Chapter Text
Bleeding out is, in the basest terms possible, unpleasant. Dick has almost bled out more times than he cares to admit, and it's always felt the same.
A dizzying fog over the eyes. A sudden yank in the gut. An inescapable cold, cloying and energy-sapping.
It's no different today. Everything is hazy. His stomach still flips. The warmth drains from his wounds and onto the frozen pavement, hissing and steaming as it goes.
Absently, Dick realizes that he should be stopping the bleeding. Why hadn't he tried that before? Or-?
His gloves are coated in red. Dick had tried that before. And then he lost too much blood, and all forms of short-term memory escaped him. His oxygen-deprived brain picked one battle, and that battle was to keep his heart beating for as long as possible.
Dick considers holding pressure to the wound. But he doesn't even know where it is. All he knows is that something is bleeding him dry.
“Oracle…?” Dick calls out weakly. But no one says anything over his comm because - oh, right - he isn't wearing a comm. He'd lost it or broken it or something of the like, and rather than replace it right away, Dick had picked up one of his many siblings’ patrols in Gotham and assumed one night without a comm wouldn't kill him.
The irony of that assumption is growing more and more glaring by the second.
“Batman?”
But Batman isn't here either. Dick knows that. He knows Batman isn't here, but he can't shake the feeling that Batman might be hiding behind the dumpster.
No, wait. Dick is hiding behind the dumpster. Which means Batman definitely isn't here, and Dick is going to die.
He’s going to die.
It used to scare him. Just the thought that one day, Batman would never come back from patrol, that one day, Tim would stop answering his phone, that one day, Dick would eat lead and bleed out in an alley… It scared him.
And maybe the thought that his family won't live forever still makes him nervous. But lying between a rotten, half-eaten egg salad sandwich and a bag of dirty diapers, staring up at the one and only star that breaks through Gotham’s light pollution, Dick feels something else. He feels cold and miserable, sure. But he also feels peace. He has to die eventually, so if this is how he goes, so be it.
---
“Oracle to Red Robin.” Barbara’s voice is strong, no matter how weak her announcement makes her feel.
“Go ahead, Oracle,” Tim’s voice is easy over the comm. If Barbara didn't know any better, she'd say he sounds carefree. But even if he is, he won't be for long.
“Nightwing hit his panic button, and he isn't answering his phone or comms. You're closest. I’m sending his location.”
“This is Hood,” a new voice rumbles over the comms. “Send me that too.”
Barbara frowns, flipping through mask feeds. Jason’s reads, “OFFLINE,” but that's no surprise. He rarely shares his camera feed with the Cave. The real surprise is that he’s offering to help at all. He keeps to himself, and that's just how it is.
“Copy,” she says, sending Dick’s location to the others. “Showing Red Robin and Red Hood enroute.”
And then Barbara returns to monitoring. She cycles through cameras, moving from mask feeds to street cameras.
“Oracle to Batgirl, suspect on the corner of 6th and Baker.”
She matches fingerprints with the GCPD database.
“Oracle to Robin, prints match Henninger-comma-Trey. Found guilty of armed robbery and assault.”
She finds blueprints for the Iceberg Lounge’s ductwork.
“Oracle to Spoiler, go right, then move one hundred feet ahead, then one more right turn.”
Barbara keeps busy, not just because it's her role to. Not just because everyone is begging her for information. But also because if she stops, she'll worry about Dick, and if she worries about Dick, then she'll never be able to focus.
But when Tim and Jason do speak up, it doesn't alleviate any of that fear.
“Red Robin to Oracle.”
Barbara clicks back to Tim’s feed faster than the human eye can track. It's dark, barely illuminated by a streetlamp at the end of the alley, but the mask’s night vision takes over. And Barbara feels sick.
“Oracle,” she parrots back, heart in her throat.
“Yeah, are you seeing this?” He blatantly looks at the scene, giving Barbara a concerning view of the situation.
“That's a lot of blood. Like… more than anyone could…” She bites her lip and shakes her head.
“Hood’s grabbing a sample. We found… ah… well…”
Tim looks down, directing the mask camera to a spot on the ground. Two escrima sticks, a familiar blue mask, and the torn remnants of the Nightwing suit lie in a heap. All are drenched with an unhealthy amount of crimson. A gleaming silver dagger, shiny with red, stabs the suit through the middle.
Barbara swallows hard. “Is that all?”
“Damn,” Jason mutters. “The guy bled out half his supply. What more d’you want?”
That wasn't what Barbara meant, and Jason is clearly just trying to lighten the mood, but she's having none of it.
