Chapter Text
It’s a bad plan. Really. It’s a horrible, no-good, cobbled-together patchwork of a plan, and it’s bound to disintegrate the
moment
it hits any kind of a snag, but it’s all they have.
It’s all
Grayson
has.
Find Talon. Free Talon. Reach the exit. Get to the Clocktower.
The original was much better. But it would still need at least six more years to mature and bear fruit, and none of them have that long. It has to be tonight. It has to be this plan.
Step one isn’t too hard. He memorized the layout of this place years ago, back when he still thought he might be able to get Batman to help him. All Talons, past and present, are kept in the dead center of the Labyrinth. It’s symbolic, at least to hear the Grandmaster speak of it. Right now it just means a longer path to any given exit. More time to be caught.
Grayson himself is at the far end of the room, locked away in something that’s a cross between a dog kennel and a birdcage. Tim has to weave through a couple dozen coffins to get to him, and by the time he reaches him his shoulders are tight and Grayson’s eyes are trained on him like...well, like a hawk. Like a Talon.
“Hi,” Tim says, and immediately feels like an idiot. He clears his throat and tries again. “My name is - oh, right - uh -” He pulls of the mask. Barbara is laughing at him, he’s sure of it. He can’t hear anything over the comm but he just knows . “My name is Timothy Drake. You probably don’t remember me but we met a long time ago - here, let me show you -“ he presents the picture as gently as he can. Grayson’s eyes flick down to it, ink on glossy paper, before returning to stare, unblinking, into Tim’s soul. “Uh, it’s...you used to perform with the Circus. With your parents. The Flying Graysons. Your name is...do you remember your name?”
No response. Tim’s suit is starting to feel too warm and too tight. “Well, your name is Dick Grayson. You were a performer, not a killer. I want to help you escape. Do you...will you come with me?”
He’s not really expecting an answer, honestly. Rough, sloppy plan, and all that. But then Talon - Grayson - actually speaks, and it’s enough of a shock to nearly send him into cardiac arrest. He just barely stops himself from toppling over by leaning against one of the unnaturally white coffins.
“Talon belongs to the Court of Owls.” Grayson’s voice is rough and raspy. Barbara, tellingly, does not laugh at Tim as he braces against cold marble.
“Tell him,” she murmurs instead, “that Talon belongs to the Court, but Dick Grayson belongs to the sky.”
Tim relays the message. Grayson’s posture loosens the slightest bit. Just the slightest. Tim only really notices because he’s looking for it.
“And tell him that...tell him that Robins need to be free.”
It has the feel of a loaded message - and Tim is definitely interrogating her about all of this later - but as soon as Barbara says ‘robin’ Grayson’s eyes widen, and when Tim repeats it he actually bumps his head against the low ceiling of his cage as he attempts to straighten up.
And then he’s nodding, and Tim’s already got his lockpicks out to work on the padlock, and he still can’t believe this is working even as he crosses the first two items off the list.
Find Talon. Free Talon. Reach the exit. Get to the Clocktower.
The Talon is silent as he exits the cage, but the way his head dips towards Tim feels like a ‘thank you.’ His movements are hesitant and graceful and he keeps glancing down at the mask in Tim’s hand.
“The downtown Gotham exit,” Tim says, because he’s an idiot too caught up in the memory of a circus night from long ago to think of anything better to say.
The Talon nods and remains silent as Tim replaces the mask. He lets Tim take the lead, which is its own kind of unnerving. Running through the Labyrinth with a Talon on his heels is the stuff of Tim’s worst nightmares; having his mask back on only makes it worse. It’s a struggle to ignore his prey instincts, to keep his breathing steady and his mind clear. Everything in him wants to dodge down the nearest hallway and try to evade. He forces himself to keep on track mostly by running through the remaining steps of the plan in his mind over and over. He tries picturing the sunshine smile in the photograph too, the feel of chalk-dry hands on his shoulders and the warmth in his chest because someone was actually happy to see him.
It’s a good memory. It helps.
He’s still breathing a little too fast, but his mind is (mostly) clear. They’re maybe ten minutes from the exit point that will take them into downtown Gotham - only a nine minute walk to the Clocktower - when a sudden weight on his shoulders sends Tim crashing to the ground. He doesn’t even have a chance to try to break his fall; his face collides with the cold floor like a car into a sixteen wheeler and a loud crunch sends a surge of pain blooming across his face, along with a rush of warm blood.
