Archive of Our Own ^beta

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…”

Chapter Text

There’s no sign of Dick. Not anywhere. And hours turn into days, which turns into a week when Superman confirms it.

“I’m so sorry, Bruce. I… I can't hear his heartbeat.”

Bruce doesn’t quit, of course. Dick could be off-world. He might be behind wall upon wall of soundproofing.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t see the facts.

Fact: Dick’s last known location was an alley, unconscious, bleeding severely, and being kidnapped by his attackers.

Fact: Two liters of blood, confirmed to belong to Richard John Grayson, were found at Dick’s last known location. Enough to cause shock. Potentially enough to kill.

Fact: Dick hasn’t been seen for a week. Superman can’t hear him.

Bruce has faith, but it’d be short-sighted of him to ignore all these facts. To ignore the implication behind them:

Dick is dead.

“Batman, we…” Gordon clears his throat before holding out an evidence bag. “Forensics is done with this.”

Bruce takes the bag, and for once in his life, he finds it difficult to maintain the Batman air. Normally, when he’s upset, Batman is his default. He’s safe as Batman. He can’t be touched. But here, holding the evidence from Nightwing’s murder case, Batman is one of the most vulnerable people he could be.

“His suit.” Bruce keeps his voice low, trying to mask the shake with rasp.

“They’re still working on his sticks, but I’ll get them back to you as soon as I can,” Gordon promises. “I’m… I never said it. I’m sorry, Batman. I… I have a kid too, and I couldn’t-”

“Thank you, Commissioner,” Bruce growls. Because he can’t hear this. Not right now. Because the only thing worse than being Batman, Nightwing’s former mentor and partner, is being Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson’s father. If he can barely keep it together as Batman, he’ll break down if he’s reminded of Bruce’s loss. “Tell me when you learn more. I’ll do the same.”

That’s what he says. That’s not entirely what he means. He’ll update Gordon, sure, but it might not be right away. It might be later, after the party responsible for Dick’s death - for his assumed death - is beaten halfway to their own grave. More, if Damian has anything to say about it.

God. Damian.

Batman sets his jaw, ignoring Commissioner Gordon’s meaningless platitudes. He gives a half-hearted wave and dives off the building. He can’t deal with this right now.

---

It’s only been a week. Just one. No one told Dick this, but he knows. He knows that the darkness, the shocks, the lack of food - all intended to distort his sense of time - make the hours drag and the days creep, but he’s fairly certain that it’s only been seven, eight days maximum. The stubble on his face tells him as much.

Dick isn’t alone. Master-

(No, not Master. No. No, the Orator. Not his master, because he’s a person and he doesn’t have a master-)

Dick isn’t alone. The Orator visits frequently, constantly dragging him from prison cell to deranged training sessions to freak sludge infusion appointments. They’re cruel and merciless in both tongue and hand, constantly telling him how useless he is. Telling him what a joke of a “Gray Son” he is. (Whatever the hell that is.) Shocking and burning and cutting him for the mildest of offenses. For things that wouldn’t really be considered offenses anywhere else.

“Talon. Get up.”

Speak of the devil.

Fire lights up Dick’s nerves, running down his spine and leaving his muscles twitching and spasming.

“I won’t ask twice, Talon.”

Dick takes an undignified gasp as he tries to regain control over his body. Finally, he sits up and glares at the person in the expressionless owl mask. “I’m not Talon.”

Electricity knocks Dick to the ground again. The seconds drag on for years, every inch of him wailing in agony. His brain goes fuzzy, and he loses the battle to stay quiet. He lets out an inhuman shriek that never seems to end.

The seconds pass. He thought they never would, but they do. He’s officially lost track of time once the shock tapers off, fingers and toes still twitching with displeasure.

“One, for disobedience.”

And, with no further prompting, the electricity begins anew, rubbing Dick’s nerves raw and driving hot spikes into his eyes. He can’t control his body. He can’t stop screaming.

The electricity might stop, but he can’t tell any different. He’s still on fire.

“Two, for failure to address your master properly.”

Whatever burning and sizzling Dick felt before is nothing compared to this. He shakes so violently, he smacks his head off the ground and bites his tongue until all he sees are stars and all he tastes is blood. He can’t stop the ringing or the burning or the tiny daggers that dig into every inch of his body and twist. His chest aches, and he's distantly aware that he could be having a heart attack. Consciousness leaves and returns in a dizzying cycle of grueling torment.

This continues for three minutes. There’s no feasible way for Dick to deduce this on his own. The Orator has to inform him.

“Three minutes for offense three: denial of your identity. You are Talon.” Something sharp digs into his hand, but his senses are too blown and his body is too weak for him to do much more than writhe on the ground. “Tell me. Tell me who you are!”

“I-I’m-” He’s shaking too badly to form words.

“Say it!” Venom drips from the Orator's voice. Their hand is a steel vise on his jaw.

“I-I’m T-T-Tal-on.”

“Thought so,” the Orator spits, tossing him to the floor with disgust. “You’d best remember that next time, or we’ll go through this again. All of it.”

The cell door slams shut, leaving him alone to fight for breath.

---

“Bruce, you can't keep doing this.”

Bruce doesn't look up from the extensive, state-wide heat map on his computer. “Who put you up to this?”

Leslie huffs, spinning Bruce's chair around. Shockingly, he lets her, but his arms are folded, and he pouts like a toddler who didn't get the candy bar he wanted. His eyes are bloodshot, skin so pale it's practically translucent.

“I’m worried about you,” Leslie insists. “You've been Batman nonstop for weeks. You barely eat, you never sleep, and you haven't talked to your kids in-”

“Oh.” Bruce spins back around and cycles through different map filters. He stops on a wi-fi map and considers it pensively. “You’ve been talking to Jason, then? He's exaggerating.”

Leslie puts her palms on the central console and leans forward, scowling as she analyzes Bruce’s features once more.

Limp, oily hair. Multi-week beard. Eye bags the size of Nevada.

“I don't think he is,” Leslie counters. “I’m not here to be the bad guy, Bruce. I’m here to make sure you take care of yourself.”

“I have Alfred,” he says dismissively. “I’m fine.”

“Alfred called me first, actually.” The doctor sits on the desk and finally manages eye contact with the boy. (The man, she reminds herself, but she's known Bruce so long that it's hard to think of him as anything other than a boy who desperately needs a mother. A boy she failed to save from himself.) “He said you don't listen to him.”

Bruce grunts. “Well,” he sighs, sitting back from the computer and fixing Leslie with a tired frown. “He's not wrong.” He looks down at his hands and then back at the doctor. “I don't… I can't stop. I’m sorry, I know that's not what you want to hear, but… I can't lose him.”

Leslie’s heart breaks all over again for the little boy in the alley, rain-soaked hair plastered to his forehead and trembling hands clenched into fists. “Bruce,” she says, heartache lacing her tone. “He's gone.” She reaches out hesitantly, and when Bruce doesn't flinch, she takes his hands in hers. “Bruce, he's gone.”

The boy shakes his head, but his expression is frozen in dull indifference. “You're wrong. There's no body. How couldn't…? There has to be a…” He grips her hands tightly. “He's my son, Leslie. I can't lose him.”

“So are Tim and Damian.” She rubs her thumbs over his knuckles. “Cass and Jason. They're your kids too. And they just lost their big brother. They need you, Bruce.”

Bruce stiffens and pulls away, fingers gravitating back to the keyboard. “I’m helping them. I’m bringing him home.”

“He's dead, Bruce! Why can't you…?” Leslie shakes her head, brushing away her tears with her palms. “You know how this ends. Stop prolonging it. Just… just let him rest. Let him be.”

“Leslie, I-” Bruce swallows hard, sitting back and staring at his shaky hands. “If I stop, I give up. I… If I stop, then he's really dead. I can't… I don't know if I…” He folds his arms in a sorry self-hug. “I don't want to lose him, Leslie.” The words are barely a whisper. “He wasn't supposed to go like that. Alone and scared and…” He hugs himself tighter.

“Oh, Bruce,” Leslie sighs, rubbing his shoulder. “He knew he was loved. And you know him; that was all he needed.”

---

The future Gray Son, for all its attitude problems, is coming along well enough. It still struggles with addressing its superiors properly and doing what it's told, but a quick shock is usually enough to remind it of its place. Its fighting style is graceful, efficient, but tragically non-lethal. Something that may prove a challenge to change, but it's a challenge the Keystone Members will face head-on. Breaking something to bloodlust is their favorite type of obstacle.

But for all its progress, and for all the Court’s capabilities, the Talon hasn't been here long enough.

“Orator,” the Keystone Member greets, nodding briefly but respectfully.

“Keystone Member Rifkin.” The Orator acts in kind.

“I saw your progress reports.”

“Let me further insist; it's not ready for the Crowning. It's still too rebellious-”

Keystone Member Rifkin clears her throat. “That is up to the Board to decide, Orator. And we made our decision. Even if I was receptive to your opinion, it's-” She stifles a chuckle. “It's a little late, don't you think?” She gestures beyond the observation deck to the nightmare scene below.

“Move and you'll be disciplined, Talon! Scream, and I’ll give you a reason to scream!” the Bailiff warns.

On the operating table, the sort-of Talon lies on its stomach, twitching but deadly silent as twin incisions are cut into its back.

“It seems plenty obedient,” Rifkin notes. She sits in one of the chairs, crosses her legs, and taps her fingers on her knee. “Perhaps you misjudged it.”

As if on cue, the future Gray Son gags and jerks against the scalpel.

“Be still!” the Bailiff roars, swinging his katana overhead and driving it through the Talon's shoulder and into the operating table. The Talon shrieks, and for a moment, that's all anyone in the room can hear. But seconds later, the Talon gags again, coughs around a whimper, and goes still. The Orator assumes it passed out until she notices the shaky, forced control over its breathing.

The Talon is still very much awake, doing everything in its power to keep the Bailiff's second katana sheathed.

“The right,” the surgeon says, and two Court Members approach. In their arms is a mess of tawny-white feathers.

“Grafted cells from the Gray Son initiate and the Northern Hawk Owl, grown on-site,” the Orator assures Rifkin.

Rifkin nods. “And the rejection rate?”

“Not particularly inspiring.” The Orator shifts from foot to foot before Rifkin gives her permission to sit. “Seventy-two percent as of our last skin test.”

Rifkin hums. She folds their hands in her lap and nods resolutely. “It will work. This is the Gray Son’s descendant, born and bred for the mantle.”

The Orator does not share Rifkin’s faith.

The surgeon spends forty-five minutes fussing with the still-growing base of the wing, carefully lining it up with the incision site and loosely stitching it together. The Talon grunts on occasion but never moves, unwilling to cut itself further on the katana. The surgeon patiently waits for the Talon's weak healing factor to merge nerves and blood vessels, muscle and ligaments. Then, she finally calls out.

“Talon, move your wing.”

There is no motion, just more whining. For a long thirty seconds, the Talon remains still as the dead.

And then there's the flutter of feathers, weak but unmistakably present.

The Orator releases a breath.

Rifkin leans back in her chair, hands clasped around her knee. “Beautiful.”

The Keystone Members’ interests in Talon-related affairs vary wildly. Most are apathetic at best, knowledgeable of the process but on the squeamish side. They don't want anything to do with the creation or the control of the Court’s agents, sending their own personal assistants to enforce their orders.

Keystone Member Patterson is more tolerant of the Talons, a cruel streak running through him. He finds pleasure in commanding the more experienced Talons. It might be argued that Patterson simply does it for the free labor. It isn't argued, however, because speaking ill of a Keystone Member is a death wish.

And that leaves Rifkin. She's easily the most twisted of the Council, eager to rectify, break, shape, and command the Talons. She loves ordering the Talons around, leaps at the opportunity to discipline, and finds the process of Talon creation captivating. Because of this, the other Members rarely participate in Talon-related affairs.

It creeps the Orator out more than she'll ever admit.

In the operating theatre, the surgeon has moved on to the left wing, placing stitch after excruciating stitch. She moves so slowly that the Talon loses control once more.

“SILENCE!” the Bailiff booms, and the second katana finds its home in the Talon’s other shoulder. It's so fast and close that it nearly takes off the surgeon’s hands. But the surgeon doesn't flinch. Both she and the Bailiff are confident in their abilities and roles.

The surgeon pauses, bloody gloves hovering in limbo while the Talon jolts and sobs and whimpers.

“It's not ready,” the Orator says cautiously. She wants to say “I told you so,” but this is as close as she'll come. (You don't become the Orator for the Court of Owls by having an ego.)

“You have no patience,” Rifkin scolds.

“Of course I have patience. I wanted to wait.”

Rifkin casts a side-eye. “It is the descendant of the Gray Son. It was always meant to do this.”

Again, she uses the flimsy argument of faith. Again, the Orator doubts.

“Fetch Keystone Member Patterson,” Rifkin orders. “I’d like to discuss future plans with him.”

The Orator is glad to leave the surgical theatre, even if it's for a demeaning reason. She's done watching the Council botch the last Gray Son.

---

The funeral is a bleak affair. This isn't unique, of course; few funerals are parties. And yet, Damian finds the event to be notably dismal.

“You don't have to stay,” Father reminds him. “I can get someone to take you home.”

Damian shakes his head. “I need to be here.” He doesn't speak more on it. Talking is a waste of time. Talking won't fix things. It won't bring Grayson back.

“Bruce, sweetheart, I’m so sorry to hear about the boy.” The elderly woman kisses Father’s cheek and holds his hands in hers. “I remember when you used to bring him to all the galas. Charming little thing.”

Damian feels a heat rising in his chest, a tension through his body. He feels the need to scream, but he's not sure why.

“Thank you, Mrs. Carroway.” Father deserves a medal for his unyielding poker face. Damian trained with the League of Assassins, and even he-

(No. No, he does not want to cry. He is fine.)

“Margaret, please,” the woman urges. She speaks more meaningless platitudes, offers a cold hug, and disappears into the church.

“Are we letting any philistine into this event?” Damian huffs. “She didn't know Grayson at all.”

“That's how funerals work,” Father sighs. “She was a friend of my dad’s - your grandpa. She's just here out of respect to him.”

“Yeah, well…” Damian folds his arms and scowls at the cars as they pull into the parking lot. “Grandpa is dead and never even met Grayson. It’d be more respectful if she stayed away. If all of them stayed away.”

Father looks like he wants to say something, but he wisely keeps his opinion to himself. Damian is in no mood to argue the semantics of antiquated western bereavement.

A man approaches Father, droning on like the woman had about how sorry he is and about how adorable Grayson was as a kid and-

And someone is talking to him. To Damian.

“-just like your father,” the woman gushes, expression inappropriately light for the event.

“Who are you?” Damian demands, glaring up at the rouged cheeks and shadowed eyes.

The woman is unphased by Damian's brusqueness. “Catherine Eldova. But Cathy is fine.” She smiles slyly, like she’d just said something of wit and not a cheap self-introduction.

“Charmed,” Damian replies in an arguably very uncharmed tone.

“I’m so sorry about your…” Cathy squints, and her lashes clump together like giant spiders.

Damian raises an eyebrow. “My brother?”

Cathy’s smile returns, pristine teeth as bright as the sun after a movie theater. “Yes. So sorry to hear about him. I’m sure you miss him.”

“Get out.”

“I…” Cathy’s lips freeze in place, brow crinkled but smile intact. “What did you say?”

“Leave,” Damian hisses. “Do you even know his name? Don't pretend to care about him when-!”

“Damian.” Father’s grip is like steel, voice like the dark, churning sky before a storm. “Go wait inside with the others.”

A thousand arguments rake his tongue and burn his lips, but Damian bites them all back with a single “tt.” Then he turns his back and storms into the church.

Drake is waiting just inside, expression subtly pained. He jerks his head towards the main area, where their family is seated, but Damian finds himself shaking his head desperately. It’s unfitting of an al Ghul to lose their composure like this. Grandfather would surely leave him to battle to the death against a few thousand warriors for it.

For once, Damian can’t care. He can’t let tears fall, but he doesn’t have the strength to maintain a calm facade. If that makes him weak, then maybe he never wanted to be strong to begin with.

Not missing a beat, Drake nods, ushers Damian to a bench nestled in a dark alcove, and puts one hand on Damian’s shoulder. Normally, Damian would beat him off. Maybe threaten to shave his head and poison his coffee. But honestly, Damian can't care less. He doesn’t care that Drake is trying to be emotionally supportive. He doesn’t care that he requires the emotional support. He doesn’t even care about stupid Cathy.

He cares about one thing and one thing only:

Grayson is gone, and without his body, not even a Lazarus Pit can bring him back.

---

It feels like every time Dick wakes up, his situation becomes fifty times worse. First, he was dead. Then he was inexplicably alive but still dying. After that, his senses were dialed up to twelve, and he was electrocuted for misspeaking. (Actually, Dick was waking up to that last scenario more and more frequently.)

Today, though. Today takes the cake.

Dick’s face is pressed hard into the cement floor, cringing against sterile, nigh-blinding lights. The buzzing of fluorescent bulbs, normally so loud and monotone that his enhanced hearing gives him a migraine, barely catches his attention today. His back is on fire, and there's the oddest dull pressure beyond it. Like a numb arm after sleeping on it, except that the arm is coming out of his back.

Dick has forced his bloodless arm to move before, so he takes the same approach here. Brown feathers smash into the floor beside him, and he's overwhelmed with the dizzying sensation of a thousand knives stabbing the arm sticking out of his back.

… the wing. Those feathers are connected to a wing, and that wing is connected to his back. Without allowing himself a moment to process it, Dick repeats the motion, and this time, feathers hit the ground to both his left and right. Pain strikes him again, but the odd state of his reality hits him harder.

He has wings. That's not even possible. Surely, he must be dead for real this time. Does Hell get angels too? Is that why he hurts so much? Is that why he’s suddenly half-bird?

As the pain slowly ebbs down to a burning ache, Dick pushes himself up and onto his feet. Almost instantly, he falls backwards. It's only the frantic windmilling of arms and weak flapping of wings that keeps him from landing flat on his back. (From landing on the painful new wings that hurt just to move.) He drops onto his butt and blinks away the dizzying blur in his vision.

Dick knows this sensation. He's felt it before. Lived with it for over a year. It's like he's suddenly wearing Batman’s cape again. He's off balance.

As strange and upsetting as waking up with wings was, Dick is pretty sure the realization that he may never be on balance again is what breaks him. After all, how can you flip over a criminal’s head with fifteen feet of feathers and bones in your way?

(He forgets that balance is hardly his biggest concern. He’s been kidnapped. He was dead. (Or he thinks he was?) He has no clue where he is, and he now has to address people with stupid owl masks as “Master.” Balance and wings are not important.)

“Talon.”

Despite the ocean-deep ache in his bones, Talon jumps to its feet. (Dick. Dick jumps to his feet.) The memories of jolts and burns and shocks from delayed responses are still emblazoned in his mind. He cants backwards again but catches himself on the wall. “Yes, Master?”

The Bailiff smiles, but it's not of joy. It's of wicked, smug arrogance. As quickly as they curl up, the Bailiff’s lips tug downwards, eyebrows low. “Follow me.” They unlock the cell and lead Talon (no, Dick) down a hallway. They don't use handcuffs. They don't need to. The metal ring that cuts into his neck makes sure of that. One toe out of place, and it's-

A familiar but no less jarring flare of pain shoots down Dick’s spine. He grits his teeth, bites back a shout, and falls to his knees. When the fire passes through him, he looks up to see the Bailiff's mask peering down at him. It's a simple mask - just a beaked white oval with dimpling of the chin, symbolizing the Bailiff's role - but it's the simplicity that makes it so unnerving. The anonymity, the lack of expression, the inhumanity in its eyes… It makes Dick’s skin crawl.

“Wh- What was that for?” he gasps, trying to clear the electric fog in his head.

A second shock burns straight through Dick’s chest, and his limbs twitch and shake uncontrollably. He slams into the ground, knocking his head off the cement. He loses a few seconds, vision clouding with darkness, ears plugged with static. When light and sound return, the Bailiff is speaking. The words sound electric.

“On your feet, Talon.”

Talon (no, he's Dick, he's Dick, he's-) claws its way up the wall and onto unsteady legs. Few would constitute its pathetic slouch against the wall as standing, but the Bailiff got their point across, and that's all that matters to them.

“Don't question the actions of the Court,” the Bailiff commands.

“Yes, Master,” Talon (Talon? Talon isn't… That's not his name…) says.

The Bailiff nods. They wait a merciful thirty-five seconds before they urge Talon along. Its head spins, temples pounding with every step, but it manages to reach the destination without falling again.

“Today's task,” the Bailiff announces, “is survival.”

Talon (that's wrong, that's wrong, that's wrong) frowns, taking in the new room with trepidation. The ceilings are impossibly high, so much so that all it can see above them is darkness. The ground splays out in symmetrical rays of marble tile. Warm orange light flickers from owl-shaped sconces, sharply contrasting with the cool gray walls. A chill lingers in the room, just enough to be uncomfortable, but the Bailiff looks unbothered, despite their thin button-up shirt.

“Permission to speak?” Talon (no, its - his - real name is…) chews his tongue, praying that he won't be punished for asking.

The Bailiff stares at him from behind the soulless mask. And then, almost imperceptibly, they nod. “Speak, Talon.”

“Thank you, Master.” The gratitude is reflexive. “What am I to survive?”

The Bailiff nods. “You will see. You may do anything you like, but no matter what, you don't leave this room until there's only one breathing.”

Only one…?

Questions push on Talon’s lips, but it bites them down. (Its name isn't Talon, but then… What is it?) Its mouth tastes like ash at the mere thought of disobeying. Of questioning.

The Bailiff leaves, dress shoes making crisp taps against the stone floor. There’s a squealing as the door opens and then a damning boom as it slams shut.

And that's when things go haywire.

Talon (what’shisnamewhat’shisnamewhat’shisname) leaps backwards, just missing the razor sharp daggers clasped by dark leather gloves. The mysterious figure, moving too quickly and too closely to properly identify, sprints forward. It turns at the very last second, following Talon’s dodge and ramming a knife between its ribs.