“I want Nightwing, Hood. Where did he go?” Barbara is searching the traffic light cameras, but the alley they're in is at a bad spot, surveillance-wise.
“I don’t… I don’t know.” The panic is starting to get to Tim, and Barbara tries to redirect him.
“There aren’t any cameras on this street at all. I’ve got visual on either side of the block, but nothing covering the alley. Think there are any private businesses nearby? Someone who’d keep a camera outside?”
“What, to monitor their trash?” Jason doesn’t wait for her to reply. “Yeah. Me ’n’ Red’ll take a look.”
“You go,” Tim orders. “I… I need to figure this out.”
Jason might be looking at Tim, but Tim’s full attention is on the crime scene. On the silver blade. On the shape and flow of the blood puddle. On the positioning of Dick’s gear. On the rips and tears of the Nightwing suit, so clean and even. Like razor-sharp claws raked through it.
“... Red Robin?”
“What?”
“Just…” Barbara chews her lip. “Talk to me, okay? Let me know what you’re thinking.”
And Tim sighs, but he obeys, running through his observations and starting to piece together an analysis. Barbara is grateful for it; she didn’t think she could stand listening to her own thoughts. Not after seeing Dick’s last known location.
---
“Years.”
The boy groans. He doesn’t even have the decency to stay quiet.
“You have eluded us for years. Countless Talons have been destroyed trying to find you. You turned your back on us, and you thought you would get away with the insolence!” The Orator can’t help herself. She backhands him. “You have proven a larger detriment to the Court than any benefit the Keystone Members think you will provide.”
The boy’s lips curl into a grin, revealing shiny red teeth underneath. He lacks the strength to lift his head, so he mocks the Orator while staring at the floor. “Oh, you flatterer, you.” He laughs, but it’s so shaky and weak that it sounds like a death rattle in his chest.
The Orator takes a breath. She’s had her moment. It wouldn’t do for anyone to find her disobeying the consensus. Even if the consensus is, in her well-founded opinion, wildly ill-informed and unnecessarily reckless.
“Take him to the procedure room for rectification.” The Orator gestures towards the door with one hand and rubs a headache in her temple with the other. She waits for the Talons to drag the boy away before she sits and sighs.
But a click makes her shoulders tense. She turns and looks up. The five Keystone Members watch her behind their masks, each face taking up one screen on the wall.
“Orator,” one says. “You’ve acquired the Gray Son?”
“I’ve acquired the one you wish to make the Gray Son,” she corrects, because this boy is nothing like the Gray Son. He’s weak and disobedient. “I just sent him in for the procedure.”
“We cannot be there in person,” another Member says. “Not under such short notice. We request you observe the rectification and report back.”
Wonderful.
“Consider it done,” the Orator promises. “And when should I expect your arrival?”
“Breaking shall commence without us, as soon as the transformation has settled. Reshaping will occur once we are all present.”
“Understood.”
“So proclaims the Court,” the voices speak out in tandem.
“So proclaims the Court,” the Orator echoes.
The screens go black, and the Orator drags herself to her feet. She’s never been a fan of watching the Procedure, but she is at the mercy of the Court. If she’s commanded to spectate, then that’s exactly what she’ll do.
Of course, she regrets this fact the moment she pushes the procedure room door open.
“-still moving? He should be dead by now!”
God. The incompetence never fails to surprise her.
“Just prepare the serum, alright? He will die.”
The Orator takes her place at the edge of the room, sitting and propping a notepad on her knee. She doubts there will be many notes for her to take, but she brings the paper anyway. She needs something tangible to report back to the Keystone Members.
The boy struggles on the table, but the blood loss has reduced him to only the most primal of instincts. He jerks away and squirms when held down, but he’s too weak to put up a true fight. And the Orator is shocked at just how much he's still bleeding. At this rate, the boy should be cold and stiff, but blood still runs from his chest and leg, so dark and copious that it's nearly impossible to see the long, raking cuts it stems from.
“Lemme… I can't… Don't…” He's restless and moaning incoherently.
“Just-” Dr. Verrico grabs a syringe and needle from the table, stabbing a vial and drawing up the liquid inside. “Just hold him still. You’re Talons, for chrissakes! He’s not strong.”
The Talons, obedient to a fault, hold the boy steady as Dr. Verrico injects the drug into his arm. Then she fusses over his IVs while Dr. Michaelson preps the Electrum. It’s pitch black, thinner than tar but more viscous than coffee.
Dr. Michaelson places a hand on the boy’s chest, waiting patiently until the shallow, hitched rise and fall of his chest taper off entirely. He nods, and Dr. Verrico connects bags of Electrum to the IVs. She increases the pressure, forcing the Electrum into his veins. But it’s not enough.