Crap.
“Red?” Barbara’s voice is level but he can hear the worry. He can’t respond though; if they know he’s working with anyone else - he flails, fights back, and manages to pluck the small tangle of wires and plastic from his ear and close it in his fist just before the other Talon grabs his hair and yanks his head back. Hard .
“Timothy Drake,” it hisses. Tim squeezes his eyes shut reflexively and waits for the end, for the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.
...but then he keeps breathing. The Talon holds him, but makes no other move to end his life or to do anything more than to rip out his hair. Close by, he can hear the faint sound of air passing around fists and the clatter of steel against Gotham marble. Someone is attacking Grayson too then, another Talon judging by the silence of the battle. Tim’s brain starts churning. If a Talon’s loose in the Labyrinth it’s one thing. But for two to be free, at the same time, in this part of the maze that’s so far from the Coffin room...the Grandmaster must be involved. And she won’t want her pets killing either of them without -
“Good evening, Mr. Drake.”
-getting in the last word.
I can use this.
He’s not sure quite how yet, but he can, and his mind is already scrambling for a plan, examining and discarding ideas as quickly as they come.
Grayson doesn’t stop his fight. Tim catches a nearly inaudible grunt as a blow connects, but he can’t tell who was hit. He hopes it was the other Talon.
The first is still holding his hair and now shifts to pin him to the ground on his stomach until all he can see is white stone. Then the sound of heels on marble, and his much-abused scalp is again wrenched backwards to look up at the approaching Grandmaster. He can barely swallow at this angle. His face is still throbbing.
The Grandmaster looks as poised as ever, draped in black and gold with a large golden talon hanging from her neck on a chain. She plays with it now thoughtfully as she stares down at him and Tim finds that he can’t look away.
He has an idea.
“What, no quips? No railing against the cruelty of the Court? I’m disappointed, I was hoping for a show.”
It’s hard to breathe, let alone speak in his position. Tim hopes his expression conveys disdain for him because it’s all that he’s got.
“Unfortunate. As is your decision, throwing your life away for a single Talon. Why not free them all, Timothy? Surely that big brain of yours could have found a way?” She steps closer. The Talon pulls his head back even further; Tim’s not optimistic of his chances of getting out of this without a snapped spine if this continues. “Mr. al Ghul is always praising it. He’ll be sorely disappointed; he offered quite the benefits package in exchange for your life. We had to refuse of course. The Court takes care of its own, Mr. Drake, as I’m sure you well know. We’ll even allow you to choose how you’ll die. Which do you think best befits a traitor: beheading, or dismemberment?”
“Go to hell,” he chokes out, because it’s what she expects. Behind his back, angled towards a security camera, he shapes one hand into a shaky 0.
“Not very original, are you? Hopefully your death will be more entertaining than this. We’ve gathered a full Parliament for your execution.” She reaches behind her skirt and pulls out a syringe. Tim’s stomach twists; he knows exactly what’s in it and it’s an instant wrench in his last-minute backup’s-backup plan. He grits his teeth and shakes his hand a little, hoping Oracle gets the message, hoping she can act on it in time. It’s another terrible plan, but at this point it’s all he has.
At some unspoken command the Talon behind him grabs Tim’s right wrist and stretches his arm forward; the comm is still safe in his left but it’s not much use now. The Grandmaster moves quickly and stabs him with the needle, much harder than is actually necessary. That’s going to bruise, he thinks, and then not that it matters. His body will be unrecognizable by the time GCPD pulls it out of the harbor, one little bruise won’t -
Stop it! He can’t think like that, there’s still -
Cold air begins to spit out of the vents.
“Thank you,” he breathes, then wrenches his hand out of the startled Talon’s grasp, yanks the gold talon necklace off of its chain, and stabs the Grandmaster in the space between mask and face.
Her hand flies to the wound, a startled yell echoing around the space. “Brat!” she snarls. Tim can’t help but grin in vicious satisfaction.
