Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Master March."

Lincoln turns his head, glancing over to the figure who's just entered his office. The metal on the Talon suit glints as the man kneels before him, head bowed, and Lincoln can't help the smile that pulls at his lips at the sight of him.

"Your mission was successful, I take it?" There is no other option. Either he'd done as he was bid, or he would be punished. By now his Talon knows better than to fail him.

Training him took a long while, but the end result is stunning.

"Yes, Master," his Talon replies. "Both Sarah James and Lauren James are dead. No witnesses."

Lincoln's smile grows. If only Bruce could see him now, see how easily he admits the murders he just committed in the name of the Court. Lincoln has watched his Talon kill, has seen him do it without hesitation. Has watched him wipe the blood from his face without care, step over bodies without a second glance, take the life of innocents simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He is beautiful, Lincoln can acknowledge. Objectively, his features are attractive, even with the golden eyes he now carries instead of the original blue.

But the most beautiful thing about having this boy as his Talon has absolutely nothing to do with the boy himself, and everything to do with the man who will break into pieces when he sees what he's become.

"Excellent work, Talon," Lincoln says.

"Thank you, Master."

Lincoln strolls over to him, admiring the submission, the way Talon looks on one knee before him. He puts two fingers under Talon's chin and tilts up his head, but Talon's eyes remain cast downward submissively. Lincoln strokes his thumb across Talon's cheek, then over his bottom lip. Talon does not flinch away from his touch.

Even after Dick Grayson broke, even after he collapsed to his knees for the first time in front of Lincoln, even after the first time Dick Grayson threw a knife into someone's heart—he still resisted in this regard. He still flinched and cringed away. It took a while before he fully accepted his place. He belongs to the Court, body and soul; it is not his right to decide how they can and can't use him.

Unfortunately, Lincoln has somewhere to be. He can't take this opportunity to use his Talon. So, quite reluctantly, he draws back, letting his hand drop. Talon bows his head once more.

"Return to your quarters," Lincoln instructs. "Your duties are complete for today."

"Yes, Master," his Talon replies, rising to his feet. He heads back towards the window he'd snuck through before and vanishes into the night.

Lincoln stares out after him, gaze drifting to the batsignal lit in the distance. What would the Bat do, if he came across Talon right now? Talon is too good for that, would never allow himself to be spotted, but what if? Lincoln would kill to see the look on Bruce's face when he realizes what's become of his missing protégé.

He'll make that happen soon enough.

For now, he'll simply enjoy having his Talon in his possession.

When Lincoln enters the training room, Talon is in the midst of a fight.

He greatly outclasses the man he is facing off against, his training by the Bat, Deathstroke, and their best Talons making his skills superior by far.

It's very interesting to watch him fight. The fluid movements, the effortless way he bends around his opponent's attempts to hurt, the easy grace with which he sails through the air. And the brutal strikes of his own, targeted to injure and take down and kill.

Dick Grayson always had the potential to be a lethal weapon, if Bruce had only allowed the boy to learn what he truly could accomplish. Bruce took a weapon into his home and turned him into an obedient soldier, and Lincoln has simply taken that all one step further.

Talon's opponent hits the mats, and Talon strikes down with his weapon, stopping just shy of shoving it into the man's chest, what would be a killing blow. The man taps out, a disgruntled look on his face, but Talon does not pull away until the trainer supervising the session tells him to.

Lincoln observes for another ten minutes before he signals the trainer, who listens immediately, calling an end to the fight. The opponent dusts himself off and heads for the showers, but Talon simply waits, watching expectantly as Lincoln approaches.

"We have another mission for you," Lincoln says, and Talon inclines his head in immediate obedience. He's fallen into parade rest on instinct, hands folding behind his back. There isn't a single scratch on him from the fight.

The Gray Son was destined to be their best, and so far he has only exceeded expectations.

This mission is different from his usual assassinations, but every once in a while they take advantage of Dick Grayson's good looks, have Talon seduce someone to get what they want from them. Talon has the ability to charm and flirt if he has to, anything to comply with the Court's orders for him, but Lincoln had seen Dick Grayson charm people before all this, and there's a difference.

Talon is textbook, just the perfect amount of wit and charm and intelligence to reach his end goal. Dick Grayson embodied those traits, pulled them on like a second skin and made people like him like it was nothing.