“Are we prepped for bypass?”
“Yes,” Dr. Michaelson confirms. “Ready to resume circulation on your call.”
“Do it.”
The long, low machine straight out of the 1970s kicks on, humming angrily. The blood coming from the boy’s wounds turns black with Electrum.
Dr. Verrico looks up from her work. “Orator, it will take a few hours for the Procedure to reach completion. We’re simply monitoring until then. You can go. I’ll send someone for you when we’re ready.”
“The Court requested my presence for the entirety of the Procedure. I’ll stay, thank you.”
If this annoys Dr. Verrico, she doesn’t let it show. “Understood.”
The Orator has no doubt that the Procedure will be lengthy. She’s not thrilled with this fact, but this is her duty, after all. What good would an Orator be if they acted against their words?
---
“You’re in luck, Barbie,” Jason announces. “The bodega owner had security footage.”
“Send it to me.”
Jason tosses Tim a flashdrive. The kid catches it with one hand, plugging it into a ridiculously teched-out gauntlet.
“... got it.”
Jason waits a moment, giving Barbara time to watch the footage in full. It’s not particularly hopeful information, but it does give them a lead. Even if that lead will probably end with a dead body.
Barbara must watch it three times, considering how long it takes her to reply. “...oh,” is all she says.
“Is Batman free?” Tim asks. “I think he’ll want in on this.”
“I-” Barbara coughs. “I tried telling him. He cut comms.”
“Bastard,” Jason grumbles. “Of course he did.”
“I don't see a car in the video, but no one walked out onto the main street.”
“Maybe they flew off with Dick,” Tim muses, only half-joking.
Barbara must watch the footage again, sucking her teeth. “Yeah, no, I’ve got exhaust fumes. Just at the very edge of the frame. Must be the getaway vehicle.”
“What cars are seen passing the main cameras around that time?”
Barbara watches it again. And again. “White panel van, two Camrys, and a black limo.”
Jason frowns, sharing an uneasy look with Tim. “A limo? In the Bowery?”
“Any notables in the area, Barbara?” Tim taps invisible dirt from his boots, pacing in place.
“Jack Ryder. The Globetrotters. No one that would fit the bill for a stretch limo.”
“The Globetrotters game is this weekend?” Jason groans. “I thought that was next month.”
“Since when do you care about basketball?” Tim twirls his staff between his fingers, only half-invested in the conversation.
“Since Harlem’s point guard owed me two hundred bucks.” At Tim’s raised eyebrow, Jason waves carelessly. “Long story.”
“Great, very interesting,” Barbara says with an uncharacteristically impatient air. “I followed the limo to Grant Street. Then they drop off the city’s grid.”
“That's near Amusement Mile.” Jason’s voice goes thick with a decade of repressed anger.
“It's also by the sewage treatment plant,” Tim reminds him. “We don't know who is behind it. And last I checked, the Joker doesn't have claws.”
“He might,” Jason warns, because nothing can be ruled out where the Clown Prince of Stupid Monikers is concerned. “Let's go.”
---
The Gray Son - the Gray Son candidate’s - eyes are a sickly shade of green when he opens them again. Blue wars with yellow, leaving bursts of each color across his irises. The rest begrudgingly melds together, forming a thick, foggy swamp on a gray morning.
If the Orator were asked, she'd say that it's the only truly gray part of the potential Gray Son.
“Talon,” she says, voice cold and drawn. “I am the Orator of the Court. Get up.”
“I… What is this place?”
She twists the dial on the remote, lingers for a moment, savoring the boy’s desperate screams, and then turns the dial back down. The boy shakes, delayed shocks causing his muscles to twitch and spasm.
“Do as the Court commands,” the Orator says easily. “Don't ask questions.”
“W-What is the Court?”
She shocks him again, allowing five seconds at maximum wattage before easing off.
“Do as the Court commands. Don't ask questions.”
“O-Okay, oka-” His voice breaks off into shrieks.
“Respond, ‘Yes, Master,’ when given direction. You're lucky to have someone to guide you.”
The boy shakes for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The Orator almost shocks him again, but he speaks before she can, pushing himself up.
“Yes, Master.”
The Orator does not praise the boy for his obedience. The Breaking of a Talon does not leave room for worthless commendation. It is for teaching the Talon that the Talon’s desires are no longer their own. They shall only want that which the Court wants. A Talon has no opinions. They have no desire to have an opinion. They know it is not their place to question the Court’s orders.
There is only one option: obey.
“Get up,” the Orator commands.
