Chapter Text
Batman stares down at the unconscious Timothy Drake, then up at Talon. The eyes of his cowl show no reaction but the muscles of his jaw jump as he frowns. He opens his mouth to - ask a question? Give an order? - but is interrupted by a beep from the computers behind him.
“Oracle,” he says, without turning away from Talon. The voice that had led Talon here now echoes around the cave as a woman’s face fills the screen.
“Hey, Batman. Sorry for the short notice, but we had to improvise.”
Batman grunts. “‘We’ being…?”
“Well, little Red there and Talon.”
Talon studies the woman’s face. He...likes it. The way her hair tumbles over her shoulders seems familiar somehow, but not in the way that the knives and the poison and the cold of the Court is familiar. This is fuzzier, more vague, like hearing a friend’s voice from a distance and not quite being able to put a name to the sound.
“‘Red?’”
“Red Fox.” The woman’s expression doesn’t change, but Talon somehow knows that she’s laughing. “Inside joke, maybe you can get him to explain it to you once he wakes up. Long story short, Red asked for my help in taking down the Court of Owls. Yes, B, they’re real. And they’re pissed. But it’s not my story to tell, so don’t even bother with the interrogation.”
Batman’s eyes narrow. Talon pulls Timothy Drake a little closer to his chest. He seems to accept the woman’s words, though. “What is your name?” he asks, still staring at Talon. It takes him a moment to realize that Batman is no longer speaking to the computer.
It is a complicated question. Talon considers his answer. “I am Talon,” he finally says. Some long-buried instinct is screaming at him, pounding on the lid of its coffin. This cave, this man, the woman...it’s all familiar. It makes his heart race and his mouth smile. He doesn’t know why , though.
Timothy Drake called the man ‘Mr. Wayne.’ That name is familiar too; he remembers hearing the grandmaster speak of Bruce Wayne, but there’s something beneath that memory as well…
“Do you have another name?”
Was his answer not satisfactory? The threat of failure weighs heavy.
“Talon is the Gray Son,” he says, unsure if it will be enough. At this answer Batman’s eyes widen and he moves a half-step closer; he stops, though, when Timothy whines and shifts in Talon’s arms. On the screen the red-headed woman frowns.
“Talon, do you still have that needle they stuck him with?”
“Yes.” He brandishes the needle as proof and hands it to Batman. “The Court of Owls has its own poison to break the mind. He was given some, but not all. Can Batman find the cure?”
Batman grunts and leads him over to a thin bed on wheels. Talon lays Timothy down and moves to stand near his head; close enough to watch, but out of the way.
“I’ll try,” Batman says. “But we may end up having to just wait for it to leave his system naturally. Synthesizing a new antidote from scratch could take hours, maybe days.”
“I understand,” Talon says. The woman on the screen hums.
“I’ve gotta look into a couple things, but I’ll keep you guys on a minimized window. Just holler if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Oracle.”
“Anytime, Boss.”
Batman huffs and the screen goes black. And then it is just Talon, and Batman, and Timothy Drake, alone in a cave.
“I need to run analysis on the syringe. If he wakes, try to keep him calm.” Batman pauses, half-turned towards the computers. The light from the monitor throws the sharp line of his nose into stark relief. “You said that you are called Grayson. Does the name Richard mean anything to you?”
Talon cocks his head as he thinks. It does sound familiar, but just as distant as the woman and the cave and the Batman.
“No,” he says, and it’s mostly true.
“What about...Dick? Dick Grayson?”
Talon opens his mouth again, another denial on his tongue, but he hesitates. Pauses. Thinks.
Timothy Drake had used that name too, and at the time it had made his chest feel funny and his fingers tingle. It felt good, like sliding a knife into its sheath. Natural. And now, hearing Batman say that name, he thinks…
A memory rises to the surface. Were he still in the Labyrinth he would push it back down and tear it to shreds, but standing over Timothy Drake in the safety of a secret underground cave he lets it come. The woman from Timothy’s picture is laughing, laughing at the man from the picture, who has something white and powdery - chalk - on his face. “Dick!” the man says, and he’s trying to sound stern but he’s laughing too hard. “I gotcha Dad, didn’t I!” a child’s voice replies.
Talon shakes his head. Batman has turned back and is staring at him.
“Dick Grayson,” Talon repeats, voice quiet. Another memory: “My m-mom calls...used to call...she used to call me R-robin.” “Dick Grayson was...Robin.”