Finally understanding the situation, Talon (it doesn't know its name, but it's not Talon) rips the knife out of his chest, ducks a second blade aimed for its eye, and stabs the back of its opponent's knee.

Talon (is it Talon?) takes the opportunity to remove two more daggers from its enemy’s belt, retreat a good twenty feet, and size up its contender. The figure isn't particularly big - shorter than Talon, though definitely better fed than it - and is covered head-to-toe in a black uniform. A pair of pitch black wings flutters behind it, far more graceful and controlled than Talon’s awkwardly-hunched wings. Gleaming steel knives run up its chest and down its back. A pair of hauntingly empty goggles stare at Talon (that's the wrong name), as if daring it to try again.

Talon (does it have a name?) isn't sure who it is, but it does know that it won't be punished again. Not if it can help it. It charges, ramming a dagger into one goggle lense. The enemy staggers and falls again. Talon (maybe… maybe it is Talon…?) lifts its arms to strike the killing blow when something in its leg snaps - is cut - and it collapses to the ground.

And then the enemy is on Talon, hissing behind the hood and driving a blade through its neck.

Its vision cuts out. Sound fades to static. Its skin feels fuzzy and numb.

Its name is Talon, and it lost.

---

“... Bruce?”

Bruce minimizes his computer tabs and spins around, guilt painted across his face and shame flushing his ears. “Tim.”

Tim shoots him a flat look. “You don’t need to hide it.”

“I…” Bruce clears his throat and stands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.

“Sure,” Tim replies sarcastically, slipping past Bruce and opening the tabs he’d hidden. They’re covered in crime scene photos, forensic reports, and time maps of all known enemies’ locations. “So this is…?”

Bruce glares at him and folds his arms. “I spoke with Leslie, and she thinks I need to be more present for you all. So any and all investigating of certain cases are… I’m trying to keep them to myself.”

“Right.” Tim nods. “Well, I think she’s wrong. I don’t think we’re spending enough time looking.” He hands Bruce the stack of files slung under his arm. “There was fur from Man-Bat in Dick’s suit. CSI missed it because they weren’t using a strong enough solvent. I’m betting I can recover some mask footage from that night too.”

There’s a beat where Bruce’s expression is completely stoic, with no indication that he approved or even heard what Tim had said. But then his eyes soften, and he pulls up a second chair.

“I appreciate the help,” Bruce says earnestly.

Tim sits at the table and pulls out his laptop. “It’s Dick,” he replies. “We can’t give up on him.”

---

Death is cold. It seeps into the skin and freezes the blood. The world frosts and turns brittle, slowly chipping away until all that's left is that inescapable, hollow chill. It trudges on for eons, thick sap oozing from an icy maple tree. Nothing can sate death’s cold; it always needs more.

But then, decades, centuries, millennia later, the freeze lifts. Just as quickly as it left, heat comes rushing back. It strikes suddenly, burning and charring all in its path. Feeling returns, and that feeling is pain, pure and unadulterated. It tears and stings and stab, stab, stabs.

“Open your eyes, Talon.” The voice is distorted. Their words rise like bubbles in a boiling pot, rapid and impatient to burst.

For a moment, Talon ignores them. And then a whisper of panic drips down its back. The heat intensifies, and it is eclipsed by the reminder of an overwhelming loss of control. Of shaking and screaming and-

“Y-yes!” Talon gasps, drawing air like it never tasted breath before. “Yes, M-M-M-!” Its teeth chatter so badly that it can barely speak. It surges upward, stumbling onto its feet. Something pulls at its arms, and an undesignated Owl pushes Talon back down onto the cot.

“Stay down,” the Owl commands, fussing with the IVs in its arms. They don't speak further, and Talon doesn't dare ask questions. It lies flat, struggling to suppress its shivering. Its ears ring with all the force of a kindergarten bell choir, and its head swims, vision blurring and flickering and spinning.

“Get up, Talon.”

This time, Talon doesn't hesitate. It jumps up and stands at attention. The room is brighter now. It's not as hot, nor as cold. The IVs are gone, its bare arms pale and bruised. Though it sways on its feet, it remains upright. “Yes, Master.”

The Owl with a slightly more distinctive mask than the rest leers over him. Their eye sockets are deeper, and the beak is more pronounced. They look… old. Wisened, maybe. Like a centuries-old cryptid hiding within the twisted oaks of a haunted forest. They hum, a fluttery trill in the back of their throat. “You failed.” The voice is ancient and moss-covered. The thick smell of wood fire and rain wafts off them.

“Yes, Master,” Talon agrees. It can only hope that its failure isn't worthy of a punishment, but it really should know better than to torment itself with wishful thinking.

“You let the Talon kill you. You dishonor the Gray Son’s legacy.”

“Yes, Master.” Talon waits for a shock, but it never comes. Instead, a cane comes down hard on its shoulder. Still weak from the cold (from death, it was dead), Talon falls onto one knee. It keeps its eyes on the Owl’s feet and stays silent. Crying out is unbecoming of a Talon, even if that Talon is a failure.

“You failed,” the Owl repeats, slamming the cane across Talon’s face, into its back, against its wrists. Bones shatter. Blood fills Talon’s mouth. It refuses to shout. It refuses to spit out the blood.

“When a Talon dies, the Court is left vulnerable. Until you realize how dangerous that is - how selfish that is of you - you will never be a true Talon.” The hits keep coming. A knock to the back of the head forces Talon’s mouth open, dark blood pouring down its chin as it gasps for air.

“Your body isn't ready yet,” the Owl continues, stabbing the foot of the cane into Talon’s gut and shoving it down. “It won't be for at least a decade. Our best Talons survived their training despite the fact. If you cannot avoid mortal injury, you will die. You will leave the Court defenseless. You will fail.” They let up, and Talon gasps and pants, doing everything it can to remain calm. To stay strong.

The Owl slams the cane against the floor, leaning casually and tipping their head. “We managed to revive you six hours post-mortem. We left you in cryogenic hibernation for the seventy-two hours following. A merciful punishment.” They spin the cane absently, but their mask seems to burn holes into Talon’s skull.

“The Electrum saved you this week,” the Owl continues. “If you don't improve, it won't be there to save you again. Consider this your first and only warning.” They snap their fingers, and thick leather gloves grab under Talon’s arms. “Get it out of here,” the Owl orders the other Talons.

---

Cassandra will be the first to admit that she knows little to nothing about the political climate of Blüdhaven prior to Nightwing’s disappearance. Maybe it’s always been this corrupt. Maybe criminals have always been this bold, and politicians have always been this criminal. But she does know a thing or two about Dick Grayson, and she’s fairly confident he wouldn’t let a city under his protection go down the tubes like this.

This is Batgirl’s fifth consecutive week in Blüd, following brief stints by Red Hood and Red Robin. And after two months without seeing their usual black-and-blue protector, the people of Blüd have caught on. Criminals are relentless, convinced that they’re immortal now that Nightwing is MIA.

It’s Cass’s job to prove just how wrong they are.

Her nights have been busy, her days spent in Dick’s apartment, trying to gather any clues she can about his last case or any enemies who might want him dead. It hurts every time she slips through the window and is hit with the smell of Dick’s cologne. Even worse are the signs of life gone cold - an old pan on the stove still coated with olive oil and garlic, rumpled sheets on a bed that Cass can’t bring herself to sleep in, a stack of unopened mail laying on the kitchen table. All of it makes her chest ache, knowing that Dick quite likely is gone forever.

One night, while patrolling Hogan’s Alley, a middle-aged man flags Batgirl down. “Miss, what happened to Nightwing?” he asks.

Bruce gave them a line for this, just in case the question was asked. Even so, Batgirl needs a moment to remember exactly how to reply. “On a mission with the Titans in California.”

“Oh,” the man replies. “Well, as long as he’s okay, I guess. I’m… My name is Vince. Nightwing always stopped at my food truck, and I just… I wondered where he went. Did he say when he’ll be back?”

Batgirl shakes her head.

The man deflates a little more. “Ah, yeah. Too bad. Well… if you see him, can you say Vince said hi? The guys at the shelter said they miss him too.”

“Of course,” Batgirl replies, though her mouth goes dry, and she’s suddenly very glad for the full-face mask covering her eyes.

A week later, Red Robin swaps her out again. Even an hour away, Cass thinks about Vince often after that.

---

“Welcome, Talon. Meet your last living relative.”

“Living” is a generous description. The old Talon’s skin is withered and gray. Its eyes are jaundiced, but the veins in them are black. Its silvery wings stretch out from his back and trail behind it like a storm cloud. It moves slowly - stiffly - but with purpose. Its dry, cracked lips stretch into a warm smile, and it looks at Talon like a father watching his five-year-old graduate preschool.

“Hello, Grandson,” the old Talon says. “I am the first Gray Son.”

Talon frowns. It thought this was a challenge. Surely the Court doesn't intend for it to fight an old man? (No, stop, Talon tells itself. The Court has its reasons. The Court doesn't make mistakes.)

“Gray Son,” Talon greets, nodding respectfully.

“The Court brought me in to test you, Talon,” the old Gray Son explains. “Prove yourself or die honorably.”

And then, with all the fluidity and grace of a swan, the old Gray Son lunges at Talon.

Any doubt in Talon’s mind dissolves into acute realization, and it jumps back just quickly enough to avoid being stabbed in the heart. It swings its hand and foot up in sync, knocking away the knife and stunning the opponent with a swift kick to the head in the same breath. This buys Talon a free moment. Once, it might have used this time to distance itself from the target, but today, it's out for blood. It stabs a dagger into the Gray Son’s chest and pushes it back, leaving the weapon behind.

“That's more like it,” the first Gray Son crows, removing the dagger and swiping outwards. Talon easily catches its wrist and twists, bones cracking like a twig.

This does not bother the old bird. It smirks, drives another dagger in Talon’s gut with its uninjured hand, and pushes Talon back with its foot.

Blows are exchanged. (Bam. Crack. Pow.) The Gray Son makes snide comments. (“Not good enough, Grandson. Are you even trying?”) Talon wants to respond (“I don't need to try,” it wants to say. “Beating you is the easiest task of the week.”), but it doesn't. It remembers the Court's orders. (“You talk too much, Talon. You are an assassin, not a comedian.”) The Gray Son’s injuries heal almost instantly, skin knitting together and bones straightening out. (Crick-crack.) Talon’s body makes a valiant effort, but its wounds still leak dark goop. (“Not a true Talon yet, are you, Grandson? You're not ready.”)

It was rigged from the start.

“Yield, Talon,” the old Gray Son orders, holding a blade against Talon’s throat. “I’m not afraid to kill you.”

But a slit throat is infinitely better than whatever the Court plans to do for Talon’s failure. They’ve punished it before, and…

No. Talon would rather die.

Talon holds up its hands in surrender. The old Gray Son sheaths its sword and offers its hand. Talon takes it and yanks the old man down, stabbing a dagger between its shoulder blades. Then it smashes the butt of another blade into the man’s temple, feeling the skull crack and cave in.

“There is no honor in your fight, Talon,” a voice says from above.

Talon swallows hard, still on its knees and staring at the black blood oozing from the first Gray Son’s head. “I will do what is necessary to fulfill the Court’s commands, Master.” Its fingers tremble, and it grips the knife harder. It failed. It failed.

“As a Talon should,” the voice notes. “A Talon does not play by the rules. Honor is pointless without victory. Pride is a consequence of the soul, and Talons do not have souls.” It doesn't sound like an admonishment. It sounds like a lesson.

“Get up, Gray Son,” the voice booms. “You are ready.”

“Yes, Master.”

…

It's cold again. Talon isn't sure what it did wrong. All it knows is that it's cold, cold, cold, and it can't keep its eyes open any longer.

“Goodbye, Dick Grayson,” a voice warbles at the edges of Talon’s consciousness. “The Gray Son will rise once more. So proclaims the Court.”

“So proclaims the Court,” Talon mumbles. Then it knows no more.

Chapter Text

TEN YEARS LATER

“Nightwing.” The crackle of his comm is almost foreign. He’s grown so accustomed to working solo - no Batman, no Alfred, no Oracle - that he has no clue why anyone would want to talk to him.

“Nightwing,” he replies, identifying himself. “Who's calling?”

“It's Flamebird. Wanted to join patrol.”

Ah. That… actually makes sense. Damian has always been hesitant to leave Blüdhaven in the new Nightwing’s care (even though he's older now than the original Nightwing was when he disappeared). Something about making sure the new guy “upholds Grayson’s legacy.”

It drives Nightwing insane, but frustratingly, he gets it. Dick left behind impossible shoes to fill. (Or, in this case, suit. The Blüdhaven subreddit went wild all those years ago, furious that an imposter with a flat ass was running around its city pretending to be Nightwing.) 

But it's fair. If he wasn't Nightwing right now (if he hadn't earned the mantle, biting and scratching for the opportunity to honor his dead brother), he'd be checking in on the second Nightwing every moment he got.

But in honesty, Nightwing, while always Dick’s and only Dick’s truest identity, was most logically inherited by Tim. Jason went out as Nightwing before (with questionable intentions and even more questionable methods), only to return with a death count, a blatant infraction of Nightwing’s moral code and personal brand.

Damian, while capable of being Nightwing, was initially too short to be believable, hit a growth spurt, had about two weeks as the original Nightwing’s height and build, and then eclipsed his own father. The boy (or man now, Tim supposes), despite his Nightwing-esque streak of secret identity rebellion, seems destined for the Cowl. His genetics scream for it, and some days, he voices conflicted feelings to Tim. That despite his desire to forge his own path, he still feels drawn to his father's lifelong mission. Some days, Damian doubts his change to Flamebird.

Cass, while excluded from Nightwing candidacy for reasons similar to Damian, remained in the running for quite a while. Jason is clunky. Tim trained to emulate Dick’s grace, but he never perfected it. Damian, still sneaky for a six-foot-something man, put on enough muscle to hinder some more flexible movements. No one can compare to Cass’s agility and fluidity. The fighting style of a clumsy Cassandra Cain would still easily pass for the original Nightwing. But ultimately, a 5’4” woman in a domino mask wouldn't fool anyone up close.

So really, Tim was the best suited for Nightwing. He’d been studying Dick Grayson’s movements all his life. Before Robin, he trained himself based on what he knew about Dick. He practiced gymnastics and trapeze and escrima. He’d never intended to use it, of course. He assumed Nightwing would live forever. He never expected the mantle to fall to him. But he learned these things because Dick was his hero. His idol. He just wanted to be like him.

Congratulations, Tim Drake. You got what you wanted.

“Yeah,” Nightwing replies breezily. “I’m at the Superlaundromat on 12th.”

“You still haven't invested in a washer and dryer?”

Nightwing runs his tongue over his teeth. “I’m on the roof, you brat. Hurry up, or I’ll make you go looking for me.”

But by the time he’s finished his sentence, he can see the deep red of Flamebird’s suit approaching from the east. In a matter of seconds, he’s caught up.

“I figured you'd be behind schedule,” Flamebird tuts. “You should have made it to the Financial District by now.”

“Had a few more muggings in Melville than usual. Any other complaints, or can we go?”

Flamebird sniffs and jumps off the roof, easily grappling across the street. Nightwing follows close behind, the brisk November air biting at his nose and ears. They run in parallel and do increasingly reckless parkour stunts, each subconsciously trying to outdo the other. The silence between them is comfortable. It's a far cry from years ago, back when the glue of the family dissolved overnight.

… back when the glue died. He died.

“There,” Flamebird says, slowing and pointing to the bank across the street.

Nightwing nods. “High or low?” 

“High.”

“You have all the fun.”

The pair leap into action, with Nightwing swooping down, disappearing into the shadows of the alley and Flamebird shooting for the roof, melding into the slopes of the Gotham National Bank sign.

The lookout by the getaway truck is the first to go, with Nightwing easily dropping down on him and delivering a swift whack to the head. Then he moves to the front, silently taking out the lookout by the door.

And then there’s a shout from inside, followed by gunfire. Nightwing sighs and returns to the alley, slipping through a window and into the fray.

“Already?” he sighs, dropping both fists on an unsuspecting goon’s shoulders and watching him crumple to the ground. “You couldn’t have let me take out a few more guards first?”

Flamebird holds one thug in a headlock and kicks out at a second, knocking the gun wide. Nightwing runs in and twists the second’s wrist, forcing him to drop the weapon.

“I grew up as an assassin,” Flamebird counters. “You understand why stealth bores me, right? It’s elementary. Easy.”

“Yeah,” Nightwing replies, breaking one guard’s nose with his palm and swinging an escrima down to take out the knees of the man behind him. “I can’t believe I used to think you were anything like B.”

They both know the real reason for Damian’s change of heart. He used to do everything like his father, yes. He used to use his assassin training to take everyone out without breaking a sweat. But then his Batman - the man who passed Robin onto him and raised him when Bruce was nowhere to be found - died, and Damian realized that Dick’s legacy couldn’t live on in Nightwing alone. Nightwing was levity in the dark, an angel who could both reassure a scared victim and beat the shit out of their attacker.

After Damian lost the chance to be Nightwing to Tim, he chose to carry on differently. He no longer emulated his father’s Batman. He strove to be like Dick’s Batman, and if his stealth suffered, then so be it.

“Batman can do what he wants,” Flamebird replies, slamming a fist into a thug’s face. “He doesn’t control me anymore.”

They fall into an easy silence, broken up by thwacks and bams and cracks. Flamebird visits Blüd infrequently, but not so infrequently that he doesn’t remember how Nightwing operates. They know each other’s strengths and weaknesses, blind spots and hyperacuities. It’s not so much an active process of remembering how the other fights but a lightly rusted gear, easily spinning back into place when given a push.

“So how’re things in Gotham? Seen Hood lately?”

Flamebird considers this, kicking one robber in the gut, ducking a blow from behind, and stabbing the rear attacker in the foot with a dagger. “Not really. He told me he’d stop by tomorrow, though.”

“Oh yeah?” Nightwing leaps over a charging goon and kicks him in the back of the head, sending him flying into a wall. “I thought he only came around when the big guy was out.”

“Usually,” Flamebird agrees. He slams an elbow into the last thug and hits the emergency button behind the bank teller counter, alerting the police. “But he said he’s got some new intel.”

“Something important enough to risk running into Batman for?”

Flamebird nods, grappling to a high window and slipping out onto the roof. Nightwing follows.

“I’m… not supposed to say,” Flamebird continues, staring out at the city before them. “He doesn’t particularly want to see you either, but it’s important. It’s about…” He mops his face with his hand and looks tiredly at Nightwing. “One of the guys from his crime lord days said they found something related to Dick’s death.”

They don’t say names in the field. It’s forbidden, a constantly reinforced mantra during their Robin years. Back in high school, one slip up landed Tim on house arrest for three weeks. Damian surely has a similar story. But he says Dick’s name with intent. He knows he’s not supposed to, and he does anyway.

“Oh.” Nightwing remembers Hood’s blowout fight with Batman. He remembers the fallout in the months after Dick’s death.

Nothing good can come of this.

“I guess I’ll be in Gotham tomorrow too,” Nightwing agrees. “At least to moderate this.”

“With luck,” Flamebird muses, “they won’t even speak to each other. But yes, I understand the concern. I’ll be there too. Just… try not to bring up any… conspiracy theories.”

“I remember,” Nightwing assures him. “It’s not me you have to worry about.”

“I know,” Flamebird sighs, and the two watch the red and blue lights travel down the street, clashing harshly with the dark blues of the alleys. Billboards blast neon purples and greens, making Blüdhaven look like one big, grimy rainbow in the pitch-black sky.

“We’ll work it out,” Nightwing promises, though both of them know it’s an unlikely promise at best. “Somehow, we’ll work it out.”

---

Ashley Mendez doesn’t get home until late that Wednesday evening. She’s usually out of the civic building by 7 PM and back home by 8. But today, she doesn’t get home until 11:30. She hates to be out so late, but she got caught up in one of her cases. It’s a civil suit against one of the founding families of Gotham. The defendant’s attorneys are world-class, and Ashley feels a bit out of her depth on this one. Even so, she studies the case like her life depends on it, because she won’t get anywhere in this field if she shies away from intimidating opposition. This is her opportunity to do some good - to call out one of the biggest law breakers in Gotham - and she’ll be damned if she lets it go to waste.

Yes, it’s not until 11:30 that Ashley arrives at the lobby of her apartment building. She climbs the stairs and stands at her front door by 11:32. Normally, she would knock until her partner let her in, but it’s far too late for them to be awake. She spends a minute searching her pockets, then her purse, then her pockets again. She finds the key at 11:34. Wrestles the door open twenty seconds later. 

Perhaps, if Ashley hadn’t spent two minutes looking for her key or if she’d taken the extremely slow elevator or if she hadn’t stayed out late at all, she would have walked into her living room to find it dark and empty.

But she does waste time digging through her purse. She doesn’t take the elevator. She does stay out late. And she doesn’t find the living room dark and empty.

There’s a shadow perched on the back of the couch, outlined by the silvery glow of the moon through gauzy curtains. It’s vaguely human-shaped, but it’s contorted oddly. Like the anatomy of someone in a dream, with the proportions being slightly askew, hands too big and head too small.

“Alex?” Ashley says, because she doesn’t know who else it could be. (She doesn’t know what else it could be.)

“Ashley Mendez,” the shadow coos, the name trickling from its lips like water from a spring, fresh and unburdened. The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

“No,” Ashley begs, holding out her purse with one hand and throwing the other in the air in surrender. “Please. Please, I don’t want any trouble.” She doesn’t know what the Court of Owls is. She doesn’t know how this person - thing - knows her name. But she knows that she lives in Gotham, and she knows that if a dark shadow tells you they’re going to kill you, you might as well start praying.

If Ashley thinks this is Batman or Man-Bat or any of the other vigilantes or monstrosities that prowl Gotham’s rooftops, no one will ever know. She dies before the second blade hits her throat.

---

Unlike the common bat, Batman is attracted to the light. He follows it to the end. Fights for the metaphorical essence of justice. Aims to be a light himself. And in reality, too, Batman is drawn to the Light. The Batsignal is his beacon. A sign to steady himself on, resting easily in the knowledge that his presence is needed. So relevant is light to his job that perhaps he should have chosen the name Mothman. But Mothman is taken and also summons imagery of delicate, annoying insects, crumbling at the slightest touch.