In erasing Dick Grayson, they erased some of that natural ability. It doesn't make Talon any worse at his job, but it's different. Something that amuses Lincoln to take note of.

Talon listens to his orders without a word, gaze sharp and attentive as he memorizes what he's supposed to do. When he's dismissed, he goes immediately to his room to get changed.

Brown contacts to cover the golden eyes, a tailored suit instead of his Talon uniform, a single weapon hidden on his person instead of many worn openly for the world to see. He looks like a facsimile of Dick Grayson like this, twisted just enough away from what he should be. It would unsettle Bruce to see him like this, Lincoln knows. Something to look forward to.

It's been eighteen months since they took Dick Grayson, eighteen months since he was presumed dead. Batman and the others held out hope for a little while after that, but they, too, gave up eventually. While Dick Grayson was screaming and bleeding and begging, Bruce Wayne was smiling at cameras and moving on. The entire family moved on. It was largely helpful in breaking the boy.

While Talon is on his mission, Lincoln observes through the cameras. He watches Talon smile and flirt with the target, the woman blushing and laughing in all the right ways. It does not take much to get her to agree to leave the party and accompany Talon to a hotel room upstairs.

Lincoln watches Talon bounce the woman on his lap, amused at the change of roles. With the Court, Talon most certainly is never in a position to be as in control as he is here. It's entertaining to watch. Lincoln is vaguely curious what Talon thinks of it, if he thinks anything at all. Maybe it's no different to him now, just another mission. It certainly wasn't in the beginning.

The woman falls asleep afterwards, and Talon takes the USB from her purse, plugging it into the stashed computer and downloading the files. When it's complete he puts the USB back and scribbles out a note saying he had a wonderful time and she should call him sometime, accompanied by a fake number.

And then Talon returns to them, presenting the computer without hesitation.

He doesn't ask what was on the USB. He doesn't protest when Lincoln tells him to follow him back to his quarters. He doesn't hesitate to strip when Lincoln tells him to.

Dick Grayson used to cry when they did this to him. Talon doesn't even bat an eye.

"Kneel," Lincoln orders, and Talon folds to his knees, hands folding behind his back. He looks up at Lincoln as Lincoln steps in front of him, golden eyes blinking. He doesn't move as Lincoln absently brushes his fingers through his hair, strokes his cheek, rubs at his bottom lip. He's beautiful.

Lincoln knows Bruce never touched Dick Grayson in this way, but he wonders if Bruce thought about it. If he lied awake at night thinking about his "son", if he touched himself to memories of catching sight of his body in the shower.

He knows Grayson never felt that way about his father, because he asked once. It was in that between period, where Grayson was exhausted and broken enough to answer their questions without complaint, but not yet truly theirs. Still retained his sense of self. And when Lincoln asked if Grayson had ever wanted to be intimate with Bruce, he received a very sure no.

He hopes Bruce desired Grayson. He hopes he wanted him this way. So that when Bruce learns what Lincoln and the others have done to Grayson, that along with his hatred and fury will be some level of jealousy. Jealousy that he'll hate himself for, that will make everything all the more ugly. He hopes so. It will make this all the sweeter.

"Open your mouth," Lincoln instructs, and Talon does. He doesn't flinch when Lincoln pulls himself out of his pants, nor when he pushes himself inside the warm, wet heat of his Talon's mouth.

Lincoln says, "Give me your best," and Talon does.

Lincoln strides down the hall, Talon to his right and one step behind.

When they reach the large double doors, Lincoln doesn't hesitate to push them open, not bothering to knock like he knows the Grandmaster prefers. The people at the table inside glance up when he enters, and he can feel their frowns behind the masks they all wear.

"Lincoln March," the Grandmaster says, rising from her seat. "You are not allowed to just burst in here—"

"Why wasn't I informed of this development?" Lincoln demands, too frustrated to bother with decorum. He'll apologize later, if he has to. But the Grandmaster agreed long ago that he would be consulted in decisions regarding Bruce Wayne. His expertise and familiarity makes him very good at the job of predicting Bruce's moves, and he was the one to bring the Gray Son in. The fact that he's been left in the dark is unacceptable.

The Grandmaster's eyes narrow, displeased with the disrespect, but she doesn't chastise him for it. "It happened very quickly. The Batman attempted to infiltrate one of our bases with his allies, it was pure chance that he was captured at all. You were informed as soon as he was secure. So please, calm down."

