The bat twists around in the dream, screeching and crying in the cage. Photographs are taken, police lights flare. The bat twists again, and he thinks that maybe it's trying to talk to him. That there's something lying on it's tongue that Michael can't quite figure out. A message meant for him.

It's just strange, to look at the bat. To realize that parts of it seem exaggerated, larger than life as he looks at it. Features pass over it that assume a more human like expression on his face, and Michael squints, reaching out.

The bat bites down.

Blood surges up, and he swears.

The bat snarls at him, and when he reaches out to grasp it, it seems to swell up at the touch. It becoems hard to fight it, force it undher his control, until the bat finally opens it's maw and it says, Beware the eyes at night!

he's getting used to the sound of wings: the way they sound when joe is thinking and one shifts with him, the sound of the breeze going through feathers on a spring day, the mechanical sound of wings made out of metal.

they don't sound much like wings on television shows or in movies. those are usually made by foley, not attached to a real animal or in his case, a person. he can tell when joe has lost more feathers then usual or he can tell when some of the feathers need to be straightened out. when they crawl into bed, he's started to rely on the sound of the wing closest to him being draped on him seconds before joe pulls him closer. waking up in the middle of the night to a wing curled entirely around him, cheek pressed to joe's shoulder, arms and legs tangled up is his new normal. (and a bonus if jarro has wedged his way between them or to curl up on the pillow)

they become so second nature that even in dreams, michael can tell when something flying isn't joe. can tell taht the wingspan on whatever is chasing him through the dark, foggy woods is ten times bigger than joe's, and move in a way that most would find to be almost silent. that he can hear every shift of them, rattling around in his ears, is terrifying him.

he keeps running. he keeps panting, trying to muddle his way through leaves an underbrush. the air doesn't come to him easily, his stamina can hardly keep up. sweat runs like bullets down his face, and he tries to tell himself he can't pant, can't make too much noise. if he's not fast enough, if he's too loud, the thing in the air tracking him will kill him. it will rend him from limb from limb, devour him whole.

don't look back. do not look back.

the wings flap in the air. he tries not to turn his head, but at the last moment, he turns and stares into the face of a great white owl, with it's talons outstretched —

"michael! michael!"

do you like our owl? — it's artificial. — of course it is. — must be expensive. — very.

"See at the hearth, see you in your bed," he mutters in his sleep as a storm passes over. He's tired from all of the paperwork, from the ambitious drive in him, from feeling phantoms of Bruce Wayne encroach him. Every time he's gone down for a sleep at the office, he finds himself muttering in his sleep.

He half remembers it, throat dry,"Beware. Send a Talon for your head."

Ace just keeps his head pressed against his waist. Sometimes he manages to make it to his place, muttering the words to nothing except the shadows. Sometimes he's muttering it pressed against Joe's side in the cab they decide to take or when they're on the couch after a meal. Sometimes Connor catches a snatch of it when he comes in just to snap the door shut, intentionally making Michael jump awake.

Owls are common bat predators. There are many owl species, and each specializes in hunting different prey. The most well-known bat predators among them are the great horned owl (Bubo virginianus), tawny owls (Strix aluco), and barn owls (Tyto alba). But, what makes bats a staple in their diets? Well, for one thing, bats are relatively easy to catch. They’re not particularly fast or agile, so an owl can easily swoop down and snatch one out of the air.

— San Diego Wildlife

sometimes he reaches for scars that aren't there, that he thinks should be there. Ones on his back from hard nights, ones on his sides for fights he can't remember, one's near his face where he remembers the mask being too thin. That's how the memories feel like sometimes, how they slide over him, turn and blend. Sometimes he reaches for things he feel he should know, should remember yet can't touch no matter how he tries. Still, he can't help but notice them, whether he's walking to a diner on a date with Joe or driving a truck to pick up something for Pops or going to the bridal shop for one of his cousins: there are owls in places he doesn't remember them being before. Owls that seem to be in his dreams more and more now, and something about them makes him uneasy, makes him feel a twist in his gut, reaching for something he should know yet can't put his finger on right.