Thus, Batman continues his light-driven work, having neither the desire nor the obligation to go by a more fitting moniker.

The Bat-Signal hasn't lit up in years. Not since Jim died. The following commissioner had a vendetta against vigilantes and often gave his officers permission to fire at them for the slightest of offenses. It really was simply a question of why he never took the Signal down.

After him was the second Commissioner Gordon. She stopped hostility against the vigilantes almost immediately, removing kill orders and anti-vigilante patrols. But even though she protected them, she mostly ignored them. The Light continued to gather dust. Batman had tried to approach her early on in her term, but she turned down any offers to work together. She may have wanted the vigilantes safe, but she didn't share her father's willingness to collaborate. “This is a police force,” she said. “There isn't room for private interest.”

So it's been about five, maybe six years since Batman was last summoned by the giant bat in the sky. When he sees it again, he's driving the Batmobile through the Upper East End. He rubs his eyes, wonders if he's sleep-deprived, and then decides to go to the GCPD anyway.

Barbara is wrapped in an old gray overcoat and a bright green scarf when Batman finds her on the roof. Her hair is longer than the last time he saw her, but that’s not exactly shocking. It's been a very long time.

Commissioner Gordon doesn't say anything when Batman approaches. She watches him carefully, tipping her head and frowning softly. She twirls a cigarette between her fingers, and Batman doesn't miss the small pile of cigarette butts at her feet.

“What's the problem, Commissioner?” Batman asks.

Barbara shakes her head, lights the cigarette, and takes one long, desperate puff.

“I thought you quit that,” Batman says. He doesn't know much about Barbara these days - not since she retired Oracle - but he knew when she started her father’s habit. And he knew why. Understood why. But he’d been under the impression that she stopped.

Apparently, he knows even less than he thought.

“Mostly,” Barbara says softly, staring at the cigarette with distaste. “But desperate times and all that.”

“That bad?”

Barbara nods solemnly. “I wouldn't call you if it wasn't.”

She hadn't called him when half of Arkham was given Superman’s powers and set free. How bad must this be?

“Night patrol found a body pinned to a wall in Robbinsville with these.” She takes the evidence bag from her lap and hands it to Batman.

A chill zips up his spine. He grabs a dagger through the plastic and studies it closely. He knows the curve of the blade, each notch in the handle. He’s stared at another just like it for years. “It's a perfect match,” he murmurs.

“Thought so,” Barbara agrees. She takes another drag of the cigarette, and in the shadows, she looks so impossibly young. Like she’s still Batgirl. Still admires Batman. 

Funny how things change.

“I’m running them through all the tests that we did for Dick’s death. I’m not expecting positive results. But I think it's important that… I think Dick would want as many brains on this as possible.”

Batman shakes his head. “No. He wouldn't. He would just want us working together.”

“Yeah,” Barbara sighs. “He would. But I don't. I just want us to find this son of a bitch, and if I have to work with you, so be it.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I hope you know how much it kills me to do this. The last thing I want to do is encourage your unhealthy coping mechanisms.”

“What, because you gave up looking for him, and I didn't? You don't want to find him?”

“God,” Barbara mutters, dropping the cigarette and pulling out a new one. “I want you on this case, and you want to be on this case. You're welcome to believe whatever ridiculous theories you want, but I am not discussing that one with you. Haven't you pushed enough family away with it?”

It's not a theory. Batman knows his boy is alive. He knows it, and damn anyone who tells him otherwise. (He's lost so much family from that sentiment, but this is his child. His son. He can't just give up on him.)

But if it means he can work on the case, he'll keep his real thoughts to himself. “Understood,” he grunts. “Who’s our vic?”

“George Gentry, a fifty-four-year-old ex-millionaire, son of oil baron Marcus Gentry and creator of the Gotham Housing Project.”

“The mayoral candidate?”

The Commissioner nods. “The same. He spent his father's fortune on affordable housing and homeless shelters, and he’s pushing policies to increase local taxes on corporations and the wealthy.”

Batman isn't surprised. He's not thrilled to hear that such a potentially helpful person is dead (in fact, he's rather upset), but he's not surprised. Push taxes on the rich, and the rich push back. “Suspects?”

“Just about anyone in Gotham with a yearly income over $100k. Bruce Wayne included.

But realistically, we think this is a corporate hit job.” She hands Batman a file. “I hear you still haven't gone paperless.”

“Well, I’m not giving you my email.”

“We both know I already have it.”

The radio clipped to Barbara’s chair crackles to life. “Dispatch to all unassigned officers in the Burnley area. Requesting immediate response to a DOA. Death appears suspicious, and crime scene should be locked down.”

The Commissioner scowls and checks the dispatch system on her phone. “Hispanic female pinned to a wall with daggers,” she reads off. “424 Ableton Drive, Apartment 401. One bystander at the scene. No suspects at this time.”

Without another word, the pair splits. Barbara goes inside the GCPD, heading for her car, and Batman leaps off the building for his own car. It becomes a race, with Batman eager to see the scene before Forensics gets in his way and with Barbara rushing to get there before Batman starts tampering with her crime scene.

---

The night is cool. The Gray Son pulls up its goggles as it soars above the city, savoring the breeze against its bare face.

The world is so simple up here, among the stars. The streets meld into a grid. The cars shrink into toys. Skyscrapers fail to live up to their name, never even having a hope of itching the stratosphere.

But best of all is the peace. There are no people up here - no conflicts, no fights, no targets for the Gray Son to kill. It’s just birds. Maybe a bat or two. The air rushes past the Gray Son’s ears, drowning out any sirens or traffic below.

But the night won’t stay young forever. There’s much to do. The Gray Son drifts to the side, circling downward in a tight spiral. It drops to the rooftops and perches on the rotunda of city hall. Then, it settles in, waiting and watching for its next target to show their face.

---

Black Bat hears the police scanner when it reports a dead woman pinned to a wall in Burnley. In that moment, nothing moves faster than her. Not sound or light or even the Flash. In that moment, she is the fastest man who ever lived, diving down to her car (they don’t call it the Batmobile, but that’s what it is, really) and driving like she’ll explode if the speedometer goes below 120. When she arrives at the scene, she jumps from the driver’s seat and disappears into the building with a flurry of her black cape. Only one living person is at the scene: a young man with bloodshot eyes and a shiny face. He stumbles back when he sees her, fear etched in his face.

“Don’t… Don’t hurt me,” he begs, looking between her and the dead woman on the wall. “Please, dear god, I swear, I won’t tell anyone about… about…” He points at the woman.

“Not going to hurt you,” Black Bat assures him, breezing past to check the other rooms. The hall is clear, as is the bathroom and kitchen. But the bedroom door hangs open, and another woman lies on the floor, pale and motionless. Black Bat darts forward, checking for a pulse, but the woman is cold and stiff, one clean cut across her throat.

Leaving the second crime scene alone for the moment, Black Bat returns to the living room. The bystander is frozen, expression frenzied and uncomfortable. “What do you want?”

Black Bat stands well back and leaves the exit unblocked so he can run if he feels it necessary. “I’m investigating.”

“O-oh.” The man - the boy, really - hiccups and hugs himself. “Suh-sorry.”

“Deep breaths,” Black Bat instructs, turning to face the victim on the wall. “Did you know her?”

The man doesn’t reply, instead sprinting out the door and down the stairs. Black Bat isn’t concerned with him, and she takes in the first victim’s condition. She’s pale and likely died from one of the stab wounds in her throat. She’s an unassuming woman and no one that Black Bat can identify. Blood stains her button-up and skirt. It drips from the hems. It puddles in the heels that lay at the victim’s feet. But the blood that matters the most doesn’t touch her at all. It’s the writing above her head, a dark red rolling down the white walls like rain on a car window:

BEWARE THE COURT OF OWLS

Black Bat knows of the Court. It’s local folklore. Something Bruce told her about long ago when discussing Gotham City’s history. There’s a nursery rhyme and everything, explaining that the Court of Owls rules Gotham from the shadows and is always watching, able and willing to kill anyone who gets in their way. But it’s a fairytale and nothing more, which means someone (or, more likely, a group of people) is going by the same name as a way to instill fear in Gothamites.

“Black Bat,” Batman grunts, appearing at her side. “You beat me.” He pauses to analyze the victim, fingers pinching his chin. “That’s Councilwoman Mendez,” he notes.

The younger vigilante nods, approaching the victim, She uses a Batarang to remove material under the woman’s nails and drops it in a bag.

Batman steps closer, frowning at one of the daggers protruding from the woman’s ankles. He doesn’t touch it, but his gloved finger ghosts the curve of the handle, mouth set in a firm line.

“You recognize it?” Black Bat asks, and Batman nods solemnly.

“Nightwing,” he replies, and that’s all he has to say. Black Bat remembers when Nightwing died. She remembers the panic, the fear, the fevered desperation to find him, find his killers, find anything. But all they had was the bloody remains of the Nightwing suit, a huge puddle of Dick Grayson’s blood, and an ornate dagger with no discernable origin. It wasn’t reminiscent of any particular culture or organized crime group. The blade was made of carbon steel, an extremely popular material for such knives. The only distinction - the one piece that they couldn’t place - was the details on the handle, molded from Talonite. While extremely resistant to corrosion, it’s rarely used, far too soft for cutting and an obscure choice for decoration. If the blade Batman is looking at now is similar to the one left in Nightwing’s last known location, then they are almost undoubtedly related.

Sirens blare outside, and Black Bat jumps up to leave, but Batman waves a dismissive hand. “We’re working together this time. Did you clear the apartment?”

“There’s another victim in the bedroom,” Black Bat explains. “At least four hours old.”

Batman retreats to the hall, but Black Bat stays to look at the councilwoman. The time of death is similar, maybe a little later than the woman in the bedroom. There’s no clear sign of a struggle - no knocked over furniture in the room or defensive wounds on the body - and it all looks familiar to her. It looks like how she might have taken someone out, back when she did that kind of thing. Minus the whole “Court of Owls” nonsense, of course, but the work itself is efficient. The victim probably didn’t even feel it before she died.

“Black Bat.”

Said vigilante turns around. She knew there was someone there - had accurately guessed who was behind her - but seeing them with her own eyes makes her heart crack a little.

“Commissioner,” Black Bat replies.

Barbara smiles weakly, something genuine and desperate to reassure in her eyes. “It’s been a long time. How are you?”

There’s so much to say. Black Bat - Cass - has missed Barbara’s presence like the stars miss the new moon, sparkling in the hopes of being even an ounce of the light that their lost friend was. She knows why she stepped away from the family and absorbed herself in her work. First Dick, then her father… Barbara had to process things her own way. But that didn’t make Cass miss her any less. That didn’t make Cass not regret losing the closest thing she had to a mother.

“Lonely,” Cass admits.

Another sad smile. “Me too,” Barbara agrees.

More officers enter the apartment, with CSI immediately snapping pictures and street officers blocking off the area with yellow tape. Batman returns from the bedroom, making a beeline for the Commissioner.

“Batman,” Barbara greets, the compassion draining from her expression, now all business and sharp edges. “What do you know?”

“The killer entered through the bathroom window and killed the first vic in the bedroom. Then they came out to the living room and waited for the councilwoman to get home from work.”

“There’s another vic?” Barbara sighs. She waves at a few officers and points them down the hallway. “Know anything about this ‘Court of Owls?’” she asks the vigilantes, nodding at the bloody warning on the wall.

“Beyond the rhyme?” Batman settles his hands on his hips. “Just rumors. There have been suspicious deaths of policy makers in the past, but nothing to warrant the investigation of a child’s bedtime story.”

“Well, either the Court has always existed, or someone just adopted the name.”

“The killer was a professional,” Black Bat surmises. “If the Court has Talon assassins like in the story…”

Batman nods in agreement. “We’ll look into it. In the meantime, I think we need to put the Court of Owls on his suspect list.” He’s not talking about this case. He’s talking about a cold, decade-old case.

But Barbara just sighs. “I’d say so.”

---

“Oh, hell no. I’m out.”

“Jason, wait.”

“No. Tim, I’m sorry, but I’m not staying if B is gonna try to convince me that-”

“Jay.” Damian has followed the pair to the garage, eyes crinkled with something far beyond that snootiness he outgrew in junior high. He chews the corner of his mouth. “Please, stay. Just for a little?”

Jason rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, Dames. I just… You know my deal with all this. I can't listen to him speculate.”

“I promise, I’ll keep Father in line.” Damian looks so sad - looks so desperate - that Jason simply can't deny him. Even as a full-grown adult, he has Dick’s puppy dog eyes.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, little guy,” Jason warns, reaching up to rustle Damian’s hair. Damian swats at him, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, strolling back towards the main area of the Batcave.

“I’m taller than you.”

It’s a known fact. Damian has al Ghul blood in him, and somehow, the Wayne genetics watered down his height, landing him taller than Bruce but still shorter than Ra’s.

But it’s also a known fact that Jason doesn’t care. Damian has been and always will be his little brother. (It’s something that’s been said about Jason by a certain other brother, and it feels almost… honorable to carry on the sentiment with his little brother.)

“I’ll stay for a bit,” Jason agrees, taking a seat at the usual briefing table. “But only a bit.” He stares at Bruce, who's moved from his workbench to the table.

“Father,” Damian says, warning lacing his tone. He sits and says no more, but the Waynes are particularly skilled at nonverbal communication. Bruce is well-aware of what he should and should not say.

Cass and Tim join the table, completing the group.

Jason pulls out his laptop and shuffles through files. “So. One of the guys from Crime Alley got a security job with the sanitation plant, and he got me access to the facility’s camera footage archive.”

Tim frowns. “But we already saw the tapes? Years ago. They were clean.”

“We saw the tapes the head of security sent us. But as it turns out, the head of security is a little slimy.” Jason finally finds what he's looking for and opens the video. He spins the laptop around.

The family leans forward, watching with fresh eyes what Jason has seen over a dozen times now: a sleek black limousine pulling up the gravel road and parking beside one of the large wells in the ground. (It's a clarifier, or so Jason’s contact said. Some sort of water cleaner. Or something. Jason isn't particularly knowledgeable about wastewater treatment.) In the video, two figures drag a limp body from the limo. A fourth person leads the group onto a walkway that leads over the center of the well. Then the walkway they’re on plunges downwards. It returns sixty seconds later, occupants missing. The limo drives away, and the footage ends.

All at once, the other Bats look up, expressions varying anywhere from devastated to almost frenzied. At least three open their mouths to say something, and Jason holds up a finger.

“Wait. There’s one more.”

Then he pulls up a video from a closer angle, situated directly over the well. The figures drag the body - which, closer, is now obviously nude and covered in blood - to the center of the walkway. It’s subtle, but the body - the man - is still moving in a way that makes Jason think he’s still alive. A flinch. One foot attempting to take a step and hold its own weight. The way he jerks against his captors. Like he’s still fighting.

“Son of a bitch.” The clip is finished, but Tim can’t seem to tear his eyes from the screen, voice hushed and only audible in the dead silence of the Batcave.

“He was alive?” Cass looks furious… nauseous… no, definitely just furious. And Damian just sits forward, elbows propped on the table, and wrings his hair.

“Looks that way,” Jason says. “But more importantly, we have a location. We can find the fuckers who did this and finally-”

“Wait,” Bruce says, and dread creeps up Jason’s spine. “They didn’t kill him. They’re taking him prisoner. He could still-”

“No.” Jason snaps the laptop shut. “No, no, no, abso-fucken-loutely not. I told you, we’re not doing this.”

“How can you ignore the evidence?” Bruce demands.

“Father,” Damian murmurs, eyes cautious and broken. “Don’t.”

“Superman confirmed it, Bruce,” Jason grits out, standing and dropping the laptop in his bag. “He’s dead. I am showing you all this so that we can find who’s responsible, not so that you can continue to torture us with the cruel hope that he’s alive.”

“It’s not cruel if it’s true. If we give up and he’s actually out there, we may kill him.”

“Guys, drop it,” Tim says, but no one listens.

“It’s been ten years. If he survived the attack, I seriously doubt he went on living for a decade without calling us up.”

Bruce explodes, shooting out of his chair and jabbing an accusing finger into Jason’s chest. “Why are you so insistent on letting him die?? Is it because it means you’re not the biggest failure anymore? You’re no longer ‘the one who died?’”

Jason leans into Bruce’s finger, daring him to do something more than just poke. “I’m thirty-fucking-two, Bruce, not three. This has never been about my ego. But it has been about yours. World’s Greatest Detective, and you can’t solve your own son’s murder. Have you ever considered that maybe you’re just not that great?”

The air is sucked from the room. Time seems to freeze, and Jason stares into Bruce’s cold, unfeeling eyes. He clearly doesn’t care who gets hurt in the process. He doesn’t care that he’s hurting his family all so he can reassure himself that he’s still a great detective but simply hasn’t solved the case yet. He doesn’t care that keeping Dick alive like this only wears on the people who have grieved and need to move on.

He doesn’t care that it hurts Jason. He doesn’t care that Dick would have wanted him to stop looking ages ago. He’s still just as selfish as he was back when Dick first died. (He’s worse, actually, because it’s been a decade, and he’s still fucking looking. Like the rest of his family’s sanity doesn’t matter.)

“Stop.” There’s a firm hand on Jason’s chest, not enough to actually push him away, but enough to draw his attention. He looks down, and Cass - Cass, the shortest of the bunch, small enough to be unassuming yet strong enough to throw both Bruce and Jason to the ground in a second if she wanted - has a hand on both of them. It’s not her holding them back; it’s a warning if they don’t stop now. “That’s enough.”

If there’s one thing that Bruce and Jason agree on, it’s that they’d never hurt Cass. Jason shoots one last glare at his father and takes a step back. Bruce does the same.

“I’m leaving now,” Jason announces. “Dames, I’ll be in touch. Bruce, fuck off.”

“Jason,” Cass hisses.

“Sorry, Cassie,” Jason replies, though he’s not all that sorry. He knows she and Bruce get along well enough - she’s basically Batman at this point, considering the number of knee surgeries Bruce has needed to stay in the cowl - but someone needs to put Bruce in his place. If the others won’t do it, Jason is happy to oblige.

He leaves, wondering why he ever agreed to show the videos to Bruce.

---

The Gray Son lands on the balcony with an ease that only a Talon could manage. Its boots are silent against the concrete, and it peers through the window, getting the last visual necessary to form a proper plan.

“The target lives outside the city, in Burnside,” Keystone Member Patterson had explained. “571 Havenview Drive. They get home from work at odd hours, but we anticipate a homecoming between seven and nine tonight. They live alone but keep multiple guns and a dog on the property. Kill who you must, just make sure the target is neutralized and left with the traditional warning.”

It’s concerning that the Gray Son hasn’t seen the dog yet. It isn’t afraid of dogs - it isn’t afraid of anything, except maybe that cold, hollow feeling deep, deep inside - but it could alert its owner to the Gray Son’s presence.

It will be handled in time, the Gray Son decides, getting to work on the elaborate electronic locks on the window. Say what you will about the target, but they know how to piece together a security system. The Court has more than enough resources to deal with it, but it’s a valiant effort nonetheless.

The locks click, and the Gray Son pushes the sash open, easily sliding through and into the target’s bedroom.

“Arf!”

Ah. So there’s the dog. The Gray Son draws a blade and creeps towards the sound, but it doesn’t creep far, because the dog runs into it, rather than the other way around.

“Arf, arf, a-!” The dog chokes, but the Gray Son hasn’t even touched it. It simply spots the Talon and begins to whimper - begins to whine - shoving its head against the Gray Son and pawing at its leg. It almost sounds like it’s crying. The Talon has been attacked by many dogs. Others have run away in fear. But this one… This one is… sad?

“Dog,” the Gray Son warns. “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

But the dog doesn’t cower or become aggressive. It whimpers and scratches the Gray Son’s boot.

Curious, the Talon kneels down to see the dog better. The dog takes the opportunity to attack, lunging and-

Licking. Licking so forcefully that the Gray Son’s hood and goggles fall off. Quite nearly licking its face off. Then it settles in the Talon’s lap and whines, bathing the Talon’s hands in slobber.

“You are a strange dog,” the Gray Son notes, scratching it behind the ear. The dog loves this, nuzzling the Talon’s stomach. The Gray Son has to remove multiple daggers strapped there before the dog accidentally hurts itself.

There’s a rumbling. A car. The garage.

The Gray Son leaps to its feet and pulls the hood and goggles back over its head, shoving the dog off. The dog cries, and the Gray Son slips into the hall and traps the dog in the bedroom. “Quiet,” the Gray Son murmurs through the door, but the dog just starts howling, scratching at the wood.

The Gray Son should kill the dog. The Court gave it permission to kill whatever necessary to complete its task, and a howling dog will alert the target to the Talon’s presence. It knows it should kill the dog.

And yet, it doesn’t. Instead, it ducks into the bathroom next door, waiting for the dog to lure the target to it.

It’s twenty-seven seconds before a door opens and a woman's voice calls from the lower level. “Haley? Where are you, girl?”

Another sixty-one seconds pass. Then there’s fifteen seconds of mechanical whirring.

“Haley?” The voice is closer. There’s the slightest rumble, slightest vibration in the floor. Not like footsteps. More like-

The Gray Son steps into the light, daggers drawn. The woman in the wheelchair pulls a gun.

“Barbara Gordon,” the Gray Son announces. “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

---

Ten years ago, Damian Wayne’s brother, Dick Grayson, died. And Damian is convinced that a part of his soul died right along with him.

Bruce Wayne may have been Damian’s father, but Dick Grayson was his Batman. Dick was the one who saw Damian - the selfish, snotty brat unwillingly schlepped into the Dark Knight’s care - and tried to be something more to him. He gave Damian a chance to do good for others with powers he had only ever used for self-interest. He gave him Robin, and despite every fight, despite the cruel adjustment period they both experienced in the wake of their father’s death, which was, arguably, a greater burden on Dick, the man raised by Bruce rather than sired, Dick never gave up on Damian. He listened to him - he tried to understand him, rather than outright change him - and showed Damian what it meant to be a good man, rather than one of power or success.