“Yes,” Batman breathes. His hand half-rises, pauses, then reaches up to push back the cowl. Bruce Wayne’s eyes are very blue and very kind and very, very sad. “Do you remember anything else?”
Talon stares back and wonders why it feels hard to breathe. “I do not remember,” he says. And then, a sudden surge of rebellion rising in his throat, adds, “but I know that I have forgotten.”
A dangerous admission. A costly one. If he were still in the Labyrinth he would be punished. There is no life outside the Court, no will outside that of the Grandmaster.
A tear runs down Bruce Wayne’s face.
“Oh, Dickie-boy,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
Talon remains silent. He does not know how to respond. His mind is too full to think.
Once again Timothy breaks the tension. One moment he is unconscious; the next, he jolts upright and points straight at Batman with a single, trembling finger. “NO!” he shouts. His mask is askew, his entire body shaking. Batman jerks backwards as if struck and when Talon tries to reach for Timothy, to restrain him, he flinches so hard that he falls off the bed. His breath is coming in short, whistling gasps.
Batman raises a hand to his ear and barks something that sounds like a command. Talon doesn’t hear - he is too busy trying to stop Timothy from hurting himself. Every time he approaches, though, the boy whimpers and moans and only tries to move away faster. His hands begin to ooze blood as he scrapes them along the ground.
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Timothy gasps.
“You are safe,” Talon tells him, voice carefully level, but the boy just shakes his head and scoots back another few feet. His hands are bleeding in earnest now.
Talon spent a lot of time in the Labyrinth. He watched dozens of men and women scream and bleed and beg, saw them drink from the fountain and run, maddened, into the claws of death. He has been those claws himself. He was taught to wait, and to watch, and to strike when the moment was right, when the person was finally broken on the razor-sharp edge of terror but with just enough strength remaining to run .
Timothy Drake was only given a portion of a full dose. Talon saw the needle and the remaining poison inside. The boy is not yet broken, not yet ripe for death; and yet, Talon’s heart is pounding as if preparing for the kill. It feels different though. He never enjoyed watching those others turn to madness, but neither did they affect him like this. He doesn’t understand, and that is...worrying.
He crouches down and, for the first time he can remember, tries to look non-threatening.
“Timothy,” he whispers, so that Batman will not hear. The boy continues to cry, but he at least stops moving backwards. “You are safe. You are with Batman. Do you remember Batman?”
Timothy begins to shake his head, then stops and slowly nods. A drop of blood rolls out from under the scuffed white mask and down his neck.
“Good,” Talon says. It is hard not to sound like the Grandmaster when he says it, but he tries.
Once the Owls released a group of people into the Labyrinth with a flock of Talons. It was a rare treat, they said, a game: which Talon would be the best hunter, which would make the most kills? He stalked two people, an old one and a young one, for many hours. Towards the end the old one held the young one close and whispered reassurances as their death crept closer and closer. He tries to remember those words now as he holds out a hand to Timothy Drake. “You will be ok. I promise. This will all be over soon.” That last one sounds more threatening than reassuring, but it made the young one in the Labyrinth stiffen her spine and begin to walk once more. It was too late for her, unfortunately, but fortunately the words seem to work on Timothy Drake as well, and it is not too late for him. “Will you come with me?”
Timothy is silent for a long moment. Just as it seems he is about to speak a new set of footsteps enters the cave. Timothy whips his head around to look and then begins to sob anew.
“No,” he moans, “No, I said I was sorry, I didn’t want...no, no, no…!”
An old man comes into view. Talon cocks his head at him, and he raises an eyebrow in return, then heads straight for Timothy. The boy tries to move again but Talon finally darts forward and grabs his arms. He didn’t want to startle the boy before and risk greater damage, but at this point restraint is more important than calm.
Timothy struggles, of course, but a Talon’s grip is iron.
The old man doesn’t say anything about what must seem a very strange situation. He simply holds out another needle and says, “a sedative, for the young sir. Batman said it was necessary.”
Talon nods in reply and the old man, moving quickly, grabs one thrashing arm and sticks the needle in. The effect is near instantaneous: Timothy’s cries taper into soft whimpers, then into gentle breathing. His limbs sink down and become heavy with unconsciousness. In a few moments he is out, and the old man stands.
“Now,” he says, “I believe some introductions are in order.”