Lincoln forces himself to take a deep breath. Snapping at the Grandmaster will only result in a punishment of some sort, and he can't afford to be sidelined right now. Not when everything is so close.

"Of course, my apologies. Now what is your intention with him in captivity?"

Some random idiot at the table says, "My vote is to kill him," despite the fact that Lincoln was very clearly not talking to anyone except the Grandmaster.

Likewise, the Grandmaster pays the speaker no attention. "That is what we were discussing." Her eyes flick briefly to Talon in consideration before back to Lincoln. "How thorough is the control over him?"

"Exceptional," Lincoln says without hesitation, because it's true. Lincoln put quite a lot of time and effort into making sure that Dick Grayson was broken down and built back up in the way they wanted him. He has killed many people for the Court by this point, has completed every mission without complaint, has bent over and let them fuck him if told to do so. He is obedient, and very loyal. He's ready for anything.

"Good," the Grandmaster says. "Then I leave this decision up to you—either we repeat the process with Bruce Wayne and the other vigilante we captured, create two more loyal soldiers, or we use the fact that we hold someone he loves to our advantage."

"Ma'am," the speaker from before protests, but is silenced with a sharp look.

Breaking Bruce Wayne down would be a shame. Lincoln doesn't want him to be a mindless weapon, he wants him to suffer. He wants him to go on living his life knowing that he failed his son, that for almost twenty months he's been completely unaware of the pain and torture Grayson was living through. Unaware that he'd become an assassin. Become the weapon he was always destined to be.

"That entire family depended on Dick Grayson for quite a lot," Lincoln says. "He was a central point of their family. I think they'd do quite a lot to spare him some pain. Bruce will be stubborn, he more than likely won't want to comply. But the others will fall in line, and he will too, eventually."

The Grandmaster looks at him measuredly. "Alright," she says, and though she says nothing else, he can hear the threat in her voice. If he screws this up, it will not go well for him.

Lincoln inclines his head in something resembling respect. "I'll keep you apprised."

He turns and leaves without waiting for a dismissal, too excited. Talon follows silently. He doesn't look bothered or unsettled by what he witnessed, doesn't seem to have any recognition of Bruce's name or any disquiet at the idea of him being held captive. He's perfect.

Lincoln leads the way to the holding cells. He sees Talon's shoulders get tense when they enter the hall, and Lincoln wonders how much of his time down here Talon remembers; it was quite a lot of time, after all. A lot of time and pain. They're not happy memories, surely.

"Put your mask on," Lincoln instructs, and Talon doesn't hesitate, pulling his hood into place, the goggles settling over his eyes.

There are two guards in front of the cell housing Bruce, and one more guarding the cell next to it. Lincoln places himself somewhat between them, able to be seen by both captives through the bars of their cells. It seems Robin is the other one captured. That should be interesting; the boy was like a son to Dick Grayson, Lincoln knows. Talon should be fine, but Lincoln is curious to see how he'll handle that.

"Lincoln," Bruce greets, voice low.

Bruce is chained to the wall, stripped down to his underarmor. There is no slack, no room to move. Despite the fact that his cowl has been removed, his face is still a blank mask. Robin—Damian Wayne—is bound similarly, and his lips curl back in a snarl when he looks at Lincoln.

"Bruce," Lincoln greets in turn, smirking. "Got yourself into a little bit of trouble, hm?"

Bruce simply glares at him, not rising to the taunt, and there's something about it that makes Lincoln decide that now is not the time to reveal who he has in his possession. Bruce is too on guard, too ready for Lincoln to try to mess with him. No, showing him Dick Grayson's face with the eyes of a Talon right now will not be met with shock or despair, only suspicion. He won't believe it. And Lincoln needs him to believe it.

He needs to be in a location where he would let down his guard, at least a little. Which means he has to escape.

The Grandmaster is not going to be happy about this. But Lincoln can't bring himself to care.

He turns and walks away, relishing in the brief flash of confusion on Bruce's face, and Talon falls into step just as he's supposed to.

Lincoln will arrange for Bruce and the boy to be able to escape sometime tomorrow. For now, he has some frustrations to vent, and the perfect target to put everything onto.

