator’s hands, pushes it towards the sink with loud, impatient sounds.
The little predator has done [wrong]. Red Helmet was going to touch it softly, but changed its mind. Made angry noises.
But there is no pain. No punishment beyond that small denial. When the predator has washed itself clean of blood, Red Helmet presses their mouths together, makes the same soft and cooing noises it made for the target.
It is hard to make out the lines of the little predator’s body—even out of its rags it still dresses in loose fabric that disguises some of its movements—but [Talon] does not think it was ever afraid.
None of them are as good as [Talon]. None of them fight as well, or blend into the shadows as effectively, or see the world as clearly. [Talon] has not killed, but if—no, when—it does, it will be quicker and more efficient than any of these three could manage.
Even Red and Black is not so skilled or efficient as [Talon].
And yet.
None of them are unskilled. They are not without stealth. They see more than most, even if it is not all that [Talon] sees. They fight well, and are capable of [killing] when they choose. And they do it without masters watching. Without—
They have the soft touches [Talon] has never known. The gentle laughter that does not only come when pain happens. The cooing sounds.
They have one another, and the other non-targets as well.
Could [Talon] have learned not to be [wrong] and had those things too?
Could it have learned to fight and to [kill] without the cold and the pain and the laughter of watching masters?
That is not a good thought. It hurts. Makes [Talon] think things, feel things, which have no place in the cold sleep and the [killing]. No place in the [Court].
That thought makes [Talon] want things that cannot be.
Eventually, Red Helmet and the little predator leave together, and the target is alone except for his animals. The opening [Talon] has been waiting for.
The lenses of its helmet highlight the components of the apartment’s security system, making it the work of a moment to sever the critical wires before the alarms have a chance to sound.
Many of the windows are too small, or too high, to allow entry, at least without smashing them and immediately alerting the target to the attack, but it has observed the target come and go through windows rather than doors when visiting the nest of the oldest predator, and so it is not surprising that the windows in the main room are large and open wide enough to admit a body far larger than [Talon’s].
The gap between the rooftop and the target’s building is wide, but not so wide that [Talon] can’t make the jump relatively easily, catching itself on the stone sill of the window and then scrambling up to a more maneuverable position.
The brickwork above the window has been worn away, leaving a convenient handhold for those who prefer windows to doors. With the fingers of one hand gripping the handhold and feet braced on the sill, [Talon’s] position is stable enough that it can work on opening the window without worrying about the sheer drop below it.
With the alarms disabled, the only remaining security is a simple sliding bolt on the inside of the window.
The glass is thick, and it takes three tries before [Talon’s] claws cut through it, each attempt scoring the lines a little deeper. The cut is not perfect: the edge of the shape shatters rather than severing neatly when [Talon] presses on it, but there is a soft chair below the window, and the glass makes almost no sound as it falls.
Where it had previously sat, there is now a space just wide enough for [Talon] to fit two fingers through, catching the bolt and sliding it across, and then it’s simply a matter of sliding the window open as smoothly and silently as possible, and [Talon] can slip through, into the main room of the nest.
The target is elsewhere, tidying up in the training room. The only witness is one of the animals.
It hisses, back arched to make itself appear larger than it is. [Talon] hisses back, trying to show it is the bigger threat. It would prefer not to hurt the animals, so it is better if they do not get close. Better if [Talon] doesn’t get to feel how soft they are. Doesn’t find out if it is capable of touching them gently.
The animal only hisses louder in response, and the target makes loud, worried sounds, emerging from the training room and freezing in the doorway when it sees [Talon].
It raises its hands, showing them to be empty, and makes sounds. [Talon] understands nothing except its own name.
There are 6 sounds which always mean the same thing, no matter who makes them and how they are feeling.
[Talon] is a creature of silence; it cannot make the sounds itself, but it knows them when others use them.
It knows [Talon], and [Fledgling], and [Court], and [Owl]. It knows [Wrong]. It knows [Kill].
The target makes several of those noises, so Talon nods to show that it understands. It is [Talon], sent by the [Court]. It was ordered to [kill].
Something brushes against its leg.
It bares its claws, preparing to fight, but the animal touching it, larger than the one which hissed, fur mottled brown and gray, only presses its body against [Talon’s] leg again, unaware or uncaring of the danger.