Dick saved Damian. And Damian couldn’t save Dick. God, how he wanted to.

Ten years ago, Damian secretly started a tireless search for his brother and his attackers. He exhausted every resource, called in every favor he had. For a brief period of time, he returned to the League of Assassins to investigate them from the inside. (They were innocent of this particular crime. Damian still isn’t sure if he wanted them to be guilty or not.)

At the same time, Father and Drake went on a similar search for Dick, refusing to accept his death. Damian, while agreeing, didn’t join their efforts. This was a task he had to tackle alone.

(It still didn’t matter. They never found Dick.)

All these investigations bothered some of the family. Todd, Barbara, and Pennyworth all had strong objections. They felt they were in poor taste or detrimental to the grieving process. 

Nine years ago, Damian gave up looking. He was fifteen.

It’s been nearly a decade since Damian even considered that Dick might be alive. He’s not sure how he feels about it, but he definitely knows how Todd feels about it.

“Do not let him touch the treatment plant before me, you got it?”

“I don’t know how you expect me to do that. He’s literally suiting up now.”

Todd curses, a long, crackly stream of expletives over the phone. “I never should have shown him.”

“Maybe not,” Damian agrees. “But he’d find out eventually, right?”

“Ideally after I’d killed the murderers and found Grayson wasn’t chained up in the secret underground bunker.”

Damian frowns and rises from his chair, starting to pace between the Cave’s workshop and the lab. “You think he might be…?”

Todd lets out a heavy sigh. “I really don’t know. I doubt it, but…” He growls. Full-on, rabid dog growls. “Your father’s stupid conspiracy theories are getting to my head.”

“Our father,” Damian corrects. “But yes. His paranoia is a bit… contagious.”

“I just want to check this out and let it be the end of it,” Jason grouses. “Stall him, okay? Doesn’t have to be long. I’m nearly there.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. If I don’t see you, let me know what you find.”

“Sure thing, Dames.”

Damian hangs up and shoves his phone in his pocket. As if on cue, Father breezes past, pulling up the cowl and moving like lightning for the Batmobile.

“Father!” Damian calls.

“Not now, Damian.”

But Damian won’t give up so easily. “It’s important,” he insists, jogging to catch up. “We need to talk about-”

Father stops walking suddenly, spinning around to shoot Damian with a severe look. “Not. Now.”

“Then at least let me come with-”

There’s a chattering alarm from the Batcomputer, and though he looks torn, Father can’t ignore the call. He rushes to check the alert, Damian just a step behind.

“No…” Father breathes.

The computer screen is lit up with red, and a map appears with a pin over Burnside. Father rushes to hit the mic. “Oracle,” he calls, even though she hasn’t worked the Oracle gig in years. She hasn't used her panic button in years. Honestly, Damian thought she destroyed it.

There’s heavy breathing on the other end. A grunt. A crash. Slam. Slam. SLAM.

“Oracle!” Father repeats, one hand bracing himself on the console.

“Batman!” Barbara says suddenly. “I- You need to get to my house. One attacker, but-”

BANG BANG BANG BANG!

“Batman, he’s good,” Barbara continues. “I don’t know how long I can hold him off.”

“Okay.” Father pulls up a new map, marked with mask trackers. “Black Bat is closest. I’ll send her and be there as soon as I can.”

There’s another crash. The line goes dead, the panic alarm suddenly cutting off.

Damian radios for Black Bat and hops in the passenger seat of the Batmobile. He doesn’t ride second much, but in this instance, they’ll need all the help they can get. Barbara doesn’t call for help. Especially not for one attacker. If she asked, she’s in serious trouble.

Absently, Damian realizes that he just bought Jason all the time in the world to check out the water treatment plant. Regardless of the cause, Damian will take credit for the distraction. After all, he would have found another way to stall Father if Barbara’s alarm hadn’t gone off. He’s not sure how, but he would have.

---

"Here to prove that Dick’s alive?”

Nightwing shifts from foot to foot. It’s such an un-Nightwing motion, so obviously not Dick under the mask, that annoyance rises in Red Hood’s blood. “No. Why would I be?”

If Nightwing could see under Red Hood’s helmet, perhaps he’d understand just how stupid he sounded. “Don’t play dumb. I know you never quit looking. Why do you think you don’t get birthday cards from me, dingus?”

“You send birthday cards?”

“Not to you.”

“Funny,” Nightwing grumps. “Look, I’m not here to make your life miserable. I’m just here to back you up.”

“You realize I’m going to kill the people inside, right? Regardless of… Regardless of if Dick is alive or not.”

Nightwing tips his head and folds his arms. “You think he might be?”

“I…” Red Hood shakes his head and starts up the walkway over the well. “I don't know.”

“Well, either way,” Nightwing continues, “I’ll back you. If you kill someone…” Showing a combination of Tim Drake’s morality and the overwhelming hatred he has for the people who stole his brother from him, Nightwing shrugs. “I couldn't stop you.”

It's a sentiment Dick probably wouldn't share, but he's not around to object. Red Hood claps Nightwing on the shoulder. “That's the spirit.”

The pair make it to the center of the walkway, where the figures in the security footage had dropped into the ground, and start fussing with the grate floor. There has to be a button or a switch or-

“Hood,” Nightwing calls. He taps a small black box welded underneath the railing. “Voice command.”

Red Hood folds his arms. “Any ideas?”

“Well… one. It's kind of stupid, but…” Nightwing clears his throat.

“Beware the Court of Owls,

“That watches all the time,

“Ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch

“Behind granite and lime.

“They watch you at your hearth.

“They watch you in your bed.

“Speak not a whispered word of them,

“Or they'll send the Talon for your head.”

“You’re right,” Hood agrees. “That would be a stupid password.”

The platform lurches before sinking down, into the empty well and through the bottom.

“Stupid, but it worked,” Nightwing muses.

Red Hood snorts. “That, or the password was ‘password,’ and I triggered it by making fun of your idea.”

“It definitely wasn't ‘password.’”

The platform continues down, the ride smooth and soundless, like they're on an elevator in a luxury hotel and not a rusted-out grate flooring. The walls change from gray cement to dirt and back to cement again.

When the platform finally reaches the bottom, Red Hood and Nightwing step out into a massive chamber full of old stone carvings and arches. The air is frigid, and though the room itself is relatively empty, its walls are lined with doors, branching off into at least fifteen different directions. The dead eyes of granite owls watch as the pair crosses the room, further lending to the theory that the so-called Court is behind this. Red Hood can’t shake the feeling that someone is actually watching them, ready to attack at any moment.

There’s no clear choice as far as doors go. They’re identical, and there’s really no way of knowing what’s behind them. Hood just picks a door and goes in, Nightwing watching his back.

“Stay right where you are! Talons!”

Hood aims his gun at the spindly figure in the white coat and round, beaked mask. An owl mask. “Who are you?” he demands.

“Hood, your nine!”

Sure enough, there’s a dark figure sprinting at him from the left, and Red Hood dodges a throwing knife before firing off two rounds. They hit exactly where he intends: one in the chest and one in the head. He can’t be sure of where exactly in the head it hit with the hood pulled over the attacker’s face, but they stagger.

And then stand back up again.

“What the-?”

Hood keeps firing. The monster won’t stay down. And behind him, it sounds like Nightwing is having similar luck with his own freak of nature.

“Call off your dogs, you fuckin’ coward!” Hood shouts, ducking the blade that swipes at his throat and shoulder-checking the attacker. He fires at point blank, and it does absolutely nothing. “Fuck!”

“That’s a Talon, you idiot!” Dr. Owl-Person sneers. “You can’t kill it!”

Talon? Like the rhyme? Okay, now it’s getting a little ridiculous. Though… what are those strange, dark bundles on their backs? They almost look like… wings?

“Hood!” Nightwing calls between grunts. “I’m getting the feeling we can’t kill these guys!”

“You don’t say, genius??” Hood shouts over his own gunfire. “Tactical retreat?”

“Retreat where?? The slow elevator that we don’t know the password for??”

“Fuck,” Red Hood mutters. “Okay, follow my-”

Squelch.

“HOOD!”

Red Hood is falling before he realizes there’s a problem. His knees slam into the stone floor, and he grips the blade that has made its home beside his navel. He takes a moment to think, Aw, shit. That stupid bird-person just stabbed me. Then he grabs the wrists of his attacker and twists.

There’s a twin crack as the bones snap. But rather than be upset about this, the Talon uses their very broken arms to swing Hood over their head and slam his face into the ground. His ears ring and head spins. The blade cuts deeper into his gut. The world goes gray.

“-Hood, don’t do this to me-”

Crash. Grunt. Wheezing, choking, silence.

“Take them. They could prove to be of use after all.”

And Hood’s senses fade away.

---

Barbara was three when she took her first taekwondo class. Five, when she started judo. At five-and-a-half, her dad took her to the shooting range for the first time. (This was actually more than a year later than when he wanted to, but her mom didn’t want her four-year-old firing a gun.) And from there, she trained in nearly a dozen martial arts styles, becoming proficient in bojutsu, escrima, and HEMA, and developed her own personal fighting style. Even after the Joker decided to blast a hole through her spine, Barbara adapted, more than capable of defending herself in most situations.

So when Barbara says that this assassin is good - when she presses the panic button she’s had burning a hole in her pocket for years now - they're good.

“Barbara Gordon,” the attacker announces for the fourth time. “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.” 

The assassin's voice is drone-like. Inhuman, even. Honestly, Barbara isn't even sure if they are human. There's not an inch of exposed skin. A dark tactical suit is tight against the assassin’s body, and a vaguely owlish hood covers their head, a pair of soulless green goggles strapped over top. A belt of daggers runs up their chest and down their back. But strangest of all are the giant masses of white-brown… feathers(?) on its back. They look like… well, they look like wings. There's no other accurate comparison.

“Lovely,” Barbara grouses, shooting another round at the assassin’s chest, but they move in a blur, and the bullet breaks a hole through the drywall. “Can we actually talk about that, or is that all you’re able to say?”

The figure pauses, hood tilting to the side. There’s an inhuman grunt from the back of their throat. “... I can speak, but that is not my objective.”

Taking advantage of the sudden pause in the fight, Black Bat breaks through the hall window and kicks the assassin in the face. (Distantly, Barbara wishes that she had opened the window in anticipation of this. Back when she was Batgirl, she caused all sorts of property damage, but it’s different when you’re the one who has to pay for said damage.)

The assassin drops but is barely down for a second before sweeping a leg out (a leg Black Bat easily avoids) and flipping back onto their feet. It’s graceful and efficient and… familiar.

Then they throw a dagger that grazes the side of Barbara’s face, and she stops paying attention to their grace and starts paying attention to taking them down.

With Black Bat here, a gun is no longer the most effective weapon. Not if Barbara doesn't want to risk shooting her ally. And unfortunately for her, both Black Bat and the assassin are significantly more mobile than her. All she can really do in this moment without getting in Bat’s way is to grab the tonfas from the back of her chair, block any incoming blades, and wait for an opportunity to strike. The assassin is after her, after all. They’ll get within striking range.

In the meantime, Black Bat and the assassin go back and forth in the hall, dancing around each other, dodging blades and ducking punches. Both are so agile and experienced that it looks more like well-rehearsed choreography than a fight to the death. Barbara had not misjudged the assassin; if they can keep up with Cass, they are good.

“You are not the target,” the assassin tells her. “But I will kill you. Step aside, Cassandra Cain.”

Nothing phases Cass. Nothing phases Barbara. They’ve been seen and been through too much.

But this makes Black Bat, for a microsecond, hesitate. But a microsecond is enough time. The assassin buries a dagger to the hilt in Black Bat’s shoulder and uses it to drag her to the side. Then they charge at Barbara.

Barbara has been waiting for this, of course. She knocks the blades aside with one tonfa and aims for the assassin’s temple with the other. They jerk out of the way at the last second, but Barbara doesn't let up, aiming at the chest, gut, hands, head. None of them connect, and it's getting annoying.

Black Bat comes up from behind and finally lands a hit to the back of the assassin’s head, knocking them back towards the window.

With a clear shot, Barbara fires at the assassin's goggles. The lens cracks and falls away, but the bullet itself bounces off harmlessly.

And that's when Barbara's heart stops dead in her chest. She can see the eye hidden behind the lens, and it's more than familiar. The iris is an unnatural golden hue, but the shading and the patterns are all the same as the blue eye she remembers from a lifetime ago.

“... Dick…?”

“I am the Gray Son.”

There's a crash from the other end of the hall. Batman and Flamebird decided to break Barbara's other window, apparently.

The assassin - Dick - looks at the opposition and decides he’s outnumbered, turning and leaping out the window, wings unfurling and carrying him through the darkness.

Haley finally manages to paw the doorknob and escape the bedroom. She darts down the hall and carefully picks past the shattered glass. Then she sets her front paw on the windowsill, stares out into the rapidly darkening sky, and howls like the world is ending.

She's only howled like that once before. It was the worst night of Barbara's life.

The air freezes in Barbara’s lungs, and her heart rams against her ribcage like it’s trying to pull a Shawshank. “That was Dick.”

Batman stoops and makes eye contact with Barbara. “What was that, Commissioner?”

Barbara grabs his shoulder, gaze sharp and steely. “Bruce, that was Dick.”

Chapter Text

“How do you know?”

Barbara sighs, stroking the dog on her lap. The dog is too big to be a lap dog - she's at least sixty pounds - but Barbara holds her anyway, shushing her and cooing over her. Bruce would say it's only to keep the dog from howling again, but the distant look in Barbara’s eyes makes him think she needs the dog therapy.

“Bruce, he had Dick’s eyes. And Haley was freaking out.” She nods at the dog, who whimpers quietly and nudges Barbara’s stomach.

Bruce wants to believe it. He wants more than anything to believe that Dick is alive. But an assassin? With wings? Well… no matter how much Bruce wants Dick to be alive, he can't believe that thing was his son. He folds his arms and watches Barbara carefully. “You said his eyes were gold. And there was an intruder in the house. Of course, the dog panicked.”

“No,” she huffs. “She was upset. She was crying. Haley will bite an intruder’s ear off, but she just whined like…” She swallows and looks down at the dog, eyes shiny. “... like someone very important to her finally came home.”

“He did say he was with the Court of Owls,” Damian adds from the med bay, steady hands tying off a suture in Cass’s shoulder. “We don't know the kind of power or influence this group has. Maybe their assassins are created, not born.”

“Even if it was him,” Bruce counters, “which it wasn't, why would they wait so long to send him on assignments? Maybe he had something of Dick’s on him, and Haley smelled that.”

Barbara doesn't believe him for a second. Damian and Cass don't look particularly convinced either.

“Didn't you think Dick was alive?” Barbara asks.

“I do think he’s alive,” Bruce agrees. “I just don’t think that was him.”

“You didn’t see him fight,” Cass says quietly. “That was him.”

And Bruce’s heart hits his stomach. Because, okay, sure, Barbara thinks the assassin’s eye looks like Dick’s even though it’s the completely wrong color. She misses him. She wanted to see him, so that’s who she saw. And yes, the dog was upset, but there are so many more logical reasons than Dick being turned into a winged agent of the Court of Owls.

But Cassandra saying the assassin moved like Dick? Fought like Dick? She was raised to understand body language alone. If she says that’s Dick, it’s him.

“Oh,” Bruce replies.

“You really will believe anyone but me, huh?” Barbara scratches behind the dog’s ear, lips curled down. “Is it because I’m not a vigilante anymore or because I don’t collaborate with you as commissioner?”

“No.” Bruce shakes his head. “No, I suppose I… should have believed you. The evidence was just-”

“Lacking,” Barbara finishes. “I know. It’s alright. I’m just… tense.”

“So we think he’s a… What are they called? A Talon? Like in the story?” Damian snips the thread from Cass’s last stitch, removes his gloves, and goes to the sink to wash his hands.

“Maybe.” Barbara sighs and hugs the dog. The dog doesn’t seem to mind this. “But so far, we don’t actually have evidence of accomplices.”

Damian stiffens, hands freezing mid-wash. “But there are murder victims. Dick wouldn’t… He wouldn’t kill someone.” He’s got some seriously flawed thinking there, but Barbara replies before Bruce can.

“Damian, he tried to kill me. We know he’s capable and willing to kill. The only question is if someone is telling him to or if he’s doing this all on his own.”

They all know the answer. They know something horrible has happened to their son, brother, martyr, but from a purely factual standpoint, there isn’t proof that anyone else is involved. Just some vague threats about the Court of Owls, an organization currently believed to be entirely fictional.

A beat passes, and Barbara nudges the dog. It hops off her lap, whining quietly. Then, like she never left the Cave, she rolls over to the Batcomputer and taps into the radar antennas. “You didn’t change your password?”

“I have a lot of passwords to memorize,” Bruce argues.

“It’s been six years.”

Huffing, Bruce looks over her shoulder. “Dick won’t show up on radar, you know. He’s not big enough.”

“Not with the settings this high, no,” Barbara agrees. “Lower the energy, lower the wavelengths, lower the size necessary to reflect the signal.”

“But now we’re just going to get birds,” Damian considers, coming to watch over Barbara’s other shoulder.

“Oh my god. He’s bigger than a bird, Damian,” Barbara insists. “We’ll adjust it.” She grumbles under her breath. Something about why she left the Oracle gig. Bruce tries not to take it personally.

“He… is the size of a small flock of birds though,” Cassandra adds hesitantly, pulling on a sweater and standing beside Damian. “What if we track a flock of birds by mistake?”

“Cass, you’re supposed to be helping me, here. I’m arguing with a couple of Waynes. That’s not a one-woman job.” But Barbara’s voice has softened, fond and almost teasing. She’s always had a soft spot for Cass. Bruce can’t say he’s much different.

“I’ll keep an eye on the skies, see if I can figure out where Dick is headed,” Barbara offers. “In the meantime, mind doing some research?”

Bruce nods. “Anything and everything we can on the Court of Owls.” It’s partially a command to the two youngest present, but he knows he’s going into full research mode as well. 

And maybe, just maybe, they’ll have Dick back home by dinner tomorrow night.

---

“Hood. Hood. Hood. C’mon, man. Wake up.”

There are few things worse than being kidnapped. One would be being kidnapped by crazy owl doctors with even crazier, invulnerable attack birds that will stab you if you say the wrong thing. Another would be all of the above but also being the only hostage awake. Kidnapping has always sucked as a team activity, but when you’re the one awake, not only responsible for keeping the other captive(s) safe with your hands tied behind your back but also bored out of your skull?

Well, that’s just about unbearable.

Nightwing hasn’t been awake for long. He got clocked over the head by a Talon after Hood was stabbed, and he doesn’t recall much between then and now, to be completely honest. It doesn’t bode well for his neurological health, the fact that he’s been either unconscious or completely out-of-it for that long. But he’s awake now, and as much as it sucks to be the only one awake, he needs to use this time to his advantage.

Taking a moment to size up his surroundings, Nightwing makes note of the industrial cuffs around his wrists and ankles, securing him to a chair bolted to the clinical white tile floor. Hood is in a (presumably) similar position, his chair angled so the two are back-to-back with each other. It’s hard to see much regarding his physical condition, so Nightwing’s attention shifts to the thick metal door across the room. There’s a slot on it, like the kind prisoners in solitary confinement get their food pushed through. Beyond that, there’s nothing notable about the room. There are no windows, no furniture beyond the two chairs, and a single lightbulb screwed into the center of the ceiling.

“Hood,” Nightwing repeats. “Get up.” He leans his head back, bumping into Hood’s, but that’s when he realizes that he’s nudging hair and bone, not a helmet. He blinks and tries to figure out if he’s still wearing a mask. You’d think that’d be an easy, obvious thing to notice, but after over a decade of wearing one, you stop feeling it. Like wearing a watch.

“Hngh…”

“Hood? Talk to me, man.”

“Ugh,” Hood groans. “Shut up. You’re screaming.”

“I’m not screaming. You’re probably concussed.”

A snort. “Perfect.” He shifts behind Nightwing, cuffs jingling an inappropriately pleasant tune. “Where are we?”

“Sanitation plant, I think. They knocked me out, so I don’t really know.”

“Well, you’re useless, aren’t you?”

Nightwing chews his tongue. “Your optimism is overwhelming, you know that?” He shakes his head. “How’s the stab wound?”

“Actually? Bandaged. Maybe stitched too. I can’t tell.”

“Hm.” So they definitely have something these freaks want. Otherwise, they would have just let Hood bleed out. But there’s the million-dollar question: what do they want? 

They’re quiet for a moment. Red Hood tugs at his restraints. Nightwing tips his head, trying to hear what’s going on outside the door.

Hood taps his head against Nightwing’s. “... think they can hear us?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Cool. Cool.”

Again, they go quiet. This is only slightly better than when it was just Nightwing awake. It’s actually a very common interrogation technique. Leave the subject alone. Let them get bored. Watch them squirm until they’re desperate for someone to come talk to them.

But this doesn’t seem to be the intended tactic today. After ten long minutes, the door squeals open, and two figures in white coats and one in a business suit enter the room. All of them wear those round, white masks. The people in the coats drag a cart inside, covered in gleaming metal instruments. Nightwing can guess what those are for.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Business Suit greets amiably. “Apologies for the accommodations. We were a bit concerned that you’d panic when you woke up and try to run away.”

“Imagine that,” Hood mutters. “Almost like we’re being held against our will.”

Business Suit laughs. “Ah, Jason. You are a snarky one.”

Nightwing’s mouth tastes bitter. Behind him, he can feel Jason’s muscles tense. Because even unmasked, no one should know who Jason is. Legally, he’s dead. He’s been dead. He never reestablished himself with the name “Jason Todd” or even just “Jason.” From what Nightwing last heard, Jason’s landlord thought his name was “Steve Elmsworth,” his bank had him down as “Ian Debargue,” and his barber just called him “Crash.” (Whether that last one was a self-imposed nickname or an unfortunate dubbing by the hair salon remains to be seen.)

So, no, this person should not know Jason’s name.

