August 18, 0444h
It was funny.
 	Not in a humorous way.  Not at all.  In that way of odd coincidences or 
lack thereof.
 	Since he was eight, he thought he'd been training for the retribution of 
his parents' deaths.  That was the ultimate test of his training, of the years 
of discipline.  It was the test that seemed less and less likely of ever 
presenting itself as the years marched on.
 	But he'd been wrong.  It hadn't been the test after all.
 	This was the test.
 	Not the man who'd cut down his parents.
 	The man who'd cut down his son.
 	This was the great challenge in his life that he would win or die trying. 
This was the Day of Reckoning.
 	This was the day he had to ignore the aches in his body, the exhaustion 
that leeched at his senses.  He had to forget the anger and pain he felt at 
Dick's injuries.  He had to forget that there were people waiting for him at 
home.
 	He had to keep watching, not let the assassin or his weapon out of his 
sight.  He had to keep up.
 	He had to.