The target is making louder noises, scared noises, but [Talon] ignores them. Switches stance to one with wider footing, so it can reach out a hand, fingers tipped in diamond-hard metal claws, to the animal.
It does not dare to touch. If it touches, the animal might be hurt.
Hurting the animal would be [wrong]. Even though the [Court] has never said so, even though no masters are watching here, some part of [Talon] feels the [wrongness] instinctively.
The animal makes a rumbling sound and rubs its face against Talon’s claws, somehow expertly finding the safe curve of them, rather than the lethal tips.
The target is making more sounds, and when [Talon] glances up, it smiles, tight and strained with fear.
There is still violence beneath its skin, tense and ready to fight. But not striking first. Waiting.
Waiting to see what [Talon] does?
Reluctantly, [Talon] stands. Bows, because despite the target’s limitations as a combatant, [Talon] feels it has earned the respect [Talon] would extend to a fighter of great skill.
Is that [wrong]? It is not how it was taught to use bows. Not how the [Court] uses them.
It doesn’t feel [wrong].
The target smiles again, and hidden behind its mask, not knowing why, [Talon] returns it with a smile of its own. And attacks.
The fight is fast, brutal. The target is a better combatant than [Talon] had expected, when its life is on the line, but that does not stop it from being predictable.
[Talon] parries a strike, evades a kick, catches the object thrown at its head. Doesn’t allow itself to think about the way all the animals are hissing now, even the brown and gray one. Doesn’t allow itself to think about touch, gentle or otherwise, about laughter and smiles and soft noises.
It is [Talon].
The [Court] ordered it to [kill].
[Talon] does not get to choose its targets. [Talon] does not get to disobey.
Disobedience is [wrong]. [Wrong] means pain and masters laughing.
Obedience means the cold sleep and more [kills]. [Kill] and sleep and [kill] and sleep and [kill] and sleep forever and ever.
An eternity in the cold room, and no gentle touches for [Talon], or Red Helmet, or all these soft animals.
No.
No, that is [wrong]. That has to be [wrong]!
The thought hurts, worse than getting stabbed, and pain means something is [wrong].
But if the cold sleep is [wrong], if this [kill] is [wrong], then that means…
[Talon] blocks a knee aimed for its gut on pure instinct, barely focused on the fight anymore as the sheer enormity of the realization takes over every part of its mind.
If the cold sleep and the [killing] are wrong, then that means the masters are [wrong].
It means that [wrong] exists as something entirely separate from the [Court].
It means the [Court] can be [wrong]. Are [wrong].
Means everything [Talon] thought it understood about the world is [wrong].
[Talon’s] hand freezes in the air, claws a hair’s breadth from the target’s throat.
The target’s foot collides with the side of [Talon’s] head, sending it staggering back.
It raises its hands, as the target had done, moves as far out of range as the room will allow, and tries to work out how to make it clear that the fight is over.
Perhaps if it disarmed?
Hurriedly, before the target can launch its next attack, [Talon] tugs off one of its clawed gauntlets, holding it up for the target to see before dropping it onto the floor.
The target freezes, staring wide-eyed as [Talon] removes the second gauntlet, which has to be a good sign.
Slowly, telegraphing its movements, Talon reaches up and unclips the fastenings which connect its mask to its cowl, removes the [Owl] face and drops it to join the claws on the floor.
Finally, it looks at the target with its own eyes, without the filter of colored lenses. Reads the target’s body, sees the fear, the hair-trigger waiting for another attack.
Knows something more is needed to make the target understand.
[Talon] is a creature of silence, and always has been, even before it was [Fledgling]. But it had made sounds once. When it had still been Teacher’s creature, it had been allowed to make small sounds in training, sounds which shaped and directed the breath to support its attacks.
It was the [Court] who took those sounds away. But perhaps they are still in there somewhere.
And if they are, perhaps others are too.
Slowly, carefully, [Talon] shapes the sounds it needs. Pushes breath into them as though it were breathing through a kata.
The most important kata of its life.
“Kill. Wrong. Court. Wrong.”
And then, because it is already so [wrong] it might as well go all the way, it points to itself and voices the secret sound. The seventh sound it has not heard since Teacher. The sound that got replaced by [Fledgling] and [Talon]. “Cassandra.”