“What do you want?” Hood growls.

“Alright, not one for formalities,” Business Suit sighs, motioning something to the White Coats. “That’s fine. Let’s get to it then.” He slides on a pair of white cotton gloves and grips his cane at the handle, leaning forward. “You’re here because you trespassed on Court property.”

“So you are the Court of Owls?”

Nightwing can’t see the man’s face behind the mask, but he can see his eyes, which have crinkled in amusement.

“Of course, Timothy,” Business Suit replies. It shouldn’t be a shock he knows Nightwing’s identity too, not when he correctly identified Known Dead Person Jason Todd, but the confirmation still makes Nightwing’s insides twist. “We’ve been around for centuries. Surely you’ve heard of us?”

“Nah,” Hood interrupts bitterly. “I don’t think you’re as important as you think you are.”

“And that’s why you knew the rhyme to get into our base? Because you knew nothing about us?”

“It was the rhyme,” Nightwing mutters. “‘Password,’” he snorts sarcastically.

“Shut up, dude,” Red Hood bickers back.

“Since you’re so eager, I’ll cut to the chase,” Business Suit assures them. “We at the Court maintain order in Gotham. Nothing happens without our knowledge. Nothing continues without our permission.”

“I’m not hearing the part where you cut to the chase.”

Amusement dances through Business Suit’s eyes. “Dr. Verricho,” he says.

There's an ominous buzz and a loud whack, and Hood starts cursing, bucking against the restraints. Nightwing tries to spin around and see what happened, but no matter how he turns, the most he can see is the back of Hood’s head, which looks no different than usual.

“Stop!” Nightwing shouts, though he has no idea what he’s asking them to stop.

“That was just a taste,” Business Suit warns Hood. “Backtalk me again, and I’ll let you know what an entree feels like.”

Red Hood doesn’t talk back.

“That’s what I thought,” Business Suit says arrogantly. “Now, as I was saying, the Court is in total control. When bad actors try to change things, the Court gets involved. We’ve had an eye on your family for decades now. You toed the line for a while, but when the first Commissioner Gordon died and Gotham became anti-vigilante, the whole situation resolved itself.” He starts to pace, swinging the cane casually. Back and forth. Back and forth. “And then the second Commissioner Gordon made the very questionable decision of joining forces again.” He sighs. “And here I thought she had more sense than her father.”

“What does this have to do with us?” Nightwing demands, patience razor-thin.

Business suit pats Nightwing on the cheek patronizingly. Nightwing bites at his fingers, and one of the doctors stabs a dagger through his leg.

Nightwing screams.

“‘wing??” Hood shouts. “Nightwing! Talk to me!”

But Nightwing’s teeth are grit as he struggles to control his breathing.

“What did you do?”

Business Suit ignores them both. “In honesty, the collaboration between the GCPD and vigilantes would be bad for optics. We dealt with it for far too long already, and the Keystone Members aren’t happy to see its return. So we want to put an end to that before things get too out of hand. I sent a Talon to eliminate the Commissioner, but there’s still the question of the Bats.” He slams his cane against the floor and leers over them. “So someone needs to tell me just how many of you there are and where your base is.”

At the pair’s silence, Business Suit smiles. “Not talkative anymore? That’s fine. We’ll just do this the fun way.”

---

The Gray Son failed. It failed. And it wasn’t made to fail. It wasn’t trained to fail. It was designed to kill. To win. To succeed.

And it failed.

The wind is harsher than usual against its skin. Rather than freedom, it feels like a betrayal. The Court supplied the Gray Son with all the tools, all the training and knowledge to succeed. And now it’s using those tools to mope. It doesn’t deserve its wings. It doesn’t deserve anything at all.

For nearly an hour, the Gray Son circles in the air, hating itself. It hates how beautiful the city below is. It hates how weightless and easy the flight is.

But, strangely, the thing it hates most of all is the look on Barbara Gordon (The Court of Owls Has Sentence You To Die)’s face. Her green eyes went wide, jaw slack. There was something in her expression, maybe the wrinkle of her nose or the crease of her brow, that looked so painfully broken.

The Gray Son wishes it could do something to make her not look that way. To make her less broken. (No. It’s a Talon. It doesn’t want anything. Its goals are the Court’s.)

The air grows thicker. Electrically charged. A storm is coming. The Gray Son welcomes-

“Talon.”

Oh, no. They only call it Talon when it’s in trouble. They must have decided it doesn’t deserve the honor of being called the Gray Son today.

“Yes, Master?” the Gray Son… the Talon chirps.

The comm buzzes. “Return to the Nest. We need to discuss your performance.”

The Talon figured as much. It should have returned as soon as it failed the mission. It was cowardly of the Gray Son to wallow and mope. It had a job to do, and not only couldn’t it do it, but it hid from punishment it deserved. From justice.

“Yes, Master,” the Talon promises.

In one large flap, the Gray Son has changed course, shooting north. It flies faster than usual, the wind so sharp and cold that its nose and ears hurt and then go numb. The Gray Son allows itself to feel all of it. It’s no less than it deserves.

Why hadn’t it been able to kill the Commissioner? It plays the memory back, making note of every tiny detail, every microscopic flaw. The target was in her own home, yes, which gave her the environmental advantage, but that has never been an issue for the Gray Son before. She shot at it an awful lot, but none of the bullets did any damage. The shadows - the small dark one and the two bigger ones near the end - came to defend her, but they shouldn’t have been an issue. The Gray Son should have killed her before they even entered the house. It had six and a half minutes alone with her, and it failed to kill her in that time.

Why???

The Gray Son hadn’t pulled any punches. (Had it?) Its hand hadn’t shook when it threw the dagger. (Did it?) There was no hesitation in its technique, even after noticing the green eyes… red hair… freckles… glasses… safe… home… familiar- 

No. It hadn’t hesitated.

The Talon arrives at the Nest in record time. The Court does not like to be kept waiting. Even so, the guard Talons sniff when it walks past them. The expressions of the Keystone Members, all plastered on the screens of the wall, don’t change (they always wear their masks, so even trying to notice this is a fool’s task), but the Orator, who’s always present and in the flesh, is upset. They were a mask too, but they put no effort into hiding their feelings. They pace and wring their hands and snap at anything and everything that dares speak to them.

“Council,” the Gray Son says reverently, dropping to one knee, head low and hands clasped behind its back.

“Why have we called you here today, Talon?” one Keystone Member asks.

The Gray Son steels itself for the worst. “You sent me to kill Barbara Gordon. I failed in my mission. Rather than return for punishment, I hid.”

“You did,” another Member agrees. “Why did you fail the mission?”

“Barbara Gordon had protectors. People in masks. A woman and two men. They were skilled.”

“They were better than you, Talon? Should we hire them to do your job?”

Fear turns the Gray Son’s stomach. “No, Master. I can do better. I can kill her.”

“You will. But first-”

This is the worst part of any mission debrief. The worst part of any meeting with the Council. The punishment. No matter how good the Gray Son thinks it did, the Council always decides it could have done it three times better. And it can only imagine what sort of punishment they have for a real, genuine failure.

“-we have a task for you, Talon,” the Member continues.

A task? Not a punishment?

“Your cohort apprehended a pair of bad actors. They’re proving more stubborn than we’d anticipated, and we need you to… apply pressure.”

“Understood, Master,” the Gray Son replies, relief filling every cell of its body. Because this isn’t a punishment. This is an opportunity. A chance to do better. A chance to prove to the Court that it’s valuable and worth keeping around.

Opportunities aren’t common in the Court of Owls. The Gray Son will not squander the chance.

“Do not fail, Gray Son.”

“Yes, Master.” It doesn’t intend to fail. Not ever again.

---

“For a group that’s been around for hundreds of years, they sure do suck at leaving records behind.”

“They’re a secret society,” Cass reasons. “They don’t want to leave receipts.”

“Yeah, well…” Damian doesn’t have a good reply for that. “... your face is a secret society.”

But Cassandra is 33. Those kinds of arguments don’t really work on her anymore.

“All I’m really getting are outsider accounts,” Father agrees. “They go back centuries, but they’re pretty vague. ‘Shadowy figures’ and ‘demons with wings.’”

“Oh,” Cass hums, frowning deeper at her laptop screen.

“What?” Damian asks, peering over her shoulder.

“There was another group. Not Talons or the Court. The Parliament?” She squints and scrolls. “Late 1700s. There’s a rhyme for it, but it’s different.”

With a heavy voice, she begins to read.

“‘The Parliament watches you

“‘In bed and in the dark.

“‘They know all your secrets

“‘So join us in marque.

“‘Grab your weapons cold

“‘And march with us now.

“‘We’ll spill black blood and feathers

“‘As frost covers the ground.’”

“That’s not a bogeyman warning,” Bruce realizes. “That’s a call to arms.”

“‘Weapons cold?’” Damian repeats. “Why would they tell their allies to use blades and not guns? Why specifically non-combustible weapons?”

“Well,” Barbara scoffs from the Batcomputer. “It’s not like my gun was all that effective.”

“True, but…” Damian hums. “Cassandra, when is that rhyme from? Is there a time of year?”

Cass hums, scrolling. “May-ish.”

“Why ‘frost?’” Father realizes. “They weren’t saying that they’d kill the Parliament by the first frost. That was too far off.” He seems to be on the same wavelength as Damian, and despite everything, a tiny surge of pride runs through him. He must be a halfway decent detective if he can figure something out at the same time as his Father.

“Do you think they’re weak to the cold?”

“Hrn.” Father carefully flips through an old journal, the pages yellow and falling out. “Some accounts mention that the Talons - or what we think are Talons, anyway - seem to heal quickly.” He points to one entry in the journal and reads, “‘I cut the beast with mine sabre from arm to belly. His black blood covered mine blade, yet, when I looked back at the monster, the wound had already closed up.’ I wonder if the cold slows their metabolism.”

“Which would slow their healing factor,” Damian deduces.

“So we need to mortally wound them and then freeze them so they can’t heal?” Cassandra wonders.

Father sighs and shuts the journal. “Theoretically, anyway.”

“Guys,” Barbara calls. “Dick is on the move. He’d been circling over Robinson Park for a while, but it looks like he’s headed to the wastewater treatment plant-”

“Oh, no,” Damian moans, pulling out his phone. It’s dangerously devoid of messages.

“What?”

“Jason said he was going to check out the sanitation plant. He said he would text me what he found, but…” Damian calls Jason’s phone. “That was hours ago.”

The call goes straight to voicemail. Damian reports this, and Barbara hops on mask feeds before Father can even ask her to.

Red Hood’s feed is missing, as always. In fact, no one’s feeds are up. And that makes sense for the vigilantes here, in the Cave, but Nightwing doesn’t turn his mask off often. It’s a courtesy to Father that most of them adopted when Dick first died… disappeared… whatever.

Except now, Nightwing’s feed is cut. And at the very least, even not wearing the mask, its location should be on the map. There are three red dots here, in the Cave, but nothing else. Are Hood and Nightwing out of range? Or were the trackers damaged?

“Any chance Tim was with Jason?” Father calls.

“Not sure, but he's not answering his phone either, if that means anything,” Damian grumbles. He’s getting really sick of the soulless voicemail voice.

“Oracle, when were their masks last online?”

The room goes quiet for a moment, and Barbara glances back at Father. “‘Oracle?’”

“Oh.” Father’s face burns red. He rubs the back of his neck. “Right. Sorry, Commissioner.”

She rolls her eyes and returns to the computer. “Barbara is fine, Bruce.”

A faint smile crosses Father’s lips. “That's what your dad would always say too. He insisted on Jim.”

Barbara’s typing slows for a moment. “Well, he respected you.” 

Then she points at the monitor. “You haven't had Red Hood footage in the last year, at least. But Nightwing was live four hours ago.” A red pin marks the water plant. Beside it, a video feed plays, showing Red Hood as he leads Nightwing to the platform above the clarifier and then abruptly down, like they’re riding an elevator. The footage goes fuzzy and then black.

Barbara turns to face Father. “You still haven’t improved underground satellite transmission? You literally work out of a Cave half a football field underground!”

“The Cave’s transmissions are fine,” Father assures her.

“Tim and Jason,” Damian says. “They’re still in there, though?”

“From the looks of it,” Barbara sighs.

Father turns to Damian and Cassandra. “Grab all of the cryo-weapons we have. It’s time to test this theory.”

---

Red Hood has had better days. He’s had worse days too, but this one is definitely up there with them. “How you doing, buddy?” he asks behind him.

“Thriving,” Nightwing assures him with an equally-exhausted voice.

Hood isn’t sure how long they’ve been here. Only a few hours, probably, but it feels like so much more than that. These stupid Owls and their stupid fake doctors are some of the more efficient torturers Hood has been subjected to. They use their efficiency to their advantage, making every cut with clinical precision but then using the extra time to sit and watch it bleed. To let the vigilantes feel the burn.

It sucks.

“Really, boys, it’s a simple question,” the fat, ugly man with the bad breath insists. “Just tell me where your base is. Surely you don’t operate from Wayne Manor?”

“Oh, surely not,” Nightwing mocks. And then there’s a crack that sounds particularly expensive. Probably another canine tooth. The kid needs to shut up, or he’ll be eating applesauce and pudding for the rest of his life.

“That’s fine,” Bad Breath says with a smile, standing up straight, adjusting the lapels of his suit, and cracking the door open. “We have other ways of convincing you to speak.” He nods at the door. “Come in, Gray Son.”

A Talon steps into the room, and Hood swears his heart stops.

“Or maybe you know him as Dick?”

The Talon, unlike the others before, isn’t wearing a hood or goggles. His skin is deathly pale with dark veins, and gold eyes peer out from behind the familiar mop of dark hair. Two massive, tawny wings are folded close to his body. By all accounts, this cold, lifeless thing looks nothing like Dick Grayson. There’s no flush to his cheeks, no smile or laugh like nothing could ever go wrong, no blue eyes so damn piercing that it’s a wonder they’re not contacts.

But the shape of the face. The nose. The angle of the jaw, the eyebrows, the ears.

He’s a dead ringer for their dead brother.

“Dick-?” Nightwing gasps, and Hood feels the urge as the older brother to shut this down before things escalate.

“No,” Hood insists. “Nightwing, do not let them trick you like this. That’s not him.”

It can’t be. They must have done plastic surgery on a Talon to make him look that way. Or… Or maybe the water the Court gave them an hour back had drugs in it. Maybe this is all just the world’s worst trip.

“I-” Nightwing is too far gone. His voice is choked, barely audible, jerking against his restraints to reach for the man that he’d been searching for all this time. “My god. Dick.”

And Hood? He wants to believe this is Dick Grayson. Of course he does. No one wants him back more than him. But this isn’t right. There’s something off about all this, completely ignoring the fact that their so-called “brother” isn’t even human. He’s looking at them, but he’s not seeing them. It’s a lifeless stare, expression lax. There’s not a thought running through his head.

“Nightwing, that’s not him. He’s… even if it is, he’s gone.”

“Say hello to your brothers, Gray Son,” Bad Breath tells Dick. Not-Dick. Whoever the hell it is.

The Talon blinks owlishly, looks at Bad Breath, and says, “Yes, Master.”

Then the Talon turns to the vigilantes. “Hello, Jason Todd,” he says. “Hello, Timothy Drake.”

It sends ice up Hood’s spine. Because you can do surgery on someone’s face, but he’s got no clue how you’d get them to perfectly replicate the voice of someone who died ten years ago.

“Hood,” Nightwing breathes. “That’s definitely him. I… That’s him.”

“I don’t know,” Red Hood replies, because he doesn’t. He really, truly doesn’t. All logic says that it isn’t him. But there’s this nagging in his gut, this tearing at his heart.

… he does look an awful lot like Dick.

“Good,” Bad Breath continues, clasping his hands like he’s somehow still the center of attention. “Now that we’ve got reintroductions out of the way, I’ll give you one more chance.” He pulls out a revolver and presses it to the side of the Talon’s head.

The Talon doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look to see what’s happening. He just stares at Hood and Nightwing with dead eyes.

“The location of your base and all the Bat’s allies,” Bad Breath demands. “Or I spray your brother’s brains across the wall.”

Nightwing shifts uncomfortably, taking a breath to speak.

“No,” Hood warns him quietly. “It’s a trick. It’s got to be a…”

His voice dies in his throat, because the Talon is still staring, but something about him is different. There are tears rolling down his cheeks. His gold eyes water, and even the wrong color, it’s so clearly Dick. And what’s worse, he’s not looking at Bad Breath in fear. He’s looking at Hood and Nightwing with fear for them. Like he never died. Like he never stopped being a protective big brother.

… that’s Dick. That’s him.

“No?” Bad Breath hums. “How unfortunate.”

And then he pulls the trigger.

---

“I’ll freeze them, you just damage them enough to slow them down.”

“Decapitation?” Flamebird asks. He sounds a little too excited at the prospect.

Batman sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just… Whatever you have to do.”

The ice works, and it’s so easy that Black Bat wants to scream in frustration. She fought Dick with everything she had. She took a knife to the shoulder. And all of that could have been avoided if she brought a bag of ice cubes??

Humiliating.

The group falls into a rhythm. Flamebird stabs one Talon in the eye. Black Bat snaps another’s neck. Flamebird severs a head (because of course he does), and Black Bat drives one of their daggers all the way through their throat. Batman follows behind, freezing them so they can’t regenerate. It’s working. How a hunch like that worked, Black Bat isn’t sure, but that’s the beauty of working with Batman. He makes the impossible possible and then some.

“Owls at 10 o’clock!”

The hordes of Talons have thinned. In a single minute, the last of the present Talons are collapsed on the floor, frozen and bleeding. The people in the Owl masks, however, look on in fear. Their exit is blocked by the angry vigilantes with the cold gun, after all. Where are they supposed to go? What are they supposed to do?

“Where are Nightwing and Red Hood?” Batman demands.

One Owl pulls out a gun. Without missing a beat, Flamebird grabs their wrist, snaps it, and grabs the gun before it can hit the ground.

“Anyone else,” Flamebird calls, “feel free to pull that trick. You can all get matching casts.”

“Where are Nightwing and Red Hood?” Batman repeats, and there’s no space in his tone for anything but pure obedience. Rich, sheltered individuals like the elitist Court of Owls don’t have the guts to defy him.

“The- The interrogation room,” one stutters out, hands up in surrender. “Please don’t… Please…”

“Show me,” Batman demands, and the Owl hurries ahead.

Batman waves Black Bat and Flamebird on. “Leave the others. GCPD will clean up the trash.”

The scared Owl man leads them down winding tunnels and three sets of stairs, like they aren’t already deep enough into the Earth.

“Are you trying to trick us?” Batman asks calmly, but his calm voice sounds arguably more deadly than his angry voice.

“N-no,” the Owl stutters. “No, I swear, we’re nearly there-”

Their voice is cut off by the crack of gunfire and twin screams.

Tim’s scream. Jason’s scream.

“Listen.” Batman grabs the Owl by the collar. “Show us the interrogation room, and I want you to run.”

“Y-yes, sir. Yes-”

“Go.”

And then they’re sprinting around the corner. Down another flight of stairs. They cut through a lab. And then they get to a room with a metal door cracked open.

“It’s-” the Owl pants. “-there, sir.”

There’s still shouting, but Jason doesn’t sound upset anymore. He sounds furious.

Black Bat throws the door open, and she’s not ready for the scene that lies before her.

In the center of the room, Nightwing is chained to a chair and looks like he might vomit. There’s another chair beside him, the metal arms mangled and twisted. Red Hood stands in the corner, his forearm pinning a struggling man in an Owl mask to the wall. The man kicks and screams and begs for his life, but Hood - hoodless Hood, that is - bears his teeth, eyes swirling a dangerous Lazarus green. Two doctors in Owl masks lie dead on the floor, necks snapped and skulls crushed. A Talon is also collapsed on the floor, his brown wings limp and splayed across the ground. A hole above his left ear slowly trickles black blood. He isn’t wearing a hood, and without it, his identity is all too obvious.

Barbara was right, Black Bat realizes, her muscles twisting like knots and mouth turning bitter. She, Cass, was right. The Talon lying dead on the floor is clearly Dick Grayson.

Her big brother. Warped and twisted by the Court.

Her big brother. Dead.

Black Bat falls to her knees. She doesn’t care to get back up.

Chapter Text

Dick’s hands are calloused. They always have been, ever since Bruce knew him. First from the trapeze and parallel bars and gymnastic rings, and then from parkour and grappling hooks and escrima sticks.

And now, ten years later, they’re still there on his cold, stiff hands. Like he’d never gone missing in the first place.

Despite this, Bruce tries to maintain his objectivity. He brushes aside the victim’s hair to see the dark, round hole in his temple. (The hair that became the topic of many arguments between Dick and Bruce, with Dick insistent on letting it grow and with Bruce insistent that it would only get ripped out mid-fight.) He notes the black blood dried to the side of his head. (Blood that used to be dark red. Blood that used to make Bruce’s heart rate skyrocket when he saw it on patrol.) He pulls gently at the wings that protrude from healed (but clearly surgical) incisions in his back. (The back that carried so many people to safety. That held the weight of the world without so much as a flinch.)

… okay, so maybe objectivity isn’t working out for him.

“Father?”

Bruce jumps, like he’s been caught watching trashy reality TV and not performing a necessary task that he informed everyone he was going to do. He takes a moment to compose himself, waving off Damian’s apologies. “It's okay. I’m fine.” (He isn't, but that's not the point.)

Damian doesn't look particularly convinced. “Father, you don't have to do that. Barry offered. A couple others too.”

But Bruce shakes his head, carefully scraping blood and soot from the bullet wound and into a specimen cup. “No. I have to do this. I don't trust anyone else to.”

“Even the Flash?” Damian raises an eyebrow, taking a few hesitant steps forward.

“Especially the Flash,” Bruce argues. “He's good, but he's not…” He pauses, checking Dick’s ears with an otoscope.

“He's not you,” Damian finishes. He wanders closer, eyes pained. “Why is he still dead? Don't Talons regenerate?”

Bruce shakes his head. “I don't know. There might have been something on the bullet. An artificial coolant, maybe.” He nods to the sample on the tray. “I’ll test it and let you know.”

