Ch. 1<br/>Of Comedians and Assassins<br/>It was a dark, gloomy and overcast night in Gotham City. Then again, was there any other kind? Deep in the Narrows, a convoy of Buicks rolled silently toward the harbor. On a rooftop nearby, a shadowy figure watched with a nonchalant interest.<br/>A flash of tailcoat and the figure is running, leaping, and then gliding over rooftops with ease and agility. The center carâ€¦ she has to be in the center carâ€¦ The figure dives over the lonely streetlights, aiming for the center Buickâ€™s sunroof. There isnâ€™t a sign of distress to the other vehicles, or even the driver of the pre-destined vehicle.<br/>Inside, Jason Winters landed in a leather seat, his ragged trench coat splayed out over the seat, mirroring his relaxed appearance. Apart from the jacket, he was fairly well-dressed: A custom-designed vest, over a black tank-top, with well-worn cargo jeans and jet-black combat boots. The only thing that wouldâ€™ve given up his appearance as a homeless army veteran was his face. A smirk, accentuated by black painted lips that stretched over his cheeks, green eyes accented with black eye paint that made him look predatory, yet friendly. Almost like a clown.<br/>â€œHello Ms. Discordia,â€ he spoke in a teasing, slightly boyish tone- he couldnâ€™t be any older than 20.