[DISCONTINUED]
Damain Al Ghul Wayne. That is his name and he has never been taught about the light of this word, only the shadows that he resides in.
After being dumped at his father's home, he starts to act strangely. Not that they would know, but...
The league of Assassins were known to be cold and calculating. Nothing stands in their way or kept hidden from them. When their leader's daughter, Talia Al Ghul became the mother to the son of Batman, a man they could respect in a way, they were pleased only because their leader was. An Heir. That was what the child was and they would cultivate him into a proper one, fit for their Leader's approval.
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His education in the ways of the league has been uninterrupted and going smoothly. It was difficult and harsh, but he survived. He continued to live for seven years; his current age. He is on a mission in Paris, France. His job is to find a mole that's been hiding and kill him. After that, he is to find the information he stole and bring it back. He is given three months to do this. If he goes over three months, he will be deemed incompetent and taken off the mission. Then he will given stricter training.
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I observe my surroundings, noting what could be an exit and what could be a weapon. I am tailing the target, the mole, as the sun goes down. He doesn't seem to notice me but is checking over his shoulders. As I follow him, he leads me to an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city. I do not go in. Not right a way that is.
I wait until the sun is completely down and slowly make my way to a window in the back, I glance into it as carefully as I could. His back is facing me. Could be a trap.
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(I am not very good with scenes like these, therefor I will cut to after reporting the success of the mission.)
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I start to look a round me and find that it is day break. I have two days before they can pick me up. I must lay low before then. I walk farther into the alleyway to a void being seen. I can hear chatter of the locals and tourists waking up and begin their day. Such weak and soft things they are, civilians. I wonder how they survive the cruel world without being as strong or as smart as someone like me, who is far above them and have superior skills? I would mock them some more, but then something caught my eyes.
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A small girl with pigtails, a black and red jumpsuit. The chest area is black and her sleeves are red. The cuffs are black and the lower torso is red with black lining her sides down to black leg cuffs. The sleeves are loose and the pants part puffs out a bit but also seems to fit her just fine. She has freckles doting her cheeks and the biggest and purest blue eyes he's ever seen. She calls out to the huge man walking next to her. The man is a giant with an apron. Her smile makes her as innocent as the many other children in the world yet somehow even more.
"Papa!", she calls the man.
She is so small....compared to everyone else of the streets of Paris and even more so next her father, who smiles just as warmly.
Realizing he has stared enough at the passing civilians, he makes quick work of himself and finds his hide a way until he can be picked up.