Damian nods, but he doesn't seem to get the hint, still lingering in his spot.

“You should be watching Tim and Jason,” Bruce orders. He drops the otoscope and gently presses on Dick’s scalp, feeling for divots or lacerations.

“They're fine,” Damian insists. “Cass is with them. And Jason said he can only handle one person watching him sleep at a time.”

Okay. Subtly flopped. Guess Bruce has to put it bluntly, then.

“Damian, I think it's best if-” Bruce straightens, replacing the otoscope with a penlight and checking Dick’s eyes, nose, mouth. (The eyes - that predatory, hawklike gold - leave Bruce nauseous.) “I think you should leave.”

And this only brings Damian closer, scowling. “Why? Am I bothering you?”

Bruce shakes his head. “No. This is… Damian, I see your eyes. You can’t even look at him. I know he… I know he was a father for you when I couldn’t be. And… And I know he was a father even when I was around.” (It kills Bruce to say this, but it’s the truth, and even dead, Dick deserves as much.) “I don’t want you to see him like this. I doubt he’d want that either.”

“You need to do the autopsy, right?” Damian says quietly, folding his arms. “Well, I have to be here. That's just… I need to be here.”

Bruce swears he can hear his own heart shatter, little pieces clinking and skittering across the ground. His poor boys. None of them asked for this.

For two minutes, Bruce works in silence, testing reflexes (they're long gone by now) and taking samples. Damian stands on the other side of the exam table, expression stony.

“Can we… talk?” Damian asks suddenly. “About… I don't know. Anything.” He's usually so comfortable with silence. This whole thing has shaken him even more than Bruce presumed.

“Of course. How's the shelter?”

Damian's expression softens, if only incrementally. “We just homed the last of Laika’s litter. And Bruno just started letting us pet-”

There's a flash of motion so fast that Bruce wouldn't have noticed it if not for the cold, gray hand crushing his wrist. The hand twists, and there’s a snap, sending fire up Bruce's arm.

“Father!” Damian shouts.

“Bruce Wayne,” the voice Bruce would have died to hear a second ago coos. “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to-”

WHSCHHH.

Dick’s eyelids suddenly droop, and he lets go of Bruce's arm, slowly curling in on himself. Bruce looks up to see Damian holding a steaming freeze gun, eyes the size of dinner plates.

“Guess he's…” Damian swallows hard. “Guess he’s not dead after all. Hooray.”

---

The Gray Son can’t think. The cold seeps into its ears and settles between the wrinkles in its brain, freezing away any semblance of thought. Its muscles seize up, and the energy drains from its body like rainwater into a sewer grate.

It's slumped forward, forehead leaving a grease print on the glass wall. It sits cross-legged, arms loose at its sides. Its hands and feet have long since gone numb, and the frigid lethargy creeps up its arms and legs. And for all its numbness, the Gray Son hurts.

Darkness. Coffin. Frosty air, too cold to breathe without lungs stuttering. “Goodnight, Talon.” Consciousness ripped away. Who knows if it will ever come back?

Is that what this is? Is it punishment for failing to kill the Commissioner? It certainly seems that way. But if that's the case, where is this place? And where is the Court? This doesn't look like its usual coffin.

The Gray Son could call out, but it won't. If the Court is here, and they always are, they'll punish it for speaking out of turn. It might try to break the glass, but again, the Court would frown upon this. (Never mind that the Gray Son feels so weak that it couldn't burst a bubble.) So instead, it just sits and waits.

But it doesn't have to wait long. There's movement beyond the fogged glass, and then someone steps in front of it and speaks through the wall.

“Dick, how are you feeling?”

The Gray Son sits up, trying to identify the owner of the voice. It doesn't know if it should reply to that or not. It's never gone by “Dick” before. But it also doesn't want to be punished for ignoring a Court official.

“Dick,” the man repeats, lips drawn behind the glass. “Talk to me.”

It’s a trick. It must be. The Court taught the Gray Son long ago that it has two designations: the Gray Son and Talon. Responding to another name would be a betrayal of their rules.

The Gray Son is obedient. The Gray Son does not disobey the Court. The Gray Son does not answer the man.

A long moment passes. The Gray Son misses the warmth. Aches for it like a fish craves water. 

The man sighs and pulls something from his pocket. He fumbles with it and presses it to his ear. “Fuck. Tim, what did the guy with the bad breath call Dick?”

“…”

“No. No, that’s not right. He won’t answer to Dick, but he will to Grayson? That’s so stupid.”

“…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Gimme a sec.”

The man holds the item to his chest and speaks through the glass. “Grayson. Gimme a thumbs-up. Or something.”

It’s close enough. The Gray Son will answer. “I am the Gray Son,” it corrects. “And I obey the Court alone.”

“Goddamn,” the man mutters. He presses the object to his ear again. “Fine, okay, whatever. I’ll buy you your stupid Gushers. Little shit.”

The man puts the phone away and looks through the glass, trying to make eye contact with the Gray Son. His lips are pursed, eyebrows upturned. “Gray Son, sorry. Do you know where you are?”

But the Gray Son is not so easily fooled. This man wears no mask. He isn’t an Owl. He holds no authority over it. “I only answer to the Court.”

The man huffs, and he finally gets close enough for his features to be distinguishable.

“Jason Todd,” the Gray Son announces. “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

But Jason Todd is unbothered. He waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Joke’s on you, buddy; I killed the Court. You report to me now.”

Killed the Court? Impossible. The Court can never die. Especially not with the Gray Son around. “I am loyal to the Court alone.”

But Jason Todd is persistent. “And I’m telling you, they’re all either dead or locked up. They’re gone. The Court is gone.”

And the words strike the Gray Son harsher than any fierce cold or shot through the head could. The words from years, decades, eons past run through its mind:

“When a Talon dies, the Court is left vulnerable… Realize how dangerous that is - how selfish that is of you…”

The Gray Son died. It left the Court defenseless. And then Jason Todd killed them. All of them.

The Gray Son failed again. It’s alone. And it failed.

“... what’s going on, Dickface? What’re you-?”

It's agony. It really is. The Gray Son’s mind is goop, it's limbs like rubber. It's only conscious enough to be aware of how much pain it's in. How much of a selfish failure it is. It falls forward, forehead once again resting on the glass wall.

“Dick. Dick. Dick. C’mon. Gray Son.” Jason Todd taps at the glass incessantly, right between the Gray Son’s eyes. It regards him dully, but truly, it couldn't care less about him. The cold is all-consuming. Its thoughts can’t progress far beyond surviving the intolerable temperature. And what’s worse, it knows it deserves this. This and so much more. 

“Dick, talk to me. Idiot.”

The Gray Son doesn’t care about Jason Todd anymore. He clearly isn’t the Court. He clearly can’t punish the Gray Son more than it already deserves. It lets its eyes drift shut.

---

“I know my rights. I don’t have to talk to you.”

Barbara nods, sitting across from the woman with the stiff blond updo. Even after a police chase and arrest, her makeup hasn’t budged, and she can’t help but wonder what kind of setting spray she uses. “Yes. That’s right. You don’t have to talk without a lawyer. But if I’m being honest with you, I’m not sure how much help a lawyer is going to be. We found you wearing an Owl mask in a treasonous club for the wealthy elite. There are hundreds of voice messages on your phone admitting to your crimes, Orator.”

The Court Orator scowls harder, if that’s even possible, one bright red stiletto stomping under the desk. “And those are…?”

“Multiple counts of second-degree murder, conspiracy to commit murder, fraud, extortion, and did I mention treason?”

“I want my lawyer.”

“Look,” Barbara sighs, putting her hands flat against the table. “We don’t want you locked up. We don’t care if you’re arrested. We care about the core people behind this group. We have four of them already, but the last leader got away. I just need to know where she is.”

The Orator crosses her arms. “You want me to tell on them to get a kinder sentence?”

Not exactly. Barbara is kind of hoping to just get her to rat without any promise of a better sentencing. “If they were in your shoes, would they protect you?”

The woman nods. “Who are you looking for?”

“Melissa Rifkin.”

The Orator seems to consider this, chewing on the name and fiddling with her flawless red nails. Finally, she smiles, and a chill runs up Barbara’s spine.

The Orator leans forward. “I want my lawyer.”

---

Damian doesn’t think much of it when he sees Haley in the Cave. Barbara has spent the last few nights in the manor to be closer to Dick, and she’s kept the pittie mix with her. Father hasn’t voiced any objections, though he acts indifferent when the dog runs up to him or wants to play. Damian knows the truth; he’s seen father and Haley curled up on the couch together after a long patrol, both snoring like industrial woodchippers.

The dog herself has been quieter too. Damian remembers her from years past, and she’s slowed down even beyond what age will do to a dog. It looks like grief.

So Damian barely notices when Haley darts past him, whining and barking. It isn’t until the barks become more insistent that he follows the sound.

“Haley? What’s wrong?”

Damian’s stomach drops to his shoes. “Oh, girl, get… get away from there.” He knows that logically, Dick can’t hurt her. He’s locked in a glass cell pumped full of liquid nitrogen. The cold has slowed him so dramatically that he barely moves anymore, much less breaks out and tries to strangle his dog. “Haley, come here, girl.”

But the dog merely whimpers and settles down against the glass. She presses her nose to Dick’s forehead.

“Hello, Dog,” Dick murmurs, tracing a finger down the glass like he’s petting her. “You came back.”

Haley whines and whimpers and paws at the glass. She turns to look at Damian, the question apparent in her eyes: Why won’t you let him out to play?

But it’s not that simple. Even if this is the gentlest Damian has seen Dick since… well, since they lost him… that doesn’t make him safe to be around.

“You’re very good,” Dick hums. “You’re a very good girl.”

The dog barks, wags her tail, and looks at Damian like he personally wronged her.

Sighing, Damian sits beside her, watching Dick with cautious eyes. It hurts to see him like this. He’s so drained of life, so apathetic, so very much not himself. Damian isn’t sure if it was worse when Dick was dead in the morgue. At least then, there was no charade at life. No attempt to appear alive, miserably failed and left with more monster than man.

Though… whoever is cooing over Haley? That doesn’t seem very Talon-like. It’s so strangely human, to coddle and soothe and gush over a cute dog. Maybe Dick isn’t as far-gone as they initially believed?

“Hey, Dick,” Damian says softly, not quite able to make eye contact.

But Dick freezes, his expression going from dully present to completely robotic. Like whatever humanity he gained back from seeing a dog was sucked out of him the moment he heard Damian’s voice.

Damian tries not to take it personally. It doesn’t work.

“Dick? You there, akhi?”

“I am the Gray Son,” Dick insists.

“If you say so.”

“Damian Wayne, the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

Damian should have figured as much. It still crushes him, seeing Dick - his big brother, his Batman, his role model, his everything - warped into the antithesis of everything he stood for.

Damian has to believe there’s still good in him. He has to.

“We’re going to fix it,” Damian promises. “I don’t know how, but we’re… we’re going to get you back.”

“Damian Wayne, the… the Court of Owls has… sentenced you to die.” His breathing is becoming labored, words shaky and breathy. Jason mentioned something about this. How the cold will completely shut him down sometimes. It’s probably only a matter of time before Dick loses consciousness completely, and Damian is left talking to himself again.

(Just how it had been all those years ago, when Tim was in Blüd and Jason was off with the Outsiders and Cass was shouldering both her and Batman’s responsibilities and Father was obsessively searching for Dick. When Damian would sit with Titus and talk about how much he missed Dick. How much he missed the family. After Dick died, everyone… Nothing was really the same anymore.)

“I need you to come back to us, Dick. Father needs you. I haven't seen him eat or sleep in days. He's so desperate to return you to normal.”

“Damian Wayne, the Court… the Court has…” Dick is watching him, eyes less blank and more… pained. His lips move, and words come out, but he’s not really saying them. He’s just speaking.

“Haley misses you too. She's just a little dog.” Damian doesn't know why he thinks guilt will work, but he tries it anyway. “She needs her person.”

“D-Damian… Wayne…”

Damian figures Dick is wearing out, the cold finally getting to him, but he still seems relatively aware of his surroundings.

“Damian.” Dick makes no attempt to speak further.

“I…” Something in Damian’s chest snaps, cracks, explodes, and he brings his hand up to shield his eyes, face hot and breath stuttery. “I missed you so much, akhi,” he says, voice weak. “I… I thought I’d never see you again. I thought that was-” He shakes his head. Tries to recompose himself. “And now you're…”

“Damian,” Dick repeats.

“I don't care what you look like,” Damian promises, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his mouth. “I don't care that you're different. I just… I’m just so glad you're back.”

“Damian.” 

Damian nods. Sniffles. He looks back, and Dick’s eyelids are low, like the cold has sucked what little life he has left out of him. He keeps watching Damian, though, and are his eyes… misty?

No. No, they’re not. Just the fog on the glass.

“There's so much to tell you,” Damian realizes. “You missed a lot. Like… did you know Father insisted I take someone to prom? For the tabloids, to keep up appearances,” he explains. “But he said I could take anyone I wanted, so…” He laughs a sorry, broken little chuckle. “I took Jon. It was a blast. The Gotham society pages talked for months.”

“Dami.” 

Damian’s eyes go wide. “Dick?? Are you…? Do you remember…?”

But Dick has closed his eyes and is lying beside Haley, separated only by that damn wall. The vitals monitor carries on - he's still alive - and Damian sighs, deciding not to read too far into it. He either misheard or Dick simply fell asleep mid-word. Getting his hopes up, falsely believing that talking to Dick for two minutes changed things, will only hurt him in the long run.

And still, Damian leans against the glass and closes his eyes, savoring any moment he can get beside the brother he thought he lost forever.

---

“He’s dead.”

“Wow, a little context might help us out here, B,” Jason gripes. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

“Dick is dead,” Bruce clarifies, voice tight.

“No, no.” Damian shakes his head. “Jason is right. That still makes no sense.”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. He paces over to the computer and pulls up a file. “I have a powerpoint.”

“Oh.” Barbara clips her hair back from her face, and it becomes clear just how dark the circles under her eyes are. “You should have led with that.”

Bruce presses his lips together, waiting for the frustration to pass.

“Let him talk how he wants,” Cassandra instructs the table. Then, when no one objects, she nods at Bruce.

“Ah. Thank you, Cass,” Bruce says, clearing his throat. He shouldn’t need his daughter to maintain order, but certain children of his proved their lack of respect for him a long time ago. Hard to control a group that thinks your every move is questionable, especially around a sensitive topic like this.

With a couple clicks, Bruce opens full screen mode, revealing the results from a panel of blood tests. “Dick’s blood appears completely normal at first glance-”

“It’s literally black,” Jason counters.

“-lab value-wise. Can you not interrupt?”

Jason sighs, sits back with his arms folded, and, when Bruce doesn’t start speaking, gestures for him to continue.

“Thank you,” Bruce says, though his tone makes it clear that Jason is doing the bare minimum by not talking. He turns back to the screen. “After doing a more exhaustive investigation with some less… common minerals, I found that his plasma isn’t actually plasma at all. It’s a heavy metal alloy, manufactured and utilized by the Court. The historical documentation is sparse, but there are a few references to a black substance that could reanimate the dead. They call it Electrum.”

Jason raises his hand. Bruce ignores him.

“His vitals have been incredibly low,” Bruce continues, flipping slides. “Heart rate is only about ten beats per minute, and he breathes one to two times per minute. But his oxygen levels are fine, which leads me to believe that the Electrum is not only providing nutrients for his blood cells, but it’s also crossed the barrier from blood to tissue, supporting organs without requiring significant blood circulation.”

“Hey, Mr. I-Had-A-Semester-Of-Med-School? Not all of us know what you’re saying.”

Bruce scowls, but Jason is unabashed. “What I’m saying is that the Electrum is the only thing keeping Dick alive, if you can even call it that. Any and all attempts to remove the Electrum and return him to normal will kill him instantly.”

There’s some grumbling at that. People shift in their seats. It’s not news Bruce wants to give them, but none of them got a choice in this.

“So that's just it?” Damian frowns hard, expression almost disbelieving. “He's stuck like this forever?”

“Physically, yes.”

“Maybe that's the kinder mercy,” Jason says suddenly. “To just kill him. Better to die than to live like…” He waves his hand in the general direction of the containment cell. “... like that.”

Tim, who had been sitting back and quietly absorbing everything, jumps to life, eyes fiery. “Absolutely not!”

The others seem to feel the same, all bickering and talking over each other. Damian punches Jason in the shoulder.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Jason says quickly, hands up in surrender. “It was just a suggestion. I… I know what it's like, to live without having full control over yourself. To feel less than human. It's… not great.”

And then, immediately after accosting his brother, Damian pats him on the arm. This is a shared experience, it seems. Bruce can't pinpoint exactly what either of them are referencing, but he simply makes a note of it and carries on. He’ll investigate when there's more time to do so.

“We're not killing him,” Bruce assures the group. “Though physically, he's stuck this way, that doesn't mean we can't try to break the psychological conditioning on him. I… I’ll admit, I don't have much hope for it, but there's no reason to believe that Talon brains can't be rewired.”

“How would we even do that?” Damian wonders.

“Operant conditioning, right?” Tim suggests. “Positive punishment. The Court taught him that disobeying them will result in… What did that Court trainer say, Babs?”

“They used shock collars,” she says gravely, and that sentence alone makes Bruce nauseous. She looks a bit green at the thought too. “Physical beatings. Whipping. Starvation, sleep deprivation, and exposure to extreme cold. Sometimes they’d even kill them just to bring them back again. I’m told it's incredibly unpleasant.”

“Sick freaks,” Jason mutters.

“So… yeah,” Tim agrees. He rubs the back of his neck. “We show him that disobedience doesn't result in a shock or beating or whatever, and the association should slowly weaken. It… could take years, though. If it works at all.”

“But it could work,” Cass notes. “That's all that matters.”

And for once, everyone at the table seems to agree.

---

The Court isn't finished. It isn't. It can't be. It's survived for centuries, and now she's supposed to believe the actions of five or so deranged individuals that run around in capes have destroyed it forever?

It's ludicrous. She refuses to accept it. As long as one piece of the Court is left - and she is it - then it will not die.

She’s been in hiding for nearly seventy-two hours now. As soon as she spotted Batman in the cameras, she slipped out the back exit and made her escape to a safe house, bringing only the bare essentials with her: food, spare underwear, and fifteen freshly-thawed Talons.

It’s a tight fit, the safe house, what with all the undead lurking around, but she makes it work because she has no other choice. She needs to defend herself, the only free Court member remaining. She needs to hide away for a moment. Regroup. Plan.

But before she can even think about rescuing the others, she needs to stop those who so thoughtlessly attempted to ruin the only thing holding Gotham City together.

There’s a tracking chip in the Gray Son’s neck. She knows. She put it there. And once she finds the Gray Son, she’ll find the vigilantes.

And after that?

She has fifteen Talons. She will use them.

---

“You’re so boring now, you know that?”

“Jason Todd, the Court of Owls has-”

“Oh my god. If you say that one more time-”

“-sentenced you to die.”

If Jason closes his eyes, he can see the shit-eating grin on Dick’s face. The way even the tiniest of smirks makes his face light up like the sun. It’s infuriating and warm and-

Not there. Because Jason doesn’t close his eyes. He watches as Dick finishes with no inflection in his tone. Not even the tiniest smile on his lips. Cold apathy in his eyes. He’s just following orders, like the Court taught him, and honestly, Jason wishes he knew what to do about that.

(But he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what to do about any of this.)

“I know,” Jason sighs. “I know.”

Jason… He tries not to be angry about this. He really does. Dick was stolen from him, yes, and Jason lost his big brother for ten years and possibly for the rest of their lives, okay. All reasons he could and did get upset. But then they found the people who took him away, and Barbara told Jason what the Court members claimed to do to Dick.

And it took Damian, Tim, and Cass to keep him from killing every damn Owl in the holding facility.

Jason knows his brother. He knows that he was flawed. He could be annoying at times. He was protective to a fault. But he never - never - deserved that.

(Shocks and burning and beating and cuts and cold. Broken and twisted until he was nothing more than a toy for his bored, rich oppressors.)

And now, all Jason wants to do is what Dick would have done for him: give him a damn hug and tell him they’ll fix it together. And that’s one more thing that the Court’s evil conditioning has denied him.

“Sometimes,” Jason muses, “being a family really sucks.”

Dick doesn’t say his line this time, quirking his head and letting out what could only be described as a chirp.

“Jesus,” Jason mutters, burying his face in his hands. “It’s not enough to give you wings? You actually make bird noises t-?”

The room explodes with light and sound. Dick skitters away from the glass, hugging his knees and using his wings to shield himself as alarms blare and warning lights flash red.

“Shit.” Jason runs to the computer, and sure enough, someone’s breached Entry 12. He triggers the emergency lockdown sequence and calls over comms.

“All Bats with your ears on,” Jason announces. “Requesting immediate response to the Cave. Intruders just broke through Entry 12. Looks like… ten, fifteen armed…” His voice trails off as he finally makes sense of the security footage.

“Oh, shit.”

“Cave,” Bruce’s voice calls. “10-9. You cut out.”

“Talons!” Jason shouts into the mic, uncaring that he probably blasted everyone’s eardrums to kingdom come. “Talons in the Cave! I need you now!”

And then he grabs a cryo-gun in one hand and a revolver in the other and positions himself in front of the containment cell. “I gotcha, Dickie,” he mutters under his breath, palms already sweating. “I gotcha.”

And then the Talons come for him.

Jason does well… for the first three Talons. A few headshots combined with a long blast of the cold gun, and they’re not getting up for a while. But then they start to overwhelm him, pulling on his jacket, ripping open his stitches, tearing his hair. It doesn’t matter how fast the others are. They’re never gonna get here in time.

One Talon slams Jason against the glass cage, and he spots a woman in an Owl mask behind them, radiating fury.

“Kill him,” she hisses under the mask.

There’s a crashing noise. A whoosh. A Talon slams Jason’s head against the cell, making the room spin.

“No!”

Oh, thank god. Someone came to help. Someone actually made it.