The boy is slow to stand, and the Orator backhands him twice for lack of haste. The Electrum hasn’t bonded with his cells - not yet, anyway - so his split lip doesn’t heal right away. Black blood drips from his mouth and nose. He lifts a hand to wipe his face.
But his hand doesn’t make it there before a shock harsher than the three before wracks his body. He collapses to the ground.
“Do not act without the Court’s instruction to do so. Stand up and follow me.”
“Yes, Master,” the boy murmurs, dragging himself to his feet and following the Orator out of the chamber and down the hall.
---
“They’re where??”
“You cut comms,” Oracle says sternly. “Keep in contact if you want updates on these things.”
“You let them go to Amusement Mile? When the Joker is out of Arkham and actively committing crimes?”
“Don’t put this on me. They’re big boys now. I don’t - and can’t - control them.”
Batman sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “When was the last check-in?”
“Twenty-three minutes ago just outside Joker territory. They’re due for another on the hour.”
“I’m too far out,” Batman mutters, pulling his cape into the Batmobile behind him and slamming the door shut. He clicks on the engine and barely feels its hum before he’s speeding down the road at 120 miles per hour. “Who else is in the area?”
“No one. Signal’s at home. Batgirl and Spoiler are managing the Fear Toxin attack in the Lower West Side. Batwoman’s been no-contact for a week.”
“The Titans? The…” His mouth goes dry. He can’t request help from the League. They’re for emergencies only. And sure, this is an emergency, but it’s not a League emergency. Not even a city-wide disaster would qualify for their intervention. Global threats or worse: that’s their criteria.
“Titans got caught up in a speedster time crisis. Haven’t been able to reach them since Monday.”
So it’s up to Batman, then. As usual.
“Batman,” the boy in the passenger seat begins, glancing furtively at his father. “Is he dead?”
Batman grips the steering wheel harder, every muscle in his body tensed and expecting the worst. He doesn’t dare look at his youngest. “There’s no evidence of that.”
“Because we haven’t seen it yet,” Robin amends. “But Hood and Oracle are-”
“Acting as they believe necessary,” Batman finishes. “Whether their judgments are appropriate or not remains to be seen.”
The boy is quiet, staring at his green lace-ups. He kicks his feet a little, gloves digging into the leather of the seat. “But you trust them, don’t you?” he finally asks. “You trained them. You must trust their judgments.”
“Yes,” Batman agrees begrudgingly. “I do.”
The remainder of the drive to Amusement Mile is faster than sound. Maybe that’s why neither of them bother to talk. Maybe Batman is simply driving too fast for a conversation to be audible.
(He’s not, but they don’t voice this either.)
Red Hood and Red Robin aren’t waiting when the Batmobile arrives at the abandoned fairgrounds. They wouldn’t be, of course, because Batman never told them he was coming. He has much to think about, and coordinating rescue attempts with his children is the least of his concerns.
“Batman to Red Hood and Red Robin.”
“Hood,” a gruff voice replies over the comms.
“10-20, Hood. I’m on scene.”
It sounds like Hood is hissing in disgust. Batman can’t be sure if he intended for it to be heard by everyone on the radio channel.
“Disregard the call, Batman,” Hood warns. “Amusement Mile was a dead end. He's not here.”
Batman doesn't know whether to be horrified or relieved. (But he's pretty sure he knows which one he's truly feeling.)
“Father? Is Nightwing-?”
“We don't have all the information,” Batman grunts, returning to the car. “We can't jump to conclusions.”
Batman's mind stays grounded, but his heart leaps towards the sun, so close that it catches on fire and burns until nothing remains.
---
The world is quiet. Peaceful. Pleasant.
It shouldn’t be. There’s something so deeply, fundamentally wrong, and it’s burning Dick from the inside-out as he struggles to identify what it is. The place or the situation or the time. The people? The room? The fuzziness in his head?
Dick isn’t sure what the issue is. All he knows is that despite it all, he feels fine. Almost even good.
And then awareness returns to him, and his veins burn with a chemical heat - a series of reactions that leaves his blood frothing under his skin. His fingers and toes curl and extend as if that could help him, and, when that fails to alleviate the pain, he screams.
The worst sounds in the world are rarely those that one would expect. It's not the detonation of the bomb but the cut-off shriek as a man is crushed by the rubble. It's not the flatline on a heart monitor but the daughter’s stricken sob a week later as she realizes she’ll never hear her mother sing again.
So the scream that tears from Dick’s throat for twenty-three minutes as toxins burn through every cell in his blood is not the worst sound his bystanders hear that day. It's the deafening silence at minute twenty-four that sucks all the air from the room. The moment Dick’s body can take no further abuse and he dies.