“Grayson, RUN!” he shouts; it’s the last thing he manages before a sort of gentle lassitude sweeps through him. The needle is still sticking out of his arm. The Grandmaster’s face is wavering, shifting between a bloody snarl and a blank white mask. And then they merge, blood dripping down the white porcelain as it grows teeth and lunges for his throat.
He flinches back. He can’t help it. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion though: he falls, the white and red mask blurs and jumps, the walls bleed red. A Talon’s hands close around his arms and he closes his eyes against the horde of owls rustling in the rafters and preparing to dive.
“Foolish Owlet,” the Talon whispers. And Tim...drifts. Cool air rushes into his face and he closes his eyes for a moment, but when he opens them again Grayson is holding a hand to his ear and Tim’s left hand is dangling open. Tim touches his own ear, not sure why, and finds that his comm is missing. But that’s right, because he took it out. So it should be in his…
“Stay awake,” someone snaps. Tim’s eyes fly open and he tries to roll out of bed but something tightens around his chest instead.
Something is holding him, ice-cold hands under his knees and back, curling very close to several vital organs. He squirms and the hands tighten even more. “Hold still.” The voice comes from above him. He tries to pry open his eyes to see - when did they close? - but gets one glimpse of a gleaming skull and bloody hair and squeezes them shut again. The wind blows past him and something cold is pressed to the side of his face.
“Red, you idiot, I’m going to kill you.” Barbara sounds like she’s catching her breath. He’s not sure why.
“Bar...Or’cle,” he murmurs. It’s hard to move his mouth, and his limbs somehow feel both heavy and itchy. It must be a new strain; he doesn’t remember it affecting him like this before. Everywhere Talon is touching him is agony. He groans.
“GRAYSON!” Oh good, it is Grayson that grabbed him. The head above him tilts, listening. Tim stares at the walls oozing blood and wonders if Talons can slip. “HURRY!”
The icepack against his cheek is actually a hand, which Tim only notices when he feels the nails scrape against his skin. It takes everything in him not to flinch but he can’t, can’t show weakness or -
No, no, it’s not like that. He’s not…he’s in the Labyrinth but it’s not...
They veer sharply left. The Parliament gathers above them, feathers rustling, bloodshot eyes following their every move.
It has to be the drugs. It has to be. Tim squeezes his eyes shut and hopes this strain sticks to visual hallucinations only.
If he focuses he can hear the edge of Barbara’s words, now filling Grayson’s ear. Directions, probably. That would make the most sense.
He thinks of the device in his pocket. Once they get close enough to the entrance - he’ll have to open his eyes to see, but he can do it - he can activate the device and collapse...maybe a third of the Labyrinth. He wasn’t able to get everywhere yet but he wired the Fountain room and the Portrait room last year, and the Talon room today as he was leaving with Grayson. Several hallways and dead ends were set up over the years before that. It won’t be enough to stop them, but it will slow the Court down significantly, especially with the symbolic damage. Showing someone untouchable that they can be touched is a huge mental blow.
But if the Grandmaster was telling the truth…
Impossible. Tim himself entered the Labyrinth at 4am on a school day. By now it has to be at least 6am, meaning that parents and kids will be getting ready for work and for school. If the Grandmaster was planning on putting on a show in a few hours, she would’ve dosed him with something much less soporific. More likely she intended to hide him away, make him think it had only been a few hours, then send him running when night fell and Court members could get away from other obligations.
So, no children. No deaths.
He just has to look…
Easier said than done. It takes far too long to pry his own eyes open, and when he does everything is painted in shades of red and black. He gasps; he can’t help it. Tal-Grayson’s arms tense and the murmur of Barbara’s voice cuts off sharply.
Suddenly the comm is thrust back near his ear and Oracle is right there. Frozen staring at the horde of bloody demons following behind, terrified but locked into place, it’s a relief to hear her voice again.
“Tim,” she says quietly. “It’s ok. It’s not real. I had Grayson grab the syringe so we can get some samples and synthesize an antidote for you. You’re about ten minutes out, ok? I’ll see you very soon. Whatever you’re seeing now isn’t real, remember that.”
Jack and Janet join the horde, throats slashed, owl-carved knives sticking out of their chests. Your fault! they scream. Tim turns and stares resolutely ahead. “Not real,” he repeats.