And then Dick - Dick Grayson, current Talon aberration - tackles the Owl to the ground. “Call them off!” a voice that sounds way too much like Dick - like Dick from so, so long ago - demands, and Jason can see the flash of a dagger in his hand

“Never,” the woman hisses.

And Dick Grayson - perfect, kind, altruistic Dick Grayson - stabs the woman in the face. More than once. It distracts Jason enough for him to nearly take another dagger to the gut.

Then Dick stands up and makes a trilling sound in the back of his throat. The other Talons stop what they’re doing to look over. They see the Owl on the ground, unmoving. Then they glance at each other, let go of Jason, and scamper off, back the way they came.

Jason blinks stars from his eyes, approaching his brother. “Dick? Is that…? You’re back?”

But Dick isn’t paying attention. He falls to his knees and looks down at his hands. The bloody dagger in them. The dead woman on the floor. And then he grips the blade tightly, twists it to face himself, and drives it towards his heart.

“No!” Jason shrieks, lunging and grabbing Dick’s hands, narrowly preventing him from skewering himself. “Dick, just… let go, okay?” Carefully, he pries the knife out of Dick’s white-knuckled grip and slides it across the Cave floor.

Dick stares at the ground and shakes. Jason grips his wrists, gentle but firm. “It’s okay, Dickiebird. It’s okay. Don’t worry about her, okay?”

A tear slides down his face, teeth grit and fists clenched. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I failed. I’m sorry.”

“You saved me, Dickie. You did good.”

This only makes him shake harder, head bowed so his hair hides his face.

“Oh, buddy.” Slowly, cautiously, Jason pulls Dick into a hug. He’s cold, almost like a corpse, but his tears are hot, and his breaths, though shuddery, are there. And that’s enough.

“You’re okay,” Jason murmurs. “It’s over.”

When their family finally arrives at the Cave, they find Jason and Dick sitting on the floor, with Jason hugging Dick tightly and Dick with his wings wrapped around Jason, as if daring any Talon to return and try to hurt his brother.

Chapter Text

“Should we-?”

“Keep that cryo-gun ready, Damian,” Tim orders, slowly approaching the expressionless, bloody figure sitting on the floor.

“Hey,” Tim says. “Dick. Gray Son. It's Tim. I’m just gonna sit here, okay?”

But Dick doesn't look at him. Tim can't even tell if he's breathing. (Though that’s not something he does much anymore, is it?)

“What did you say happened again, Jay?”

Jason raises an unamused eyebrow. “He broke out of the cell and stabbed Court Master What’s-Her-Face in the eye. And then tried to kill himself.”

“And he's been like this ever since?”

Jason shrugs. “More or less.”

“Gray Son,” Tim repeats, hating that he even has to use the name. “Can you hear me?”

Dick stares straight ahead. If he heard, he makes no attempt to broadcast this.

“Damian?” Tim calls. “You ready?”

“Just do it,” Damian replies.

Slowly, hesitantly, Tim taps Dick’s hand. He’s prepared to spring backwards and roll out of the way so Damian can use the freeze gun, but Dick doesn’t respond.

Undeterred, Tim prods Dick’s shoulder. “Hey. Gray Son. Dick. Look at me.”

Nothing.

“Okay, maybe…” Tim hates to suggest it - hates to think that it’s even a possibility - but he can’t rule anything out. “Does someone else want to try? Maybe he’ll respond to one of us.”

So they try, passing off the cryo-gun as they take turns trying to get Dick’s attention. It isn’t until Cass that he stands up, and even then, Tim is pretty sure he only did it because Cass dragged him onto his feet.

“You should get some rest,” she offers, slowly guiding him by the hand up the stairs. Tim isn’t sure where she’s taking him, exactly.

“Um, maybe we shouldn’t take him to the Manor?” Tim suggests, and Cass hesitates. Dick stops dead in his tracks, eyes still out-of-focus and unseeing.

Bruce rubs his face wearily. “As long as we keep something up there to… calm him down, I don’t see why not. It might help to see his old bedroom?”

Right. They hadn’t touched Dick’s bedroom since he died. Alfred kept it pristine while he was still alive, dusting every day like he expected Dick to waltz through the door any minute. After that, it was retired. The room went untouched. No one ever went in. It was an unspoken agreement that the bedroom would never be used again. Not under any circumstances. (Though Tim will admit, he thinks it’s because Bruce never stopped looking for Dick. He was holding out hope that he’d find the rightful occupant eventually. And… he was right to, Tim supposes.)

“Come on,” Cass coos, taking Dick’s hand again. He follows her blindly, looking, for the first time since he's returned, just as much like a zombie as he truly is. Is it possible that some aspect of the Court’s control (beyond the Electrum, of course) was keeping him alive? Is he slowly going to break down into a corpse again?

Tim does his best to banish the thought. He’s relatively unsuccessful.

Cass and Tim escort Dick upstairs, while the rest are left to sort out the dead body in the Cave. Barbara doesn't know about it yet, and they don't intend on telling her until it's out of Bruce Wayne’s basement.

As soon as they pass through the grandfather clock, there's a barking and a skittering of nails against the hardwood.

Foolishly, in his heart of hearts, Tim had hoped that the dog jumping on Dick’s legs and scratching his Court-issued boots would finally snap him out of this. Damian had recounted an incident where Haley was pawing at the containment cell, and Dick had spoken softly to her, idly stroking a finger down the glass as if to pet her. And Tim had just thought… well… his ego could take the hit if Dick woke up for the dog and not him.

But it was a silly thing to hope for. Dick just keeps moving, gaze unfocused and stricken. No matter how much Haley yips or nips or bows, tail wagging with the kind of hopeful optimism that only something as pure as a dog can have, Dick doesn't react. He just steps, steps, steps. He trips over her once, and as if sucked of all life, grace, and awareness, he collapses like a rag doll. Haley whimpers and scampers over to lick his face in apology. He doesn't react to that either.

“Easy,” Cass says quietly, taking him under the arm. Tim takes him on the other side, one hand still holding the cryo-gun, and together, they lift him back to his feet. “You okay?”

Dick doesn't reply. (How shocking, Tim thinks dryly.) He just keeps moving forward. They scale the steps with little trouble, Haley following behind Tim with her tail between her legs.

Dick’s bedroom is just as Tim expected: dusty and lined with cobwebs. The bedding is going to need to be changed, and a vacuuming couldn't hurt. Even so, it's familiar, with a few of the mementos Dick kept here during his childhood: the Flying Graysons poster, a second place medal from high school track (second place per Bruce’s request; can't look too physically talented or people might start asking questions), his old stuffed elephant from his circus years. Tim remembers going in here whenever Dick would come by to visit, griping about something Bruce said or talking excitedly about a new gadget he was working on or asking for advice about a cute kid at school. It's familiar. Safe. He wonders if Dick feels the same right now.

“We should get you cleaned up,” Cass suggests. “New clothes, maybe.”

And she's right. He's been in that Talon uniform for god only knows how long, and his face is covered in Rifkin’s blood. The only reason they hadn't offered him clothes earlier was because he threatened to kill them every time they spoke to him.

But as expected, Dick doesn't confirm or deny any ability to clean himself.

“If you swap the bedding,” Tim offers, “I’ll take care of him.”

Cass nods, and very cautiously, Tim takes him by the arm, guiding him to the bathroom.

“Okay, can you…?” Tim gestures to the shower.

Dick stares ahead blankly.

“Yeah, no, guess not,” Tim sighs. He shuts the door behind him and starts searching for some kind of zipper or snap on the Talon suit. It's so tight that there must be something.

But there isn't. Almost like it's just another layer of skin. He's going to have to cut it off. Which is just great. He grabs the first aid kit from the closet and pulls out the trauma shears.

“Okay, Dick- Gray Son. I’m going to use these scissors to cut your suit,” Tim explains clearly, holding them out for Dick to see.

But Dick’s eyes don't even track the object, still staring out at the distance.

“Ohh boy,” Tim murmurs. With one hand on Dick’s shoulder, he gently pushes him down to sit on the edge of the tub. Then he slowly (slowly) brings the scissors closer until he's got them pressed against Dick’s wrist. “Still okay?”

Dick doesn't answer. Tim is pretty sure he hasn't been okay for a very long time, but he carries on anyway.

At the agonizing pace of a bloated slug in a tar pit, Tim cuts through the suit, revealing starkly pale skin mapped with black veins and mottled with a concerning assortment of scars, jagged and intersecting and telling of a rather tragic existence. Very few of these look like the scars Dick had when he disappeared. Tim was under the impression that Talons healed completely when they regenerated, but perhaps even with Electrum, scar tissue grows in place of original skin.

Dick is incredibly compliant with everything Tim does, eyes never quite moving from that random point in the distance. It's concerning, but Tim tries not to read too far into it. He's been through a lot. It would be abnormal if he didn't show some sign of stress.

Cass knocks on the door just as Tim has finished wrestling the boots off Dick’s feet. (Kind of like a toddler, honestly. Not uncooperative but not helpful either.)

“Dick?” she calls from outside.

“One minute,” Tim replies. Then he takes Dick under the arm and helps him stand again. He starts the water and nudges Dick into the shower.

“You’ve got it from here, right?” Tim asks him. He doesn't know why he bothers.

Tim dries his hands off on a towel and opens the door a crack, slipping out and leaving it ajar, just in case Dick decides to pass out or something.

“Here,” Cass says, offering a small pile of clothes to Tim.

“He still has clothes here?” Tim wonders, taking the stack.

Cass nods. “He’d visit sometimes. Before.” She gestures to the bathroom. “How is he?”

“The same.” Tim runs a hand through his hair and releases a slow breath. “He won't answer me or even look at me. And he's… he's got way more scars than before.”

“Hm. I’ll let Bruce know.” She nods at the bathroom door. “His room is ready for him.”

“Great, thanks, Cassie. I’m gonna go now. Make sure he hasn't drowned.”

Sneaking back inside, Tim calls out. “Dick? Gray Son? You okay?”

Dick doesn't reply. (Again, what a shock.)

Tim knocks on the wall of the shower so Dick can see him if he can't hear. “Dick, you good, man?”

Taking a quick glance, Tim realizes what the issue is.

“You can't just stand in the water, dude. You gotta use soap.” Tim reaches over to grab a bar, soaking his sleeve in the process. Then he holds it out to Dick. “C’mon. Take it. Please. Trust me; neither of us want me to help you shower.”

There's no response, and Tim is seriously considering his life choices and what led him to this moment when a cold, gray hand takes the soap from him.

“Thank god,” Tim mutters.

The next few minutes pass in silence, with Dick finally, finally using soap and Tim standing guard, the cryo-gun nearly forgotten on the bathroom vanity.

There’s a shred of hope in Tim’s chest when Dick steps out of the shower of his own volition, clean of the blood, sweat, and dirt of the last… well, long time, probably. He takes the clothes silently and puts them on himself, no guiding necessary. He still won’t look at Tim - not unless Tim steps directly into his line of sight, of course - but that will resolve in time, he’s sure.

Dick holds up the t-shirt he was offered, squints, stretches his wings as far as he can in the confined space, and then hands the shirt back to Tim. Which is fair, he supposes, because there’s really no hope of getting a shirt over his wings.

“Cass got your room ready,” Tim explains. “If you want to go see it?”

But whatever cognizance Dick has regained for tasks has not translated to conversation. Tim guides him back to his room and to bed, trying not to worry about that.

“Look familiar?” Tim asks gently. He throws a blanket over his brother. He doesn't know if Talons like blankets, what with their body temperature being basically that of a corpse, but he figures that, at the very least, it might provide some emotional comfort.

“Rest, Dick. You’ve been through a lot today.”

… a lot for the last decade, really.

Dick continues to stare, almost like he can’t close his eyes. And then Tim spots the wetness under his eyes. He spends a long second debating if he should do something about it before Dick turns away from him and curls in on himself, one wing coming up to hide him from the world.

Yeah. Tim should leave him alone for a bit. He turns the lights off and pulls the door shut, trying to ignore the hitched breath behind him.

(He ignores it fine. It’s forgetting it that’s the problem.)

---

The Gray Son deserves to die. It failed the Court, and as such, death is the only acceptable punishment. Unfortunately, the Court is gone, so now it can’t even be disciplined properly. Instead, enemies of the Court have captured it and given it a shower. A bed.

It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong. Surely they realize how they’re torturing the Gray Son this way? By denying it the only punishment that would bring it peace? By rewarding it for its complete and utter betrayal?

They must know. And they love it. They’re nothing but smiles and soft voices and gentle touches around the Gray Son. Even the Dog’s affection is starting to feel malicious.

And yes, these aren’t just enemies of the Court. They’re also… important. The Talon can’t explain exactly why. It remembers something about them. Fights and anger but also contentment and affection. It’s a very strange way to feel about sworn enemies, but that’s the best way to describe it.

So, put mildly, the Gray Son is completely lost, its identity, its faith, its purpose twisted and severed. It writhes in its skin like a beetle on its back, desperately scratching the air for relief. Once willing to do anything to feel warm, it suddenly detests the heat. Detests anything touching it, anything near it.

So after Timothy Drake closes the door to let the Gray Son rest, the Talon kicks the blankets off. Rolls onto its feet. Paces, paces, paces. Chokes on a sob. Crashes through the window and flies anywhere but here.

The wind is cold, cutting through the boiling fluff in the Gray Son’s mind. It doesn’t provide clarity so much as it does a physical relief: a tangible reassurance that the cold still exists. There’s still a chance for the Talon to receive justice.

The flight is fast. So brief that it feels the Gray Son simply fell asleep mid-flight and woke up at its destination. Either way, it’s all too easy to soar through a window of the GCPD Headquarters, glass shattering in its wake. It doesn’t waste time, soaring through the building searching for the holding cells.

But the Gray Son finds it quickly. It’s an expert at tracking, after all.

“Hey, what the hell’re-?”

The Gray Son knocks both guards out with a single sweep of its wings and rushes up to the barred cell.

“Talon!” the Orator says, voice colored in shock. “What are you doing here?”

“I failed the Court,” it explains. “I am here to make things right.”

The Orator’s lips curl, looking at the Gray Son as if for the first time. “Free us, Talon, and all is forgiven.”

The Gray Son’s heart leaps in its chest. Such a simple request with such an immeasurable reward! It already has its hands on the padlock, about to tear the bolt from the shackle when there are footsteps from behind.

“Freeze! Step away from the cell with both of your hands up!”

“Talon,” the Orator whispers. “Kill them first.”

Unease ripples the Gray Son’s muscles. It knows what will happen if it doesn’t obey. “Yes, Master.”

The Talon spins, already in motion to kill the officers when it spots the woman leading the charge.

Green eyes… red hair… freckles… glasses… safe… home… familiar-

It hesitates, loyalty to the Court warring with some unnamed emotion linked with this woman twirling through its brain like confetti in a tornado. That hesitation is enough.

One of the officers beside Barbara Gordon fires his gun, and the bullet tears through the Gray Son’s shoulder. It regards this dully, more inconvenienced than anything else.

“What are you doing, Talon??” the Orator shrieks.

Without thinking, the Gray Son tenses, expecting a shock. A fist. A cane. Something.

It never comes.

“Stand down,” Barbara Gordon orders, cautiously approaching the Gray Son.

“Kill her, Talon!!” the Orator demands, voice edging on hysterical.

And still, there is no whip. No cold. Nothing. Why isn’t it being punished for disobeying?

“Dick,” Barbara Gordon says, hands up in peace. “Step away from the cell. I’m going to help you, but you can’t listen to what she says.”

Normally, the Gray Son wouldn’t consider this offer for even a moment. It is loyal to the Court of Owls. But coming from Barbara Gordon, the suggestion is far more tempting. It’s almost not even a consideration. The Gray Son isn’t sure why.

The Gray Son slowly walks away from the cage, ignoring the increasingly furious, increasingly desperate cries of the Orator.

“There you go,” Barbara Gordon encourages softly, leading it out of the containment wing altogether. “It’s okay, Dick.” She brings it to an office and tells it to sit.

It does not.

Then Barbara Gordon says something. “Bruce, I’ve got your runaway bird at the station. I’ll bring him back. Just stay put.”

“... why?” the Gray Son asks.

Barbara Gordon purses her lips and looks at the Gray Son like it's a kicked puppy or a crying child. It has her whole and complete attention. It feels… nice.

“What do you mean?”

The Talon shifts from foot to foot, wings twitching and fluttering before folding against its back. “Why did I disobey the Court when you asked? Or when Jason Todd was in danger?”

“Oh.” Barbara Gordon looks so very tired, but her expression turns hopeful. “You know us, Dick. We’re your family.”

“I have no family.” The response is immediate. Robotic.

“Before the Court,” the woman insists. “We love you, Dick. And you loved us too. I think… I think you still do.”

The Gray Son doesn't know what to do with this information because, quite frankly, there wasn't anything before the Court. But if it's to believe Barbara Gordon (and it does), she was its family a lifetime ago. As were the others that took it from the Nest.

“Can I look at your shoulder?” Barbara Gordon asks suddenly.

The Talon frowns. Why would she need permission? But it nods, and she steps forward, carefully prodding the dark, healed-over bullet wound.

“You heal very quickly,” Barbara Gordon notes. Her fingers flutter to some overlapping scars. “But you scar?”

The Gray Son isn't sure what her point is, so it doesn't reply.

The woman steps back, eyes trailing over the Gray Son’s bare chest and arms. Her lips tug down, something unspoken in her eyes as she meets his gaze again. “You've been through a lot, haven't you?”

The Gray Son looks at its bare feet. “... I was loyal to the Court.”

---

Bruce Wayne doesn’t share his problems with others. He’s highly secretive, and he’s perfectly capable of fixing things on his own. But even he can admit that Dick’s situation is beyond his knowledge and capabilities. He wants to believe that Tim’s suggestion will work. That teaching Dick that disobedience won’t result in punishment will bring him back.

But he also knows what a long shot (a waiting game) it is. And Bruce has contingencies for his contingencies. He doesn’t wait to see if things get better. He plans for when things get worse.

So Bruce goes down the list. He calls in all the psychics he can think of. J’onn, M’gann, Raven, plus some minor leaguers that no one but he’s even aware of. They all seem relatively consistent in their assessment. Whatever turned him into a Talon, it was a major physical and psychological change. If Dick’s true self is still in there (and many claimed he was nowhere to be found in his mind), attempting to draw him out before he’s ready could have devastating effects on his psyche, leaving him permanently scarred, possibly to a degree even worse than he already is.

This is not an acceptable answer. Bruce moves onto magicians. Zatanna doesn’t wait a full minute after getting Bruce’s message before appearing in the Cave. Just like everyone else, she had no clue Dick was back. Unfortunately, also just like everyone else, she doesn’t have optimistic news.

“It’s not magic-related,” Zatanna tells Bruce.

“I figured,” Bruce replies. “But can you fix it with magic?”

Immediately, she shakes her head.

And that just… doesn’t sit right with Bruce. “There’s nothing? You can’t erase his memory of being brainwashed? Or reintroduce his memories from before? I’ve seen you take out gods with a single word. You can’t just tell me you can’t-”

“I can’t,” Zatanna stresses. “The mind is delicate, Bruce. If I removed memories, he wouldn’t suddenly remember who he is. He’d be completely amnesic and would just be confused about why he feels compelled to do whatever he was brainwashed to do. And if I added false memories - because any memory, even a real one, is false if given via magic - it could overload his brain if he starts to gain his real memories back naturally. It’s just not that simple!”

Bruce doesn’t like that answer either. He clenches his jaw and takes a moment to think. Then, voice low, he asks, “Then what can I do?”

Zatanna sighs. “Find a damned good therapist.”

With no psychic or magician capable and willing to help him, Bruce turns to Black Canary, the only mental health professional that he trusts won’t turn Dick into a supervillain. (Why all of Gotham’s psychiatrists and psychologists are evil, Bruce doesn’t know. But he does know he’ll die before he lets any of his family see a Gotham-based practitioner.)

“Thank you, Dinah,” Bruce says for the sixth time. “I can’t tell you how-”

“It’s no problem, Bruce,” Dinah promises. “This is… a new situation for me, but I’m flattered Batman trusts my expertise.”

Bruce doesn’t mention all the Gotham therapists that he would first drop off a building before letting within five hundred feet of his kids. If Dinah thinks that she’s more a “first choice” and not “the only sane one,” more power to her.

“Cass is watching him,” Bruce says, leading Dinah to the med bay.

Dick is seated on the first cot, leaning over to tug a Jenga block from the tower. Cass sits beside it, an impressive number of blocks in her lap. When Dinah enters, though, Dick jumps, wings suddenly unfurling and flapping as if preparing to take off. They knock the Jenga tower over, and Dick jumps again at the crash. Then he stares mournfully at the pile of blocks.

“S’okay,” Cass assures him quietly.

“I’m sorry, Dick,” Dinah says calmly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Dick’s gaze darts to his hands, wings still extended but feathers flattened against his skin.

“You might not remember me,” Dinah continues, pulling up a chair and sitting down. “I’m Dinah. We worked together in the past.”

Bruce can’t even pretend to be shocked when Dick shuffles back on the cot, eyes still cast downward, wings curling in slightly as if to hug himself. Cass lays a gentle hand on Dick’s arm, but he pulls away, shaking his head.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Dinah assures him. “I want to help. Talk to me.”

Something flashes in Dick’s eyes. “What do you want me to say, Master?”

If this surprises Dinah, she doesn’t say, scribbling something on her notepad. “I’m not your master, Dick. I’m Dinah. I’m a friend.”

Dick flinches, shoulders shaking, head low, but then he freezes and looks up. He finally makes eye contact with Dinah, expression befuddled. “Yes, Dinah.”

“Bruce, Cassandra,” Dinah says, looking to both. “Do you mind giving us the room?”

“I mind,” Bruce warns. “You can’t be alone with him.” And then, at Dinah’s confused glance, he continues in a whisper, “He’s dangerous, Dinah. The last time we left him alone, he jumped out the window and tried to break his captors out of jail. And before that, he tried to kill Barbara.” 

But Dinah doesn’t back down, expression perfectly neutral. “I’m capable of handling myself, Bruce, thank you.”