Again.
When consciousness returns, Dick’s eyes open in slow-motion, but the Owls work in hyperspeed. They garble and scurry and rush to make themselves heard. To jab Dick with yet another needle. To shine lights and check reflexes and yell in his ears.
Dick is barely aware. The pain comes and goes, though he gets the impression that pain “going” is just him passing out, and pain “coming” is when he wakes up again. But a reprieve is a reprieve, no matter what form it takes.
“Talon. Speak.”
“Wh-what's going on?” he pleads.
The Owls ignore his question, like they never asked for it in the first place. But Dick knows they asked him to speak, because otherwise, he'd be getting tased for questioning the Court.
(The Court… It's so familiar. If Dick stretches his memory, he can see cartoonish pictures of owls. He can hear his mother's voice, so clear and safe. But her words are spotty. “Beware the Court… watches all the time… speak not… send the… for your head.”)
A sudden urge, deep and reflexive, drags Dick upwards, and he fights against white gloved hands to cling to the bedrail. Vomit and bile spill past his lips, and the Owls adjust accordingly, now holding him on his side. He struggles in their grip, not to escape them but to convulse as his body revolts against him.
“-thought Verrico and Michaelson emptied its stomach yesterday-”
“-can't do anything right-”
“-don't care whose fault it is. I just want someone to clean it up-”
Fire burns up Dick’s throat, and even held still and with his eyes shut, the world spins and flickers.
“-might be rejecting the Electrum?”
“It's dead. How could it possibly react to-”
Is he dead? He doesn't feel dead. Dying, yes, but not dead yet. Or maybe this is what Hell feels like. Hot, dizzy, and painful. So disorienting and agonizing that he's not even certain it's real.
“-breathe, Talon-”
“-it's not responding to-”
“-get the crash cart. I don't know how much longer it’ll-”
“I-” Dick’s voice is a ragged moan. He can barely hear himself. “I want…”
He wants something. Someone. But he doesn't… he can't remember. Someone is missing, and he needs them back. If only he knew who it was.
“Help,” Dick settles on. It's not specific enough. He needs to ask for someone. He should have names-
The Owls pay him no mind, poking and manhandling him. Fussing over angry, alarming machines. Muttering to each other.
“-looks like V-Tach. Should we shock it?”
“Are you stupid? It’s awake, you moron!”
“Well, it's puking Electrum, and its heart can't keep up. What the hell are we supposed to-?”
“EVERYONE!” The voice is commanding. Overwhelming to Dick’s heightened, abused senses. But it's also familiar. Another Owl, though he's not sure which. “Our new Talon is responding appropriately. The body rejects the first few transfusions. The Electrum needs to wear down the immune system, and if you had waited for me like I told you, you'd know that!”
The air shifts. The fuming, overconfident Owls cough and paw at the ground. Their masks are just as expressionless as before, but there’s enough neck-rubbing to know that they’re eye-deep in shame.
“Now, get it out of here. And someone clean this mess up.”
It occurs to Dick that they want to move him. Take him away from the blinding lights and the shrieking medical alarms. And it’s a relief. He can’t even think under these conditions-
“Shouldn’t we monitor it? It’s literally in V-Tach, and its vitals keep tanking-”
“A temporary effect,” the Owl in charge says smoothly. “You can’t kill what’s already dead, dear.”
“Okay, but it’s screaming. Can’t we… I don’t know… sedate it or something?”
“The pain will bring clarity.”
Dick is in pain, and his head sure as hell isn’t clear. Though he hadn’t realized he was screaming… Maybe he really is dead. He aches from split ends to socks (is he wearing socks?), but maybe death only dulls pain? Who’s really to say?
(Dick is to say. He’s the dead one, after all. He knows what death is like now. And death sucks.)
“Understood, Dr. Michaelson.”
Hands grip under Dick’s arms, white gloves pressing blue bruises into ashen skin. The fingers feel like daggers. Their frantic chatter is an ice pick stabbing one ear, tearing through his skull, and bursting out the other ear. The lights get impossibly brighter, scorching his eyes and burning holes in his brain.
When Dick can see, hear, touch, think again, he’s still ridiculously overwhelmed. The lights have dimmed, but only just. His skin pricks with the phantom sensation of hands, blades, fire in his arms. His ears ring until eternity, and his brain sizzles as it struggles to process the overstimulating shock. He can barely form a single coherent thought.
But a barely formed thought is still a thought, no matter the quality.
“B…” the ravaged voice croaks out. “Help…”