“Exactly,” Barbara says. He can imagine the look on her face, warm and approving, and that helps too. “I need to keep giving Grayson directions. You ok?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
The comm is taken away again. They move quickly through the halls, much faster than Tim ever would have managed even if he weren’t injured and drugged to the gills. Benefits of being a Talon he thinks, and then instantly feels terrible. He wonders what Robin would think of him, seeing him now. He can feel the eyes of the invisible - no, imaginary - crowd behind them, boring into his neck, judging him, condemning him. He does his best not to look, though they keep slipping into the corners of his eyes and compelling him to see, to pay attention. The walls continue to stream blood, thicker and thicker, and as the terror grows it’s easy to imagine himself muscle-locked on the floor in some white-walled hallway, staring at nothing and unable to escape. It’s a good thing Grayson is here.
And this isn’t even a full dose.
Suddenly the walls around them start to bend and lean. He throws out a hand, certain he’s about to fall, and hits something hard. It hurts.
They’re so close. He can see the dark arch at the end of the hall. They’ll come up in Gotham, they’ll…
Wait.
It’s the wrong entrance.
Isn’t it?
“Or’cle?” he calls. His voice comes out too quiet. They’re close to the door though, and it’s now or never...he fumbles and nearly drops the device, pulling it out of his pocket, but by some miracle he manages to input the password and set the code. The walls are still tilting, but now they’re shaking too, and he thinks that part might be real.
A chunk of marble lands in front of them and Tim startles. Grayson’s grip doesn’t slip, but Tim finds his head dangerously close to the floor as Grayson veers them around the sudden obstacle.
Tim twists to watch the hallway behind as Grayson darts through the doorway. He ignores the bloody faces of his parents and the other faceless demons and watches marble shake and fall and break apart.
There weren’t supposed to be an explosives in this hallway.
“Oracle!” His voice is lost in the grumble of torn stone, though, echoing around the small space of the passageway.
The very familiar passageway.
He tries to get Barbara’s attention again, but the drug is fast becoming overwhelming and he can’t catch the thread of his thoughts long enough to talk. He loses time; one blink and they’re at the door, another blink and they’re on the grounds; one more blink and everything is gray, and Batman is leaning over him.
“Oh,” he whispers. Why aren’t they at the Clocktower? He never wanted to impose on the Waynes. “Sorry, Mr. Wayne.” He closes his eyes to try to blink again but they’re too heavy to open back up. He’s so tired…and they must be safe now, right? He lets the drug sweep over him and falls under the wave of exhaustion.
-=-
When Tim was a kid, somewhere between seven and ten, he used to slip past his sleeping nanny and into the city. He imagined himself an explorer, a spy, a warrior. He cut his money-soft hands on rusty fire escapes and tore holes in the knees of pants worth more than the sidewalk he’d fallen on. It was all fun and games, until it wasn’t. It was all exciting, until it wasn’t. Only a few days into his new adventurer’s life, Tim got to meet Batman.
The memory instantly burned itself into his brain with the dull-edged brand of fear. The smell of fermenting garbage and urine. The press of cold metal against his throat. A cold hand clamped tight around his wrist. Everything cold and wet and miserable.
The nearly inaudible swish of a cape. The ache in his wrist and the sting in his neck. Batman's gloved hand on his shoulder, asking him if he had a way to get home. The tension in his hand when Tim told him where he lived.
And the gruff words he never forgot, said to a tired Commissioner later that night while Tim watched from behind a ventilation unit: “Sometimes I think that if everyone just tried a little harder to be good, the world would be a better place. Even Gotham.”
After that it became an obsession. He started taking his dad's old camera and following the Batman as best he could. It meant predicting patrol routes and crime patterns, and he did it. He filled an entire notebook with observations and spreadsheets and after a few months he had his own route down. He patrolled and took pictures and developed them in a dark corner of his walk-in closet so that his nannies and babysitters wouldn’t see.
He watched Batman get thrown into walls, fall from fire escapes, takes knives to places that knives really shouldn’t be. And he saw his neighbor hide knee-braces under nice suits and pain killers with champagne, and after a while it just…clicked. The suits, the gadgets, the car…who else could afford to be Batman?