There’s a stare-down. Under any other circumstance, Bruce would win that stare-down, but something in Dinah’s gaze is unflinching. A desire to help Dick, perhaps. Some unwritten therapist oath, maybe. She’s not budging.

Bruce sighs. “Cassandra, leave the gun with her.”

“I won’t need it,” Dinah assures Cass as she takes the cryo-gun from her and sets it on the ground, “but thank you.”

So Bruce spends the next hour standing outside the med bay, listening intently for a scream from either party. But Dinah emerges from the med bay at the end of the hour, tells Bruce that she’ll be back Wednesday to speak with Dick again, and that’s the end of that.

---

The change is gradual. As the wheels of justice move the Court of Owls paperwork from her desk to the judge’s, Barbara is left restless and uneasy. She wants to do something. She wants to fix this.

But with nothing in a legal sense that she can do, Barbara tries to focus on the victim. On Dick. She stops by the manor more and more frequently, always bringing Haley. Always holding a grocery bag.

“Hi, Dick,” Barbara greets on her fourth visit. He’s officially been back in the manor for ten days. “How are you feeling?”

Dick shrugs. He’s more responsive than he used to be, but he used to be borderline catatonic, so that’s not saying much.

Haley rushes past Barbara and tackles Dick to the ground.

“Oh my god-” Barbara rushes over, but Dick is already sitting up, gently herding Haley back until she’s sprawled across his legs, licking his arm as he pets her. “Are you alright?”

Dick hesitates, almost like he’s doing a mental assessment of that himself, before nodding.

“How’s the food been?”

Immediately, Dick’s expression sours. Barbara is offered a strong thumbs down.

“Yeah. Bruce isn’t the greatest cook, is he?” Barbara laughs. Just a few years ago, the man was banned from his own kitchen. Of course he isn’t a good cook. “But I guess that’s why you have me.” She pulls a couple boxes of Captain Crunch from the grocery bag and sets them on the coffee table. Dick doesn’t smile much anymore, but when he sees her offering, that’s probably about as close as it gets.

“Just don’t give any to Haley. She doesn’t need the sugar.”

With one hand still scratching Haley’s ear, Dick rips open one of the boxes, pulls the bag open with his teeth, and dumps the cereal directly into his mouth.

“God, Bruce never said he was starving you!” Barbara sighs and gently tugs the box from Dick’s hand. He lets go instantly, shame infecting his posture.

“I’m sorry, Master,” Dick says, voice almost robotic.

“Oh, don’t say that,” Barbara murmurs. “God, don’t say that. I’m just getting you a bowl, okay? I didn’t mean… I’m not your master. I’m your friend.”

This only seems to confuse Dick, and the sad, innocent look on his face makes Barbara want to cry. But she doesn’t, because that’s not helpful right now. Instead, she grabs a bowl from the kitchen and pours the cereal out. Dick is much more hesitant to eat now, only grabbing a piece or two when he thinks Barbara isn’t looking.

It makes her feel gross, like this is somehow her fault.

“Have you been getting along with everyone?” Barbara asks, desperate for some distraction from her mistake.

But obviously, that’s not the best yes or no question. Dick nods, and that’s the end of that topic.

Dick stops petting Haley for a moment, and the dog whines, nudging Dick’s stomach until he resumes the hypnotic motion.

“She really missed you, you know. She loves you.”

“… what’s her name?” Dick’s voice is so low that Barbara has to strain to hear. But she doesn’t dare ask him to repeat himself, because she’s scared that will make him stop talking again.

“That’s Haley,” Barbara explains. “She’s my- your dog, technically. I’ve been taking care of her while you’ve been gone.”

“She’s a good dog,” Dick says softly. “You… took good care of her.” For a moment, Barbara swears she sees the old Dick Grayson in his eyes. That genuine love, undoubting fire. The person who would scale a burning building to save someone he’s never met. The man who would put all his own problems aside if someone else needed help.

The man Barbara fell in love with. The one she never fell out of love with.

“I missed you,” Barbara says suddenly. “I’m… very glad you’re here, Dick.”

Dick stops petting Haley, looking down at his hands. His shoulders hunch.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Dick,” Barbara says, rolling a bit closer. “I didn’t mean to upset you or-”

“Safe,” Dick coos, holding her hand in his. “You’re safe.” He can’t look her in the eye, still so painfully ashamed.

“Yes,” Barbara agrees. “I’ll keep you safe. No matter what.”

---

“I know you’re there, Dick.”

“...”

“Dick.”

Dick peers from around the corner, a soft trill in the back of his throat. One wing stretches into view.

“What are you doing?” Cass asks.

For a long moment, Dick is quiet, staring at the floor, but then he speaks up, voice a shaky, airy version of what it once was. “I was following you.”

Cass nods. “I see that.” She smiles softly and holds out her hand. “Come with me.”

Hesitantly, Dick takes her hand and follows her through the grandfather clock and into the Cave. She takes him to the gym and then to the trapeze.

“You remember this?”

To Cass’s utter shock, Dick nods slowly. “I… yes.”

“We’ll do a set you taught me,” Cass decides, pulling chalk from the bucket at the base of the platform and starting her climb up. “Don’t use your wings.”

“Yes, Cassandra.”

“... it’s Cass. You call me Cass. Or…” Cass chews the inside of her cheek. “Cassie, sometimes,” she murmurs under her breath.

“I’m sorry, Cass,” Dick says sincerely, following her up the ladder. Cass can’t be sure if he’s truly sorry or if he’s scared she’s going to punish him for calling her the wrong thing. (It’s been so hard to tell as of late.)

Cass reaches the top of the platform and pulls one trapeze bar in.  “Do you remember the set?”

And to her utter shock, Dick nods again.

“Okay. I’ll start on the other end.”

Just as Dick taught her all those years ago, Cass takes the bar and jumps, legs straight and toes pointed as she rides her own momentum. She lets go a second before she thinks she should, continues the upward swing into a flip, and then lands on the opposite platform.

Dick starts the set. Cass had expected she’d need to teach it to him, but muscle memory kicks in like nobody’s business. He explained to her a lifetime ago that a proper trapeze act should be something that could be timed exactly. Precisely twenty-eight seconds in, Cass grabs the bar and swings towards Dick. Exactly thirty-three seconds in, she lets go, and then at thirty-four-point-five seconds, she grabs Dick’s ankles. Then at thirty-nine seconds, she lets go again, flipping for the opposite platform, and Dick catches Cass’s bar under his knees.

It's familiar. It’s deceptively simple. It takes two incredibly practiced and strong people to pull off.

It’s also the first time Cass has seen Dick smile since the Court.

When the set is finished, they do it again and then one more time. Then they sit together on a platform.

“You and me,” Cass explains, “we’re the same. Assassins. Damian was one too, but… He was a legacy. We were just tools. Never anything more than killers.”

Dick is watching her with wide eyes. Cass can’t tell where his mind is. She keeps talking anyway.

“Our identities were reduced to our kill counts,” Cass says, voicing things that she’s only ever thought in her head before. “We were our achievements, and if we couldn’t achieve, we weren’t anything anymore.”

One of Dick’s wings has extended behind Cass, just shy of wrapping around her like a hug. It feels… protective.

“But you’re not just your kills anymore,” Cass continues. “Neither of us. Bruce took us in because of what we were capable of. He kept us around because of who we are as people. If… If that makes sense.”

Cautiously, Dick ruffles Cass’s hair affectionately. “It does, Cassie.”

---

The Bats don't leave Dick alone. Not only is he a flight risk, but they can't take the chance that he’ll fall back on his programming and try to break Court members out of jail or kill enemies of the Court (i.e. them). The cryo-gun is always present, even if they haven't fired it since Dick broke Bruce’s wrist during the autopsy.

Damian hates it. He hates treating Dick like a threat. He gets it - he does - but this is… Well, this is Dick. Sure, he's a little paler than usual. And yeah, he doesn't really breathe all that much anymore. His body temperature is consistently below 80°F. He’s got these things sticking out of his back that are covered in feathers and give him the capability of flight. And he's been locked away and brainwashed for ten years, but…

But he's still Dick. When Damian tells him stories about saving the world from giant flesh-eating rats imbued with Kryptonian powers or the litter of kittens at the shelter that his coworkers named after Gotham vigilantes, Dick sits and listens, raptly attentive. The feathers of his wings fluff out a bit, head tipped in curiosity. If anyone comes back from patrol injured, Dick will follow them around until they let someone treat them. When Barbara and Haley visit, which is becoming more and more frequent as of late, Dick holds or pets the dog the whole time, following Barbara every time she leaves the room.

That’s not to say Dick is exactly the same. He’s far more timid than before. He rarely speaks. Barely eats or sleeps. He’s jumpier. He - tragically - doesn’t do physical affection all that much anymore, which makes Damian even more jealous that Jason got a hug from Dick for the first time in a decade, and Damian is lucky if he can pat him on the shoulder.

(God, Damian misses Dick’s hugs. They were the warmest. The strongest. He never felt safer than when he was wrapped up in his akhi’s arms.)

Some days, Dick won’t interact at all, staring into the distance and pulling away from anyone who tries to get him to move or speak. Other days, he’ll pick someone to tail like a puppy or simply wander to wherever the most people are and soak in the atmosphere of a healing family. But the worst days are maybe when he still thinks he’s at the Nest with the Court. He won’t speak without permission. He asks for tasks, practically collapsing in on himself if someone doesn’t give him a way to be useful. He flinches if he thinks he’s offended them, ducking his head and shielding his face.

It makes Damian’s chest ache just to get a glimpse of how awful the Court was to his brother. (More than once, Damian has called Barbara in tears, demanding that she push the judges to give the Owls harsher sentences. She doesn’t have that kind of power, and any attempt to would be a gross misuse of her title, but in the moment, Damian never cares. He just wants the people who did this to Dick to suffer.)

Multiple times a week, Dinah Lance comes over to have therapy with Dick. She doesn’t discuss the sessions much beyond a little warning (“Don’t keep him cooped up inside,” she told them last week) or a general progress report (“He’s doing just fine.”)

And Damian will admit, over the course of three weeks, Dick does seem to be getting better. The usual greeting of “Damian Wayne” shortens to “Damian” or (once, but Damian will never forget it) “Dames.” He’ll make a comment on the rare occasion alluding to an event from before the Court. (Last week, he asked where Alfred was. Bruce left the room in a hurry, hand covering his face, and Jason and Damian were left to come up with a lie about the butler visiting his daughter in London.)

And then, the greatest piece of hope stabs Damian between the ribs. He’s on the roof of Wayne Manor, supervising Dick’s nightly flight time, when Dick lands beside him and watches him with curiosity.

“Are you okay?” Dick asks, which is funny for a couple reasons. The first, being that Damian was just about him the same thing, and the second, being that this is the first time Dick has spoken to him without being spoken to first. Since the Court, anyway.

It’s the biggest milestone Damian’s seen, and he nearly pukes in relief. He’s very glad that he doesn’t puke, though, because cleaning vomit off shingles is not nearly as fun as it sounds (and it doesn’t sound fun at all).

Then Damian realizes that Dick is staring at him. He’s taking too long to reply.

“I’m fine,” Damian assures him. “Why?”

“You look… not fine.”

It’s been a very (very, very, very) long time since Damian discussed his feelings with Dick Grayson. So long, in fact, that he forgot how nice it feels to have someone checking in on him. Someone genuinely concerned who can verbalize their concerns without miscommunicating or accidentally insulting him. (Father tries his best, but he’s never been one to talk about his feelings. Or Damian’s feelings. Or anyone’s feelings. That’s always been Dick.)

“I’m…” Damian knows that Dick is different now. Mentally, he’s got his own problems to deal with. The likelihood that he’d actually give good advice isn’t all that great. But Damian has also longed to hear Dick’s concern. Every night that he beat himself up about or mourned the loss of his brother, he was violently reminded of just how much he lost, because Dick wasn’t there to tell him it would be alright. His person - the person he went to when anything went wrong, when he needed an ear to listen or a shoulder to cry on - was gone forever. And he had no one to lament to about it.

So despite the fact that Dick isn’t the same as he was before the Court, Damian feels compelled to tell him everything. Maybe it’s selfish, or maybe he’s still that same little boy, tearing the city apart looking for his big brother. He just wants Dick back.

“I’m worried,” Damian admits. “About you. Before the Court, we were very close. And then I thought I lost you forever. It… God, I never felt so helpless. And now you’re back, and you’re… different.” He’s grateful for the dark, making it difficult to see Dick’s expression, but he knows that Talon supervision is letting Dick see every line of his face. Both watering eyes. The tightness of his jaw. “I love you no matter what you look like or how you act. I just… I miss the you from before, you know?”

Dick hums. The stand in silence for a moment. Damian almost apologizes and tells Dick to go back to what he was doing when Dick takes a step closer.

“Do you want to fly?” Dick offers sheepishly.

“Do I… what?”

“Want to fly?” Dick repeats. “I always feel better up there. You can see all the lights, and it’s calm, and… it’s nice.”

Damian realizes just how much the Dick Grayson of ten years ago would have loved to be able to fly. He expressed a similar sentiment to the person talking to Damian right now. It’s calm up there in the sky. His problems seem to melt away. He feels closest to his parents in the air.

Maybe… Maybe Dick hasn’t changed as much as Damian thought he had.

“Yeah,” Damian agrees. “Let’s fly.”

Even in the dark, Damian can see the mega-watt smile on Dick’s face, which is weird, because he can’t remember the last time Dick so much as smirked, much less beamed. A knot in Damian’s stomach loosens.

Dick wraps one arm around Damian’s waist, holding him close to his chest. It takes everything in him not to sob.

Then, with a beat of his wings, Dick takes him up, up, up. Above the manor, above Bristol. Damian can see Gotham’s bridges from here. He watches tiny cars drive over them and disappear into the city. There aren’t many stars - not with light pollution at the reins - but the moon cuts through the haze, cold and crisp and bright.

Dick flies in slow circles, gliding lazily on the breeze. He doesn’t go half as fast as Damian knows he can. Maybe he’s tired. Or maybe he just wants Damian to have a nice view. To be able to think without worrying about falling.

(Damian isn’t worried about falling. Dick wouldn’t drop him. Not even on accident.)

“You’re right,” Damian calls over the wind. “It’s nice up here.”

“I feel… more connected in the sky. If that makes sense.”

“To your parents?” Damian suggests.

A hum. Dick does a corkscrew, and a laugh bubbles up from Damian’s chest. “Maybe. I don’t remember them. Just my grandfather. But he was terrible, so I killed him.” He does a loop-de-loop.

Damian tries to process this information, but it’s not computing. He didn’t even know Dick still had a grandfather. (Though not anymore, he supposes.)

“What were they like, my parents? Did you know them?”

“I-” Damian blinks. One crisis at a time. “I never met them, but you told me they were very loving and dedicated people. They performed in the circus with you. Trapeze.”

Another hum. Another corkscrew.

“You said your mother loved to dance. And she made the best quiche you’ve ever had. Better than Alfred’s, even. And your father made the worst puns, and you made it a game to try to make worse ones than him.”

The flight speeds up a bit, the wind growing harsher on Damian’s skin. He can’t hear the sniff, but he sees Dick wiping his face. Rubbing his nose.

“... Dick?” Damian shouts over the wind.

Again, Dick ignores him, circling down until they’ve landed safely on the manor’s roof.

“Dick,” Damian repeats. “Are you okay?”

“I miss them,” Dick says, gaze downcast. “I didn’t know I missed them.” Then he laughs around a sob. (It’s a sad little chuckle, but it’s a laugh. Something Damian thought he’d never hear again.) “Sorry. I didn’t make you feel better.”

Damian’s pressing his luck, but with all the other oddities going on today, he figures he can try to do this. He puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder. Then he goes in for a hug, slowly, lightly, just in case Dick feels the need to escape.

But Dick doesn’t try to escape. He hugs back.

“It’s okay, Dick,” Damian whispers into Dick’s hair. “I feel a lot better now.”

---

“Hood, I need a favor.”

This immediately makes Jason’s ears perk up, because Tim doesn’t ask for favors. Not from Jason. And definitely not from the Red Hood.

“That depends. What’s the problem?” Jason asks cooly, grabbing the last thug from an arms bust and dropping him in the Gotham Harbor.

“GoldenEye fled the coop.”

Jason snorts and returns to his bike, swinging one leg over it. “Ha. ‘GoldenEye.’ That’s a good one. You have that one ready in your notes app or something?”

“Hood, please. He’s been having a bad day, and then he jumped out a window trying to escape talking about his feelings with Bruce.”

“I swear, I think he got more relatable after he died. Which makes sense, I guess.”

“Hood.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll find your bird,” Jason assures him. Then he hesitates. “But, ah, in the interest of time, what kind of ‘not good day’ are we having? Like, just jumping out windows or are we back to biting?”

“No biting,” Tim promises. “I think he’s over that, thank god. Just very withdrawn.”

Withdrawn is fine. Withdrawn sucks, but it’s manageable.

“Got it. Talk to you soon.”

It’s not difficult to find Dick. He hasn’t escaped much since being Talon-ified, but his patterns now aren’t so different from before the Court.

“Hey, Dick,” Jason says softly as he approaches Dick’s favorite gargoyle. (They all have favorite gargoyles, and just as Bruce would find his runaway Robins sleeping under the protection of their favored cement terror, Jason finds Dick sitting under the Gotham Public Library’s dragon gargoyle.) “Tim said you’re not feeling so hot?” He sits beside his brother, letting his legs dangle off the side of the building.

Dick doesn’t respond, staring out into the night, but one of his wings stretches to shield Jason from the rain.

“You don’t have to talk,” Jason explains, “but on a scale of one to five, how insufferable is Bruce being today?”

There’s no immediate reply. Dick kicks his legs a little. Sighs. Then he holds up three fingers.

“Right down the middle, huh?” Jason removes his helmet and looks out at the city they all love so much. It’s a bit quieter tonight than usual, or at least it feels that way. It always does after a Gotham Gaslamps game lets out and all the spectators have gone home for the night. The noise makes it easier to notice the silence.

“I’m scared,” Dick says suddenly. “I don’t know what happened to the Court.”

“They’re in jail,” Jason replies. “Or dead.”

Dick seems… perturbed at this. He hiccups. “What am I supposed to do? What… What good is a Talon with no one to serve?”

“You’re not a Talon anymore, buddy.”

There’s a beat. Dick tips his head. Hums.“Then who am I?”

“You’re my brother.” The answer is immediate. Natural. “And Tim’s and Cass’s and Damian’s. You’re Bruce’s son. You’re Dick Grayson, the golden boy.” And then, he huffs on laughter. “GoldenEye.”

“What does it mean? To be a brother and son?”

“You’re already living it, Dickie. That’s…” Jason blows out a slow stream of air. “That’s maybe the best part about you. You don’t have to try. It’s so natural for you to care about people that you just do it.”

“But I’m not doing anything,” Dick stresses. “Everyone is worried about me, and I feel like they miss someone that’s not me. I haven’t helped anyone. I’m not this saint you all talk about.”

It’s the most Jason has heard Dick say in a decade. “You’re not doing anything, huh?” He points a finger upwards, and Dick’s eyes follow the path up to the wing he’s stretched over Jason’s head. The wing blocking out the rain.

“That’s different,” Dick argues immediately. But he doesn’t provide any examples or clarification, and Jason can only assume he has no real argument. “I just… I’m tired of burdening people without giving them anything in return.”

“You haven’t.” And Jason says it so fiercely that he can already see green leaking into the corners of his vision, anger barely held back. “Dick, I don’t think you realize how desperate everyone has been to get you back. You mean the world to us. We’d do anything to keep you around.”

“I just… worry that the person you want back isn’t me. I’m… I don’t remember everything about before but… I know I’m different now.”

Jason smirks. “You think Bruce gives a rat’s ass if you’re different? You think any of us do? Wings or no wings, we miss you, Dickie.” He puts an arm around Dick’s shoulders, just above said wings. Dick sighs contently and leans against Jason, pressing his face into his neck.

“You’re right. You’re right. But can we just… stay out here for a bit? I don’t know why, but I feel safe here.”

“It’s the gargoyle. It’s always been your favorite. You named him Chaz.”

Dick snorts. “That’s a horrible name.”

“Coming from the guy named Dick?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

---

It’s four months after coming to Wayne Manor that the Bats – his family – show it (no, it’s him, not it) the suit.

“That’s… cool,” the Gray Son (no, shit, it’s Talon) (no, fuck, it’s Dick) says. And it is. It’s black with gold accents, decked out with some high-tech gauntlets and a utility belt. It’s missing a cape like most of the suits Bruce and the others wear. “What’s it for?”

Bruce smiles softly. “It’s for you, if you want to join us.”

“Oh.” Him? Dick? Join the others patrolling Gotham? But he’s… different from before. He doesn’t remember everything about life before the Court, but… he remembers enough. Most importantly, he knows that he didn’t kill before.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Bruce assures him. “You can wait a bit or you don’t have to do it ever. I just want you to know that you…” He settles a heavy hand on Dick’s shoulder. “You’re missed out there. We’d love to have you back.”

“But I killed people,” the Gray- no, Dick – argues. “You don’t like killing.”

“Cass and Damian have killed too.” Bruce’s voice turns soft, like the manor’s impossibly comfy beds after a decade in a freezing, unlined coffin. “Jason too. We’ve all made mistakes in the past, but all that matters is we learned from them and changed.” He tips his head. “Do you still want to kill?”

Dick frowns. “No.”

“Then we don’t have an issue.”

Dick hums. He’d love to join his family. He would. In fact, he would argue he wants it more than anything. He’s just…

“What if I slip up? What if I accidentally kill someone?”

“I’ve trained you for that, and if you’re nervous about it, I’ll train you again. We don’t accidentally kill people. We know our limits, we know the limits of others, and we don’t make that mistake.”

Dick nods. “Yes. Yeah. Okay. Let’s… Let’s do it.” He smiles. “Put me in, Coach.”

Bruce’s smile back is warmer than Dick has ever seen it. “That’s the spirit, chum. That’s the spirit.”