Talon doesn't make a sound when Lincoln leads him into the—currently empty—training room and pins him to the ground, pulling his pants down. It isn't until Lincoln is forcing himself inside that Talon whimpers, hands curling into fists. He doesn't fight back, though. Instead he spreads his legs to make things easier for Lincoln and just takes it, trembling faintly at the brutality.

"Who do you belong to?" Lincoln breathes as he comes.

Talon's response is instant, if shaken. "To the Court, Master. To the Court. To you."

Lincoln lifts a flute of champagne from a server's tray, sipping from it as he idly scans the room. Bruce is fashionably late, amusing considering the party is taking place in his very own ballroom, but appearances are what they must. Timothy Drake and Cassandra Cain are already here, but have yet to spot Lincoln.

Even when they do, it's not like they'll be able to do anything about it, not in a room filled with witnesses. To the general public, Lincoln has done nothing wrong. He's a model citizen, attacked in that awful Night of the Owls some years back. No one to be worried about.

Somewhere, Talon sits in wait. Lincoln can't see him, but that's kind of the point. He trusts the boy's abilities to keep himself hidden until it's time.

It's another fifteen minutes before Damian Wayne arrives, Jason Todd beside him and looking decidedly uncomfortable at having to be at this packed event.

Twenty minutes after that, Bruce arrives. There's some random girl hanging off his arm, someone Lincoln vaguely recognizes from a movie currently out in theaters, and Bruce notices him instantly, sharp gaze singling Lincoln out in the crowd.

Lincoln offers him a smirk and salutes him with his glass, taking a casual sip.

Bruce is forced to turn away by the actress, pulled into a conversation with some socialites desperate for Bruce Wayne's attention. So Lincoln approaches a woman abandoned by her date and invites her to dance, and then goes on to enjoy his evening.

It's not until two hours after Bruce's arrival that the man finally manages to extract himself from the fawning sycophants, making his way across the room to where Lincoln is currently engaged in conversation with some members of Gotham's City Council.

"Lincoln!" Bruce greets warmly, a slightly drunken grin on his face, and Lincoln can admire the dedication to the ruse. Does it ever get tiring? Does Bruce ever regret this playboy persona he adopted? Does he ever wish to just drop it as his age begins to rise?

"Bruce," Lincoln replies with his own smile, far more dignified. "It's been a while, very good to see you."

"You too, you too," Bruce says genially.

"I didn't know you two knew each other," one of the Council members comments, cheeks flushed from the fourth scotch he currently has clutched in his hand.

"You kidding?" Lincoln drawls, lips curling into a smirk. "We're almost like brothers."

Bruce's jaw ticks. Lincoln takes a large amount of pleasure from it.

"You mind if I steal him?" Bruce asks the others. "We've got so much catching up to do."

"Of course, of course!" someone agrees immediately. "We'll see you later. Lincoln, don't let him drag you into too much trouble!"

Everyone chuckles like that's oh-so-clever, and Lincoln resists the urge to roll his eyes, chuckling along.

He allows Bruce to throw an arm around his shoulders and lead him away, heading out of the ballroom and away from all of the witnesses. Lincoln isn't concerned in the slightest; he knows his Talon is looking out for him.

"What do you want, Lincoln?" Bruce demands once they're in a room far enough from the ballroom, his demeanor nothing but the Batman now. Drake and Todd are already inside when they arrive, and Damian and Cain follow after Lincoln and Bruce, shutting the door behind them.

Lincoln is still unconcerned; there are a pair of glass doors leading out onto a patio on the other side of the room. Lincoln casually strolls closer to them, masking his destination with indifference, glancing around the room like he couldn't care less about the various knickknacks surrounding them.

On some level, though, this rankles at him. This was supposed to be his. All of this should've been his.

But it's alright; he took away Bruce's favorite toy, after all. Dick Grayson is his. What is a stuffy old manor compared to the perfect assassin?

"I was simply enjoying the party," Lincoln says easily. "You're the one who pulled me away. Who says I want anything?"

"Because everything is a game with you."

Lincoln snorts. He glances briefly out the doors, and sees a shadow shift, his Talon letting him know where he is. Such a loyal boy.

"A game? I suppose. Though calling it a game would imply you ever had a chance of winning, Bruce."

"In case you're forgetting," Todd says, eyes narrowed, "you're the one who failed. Your whole Night of the Owls bullshit failed, you didn't get your targets. And since then you've done basically nothing. So tell us how, exactly, you're the one winning?"

"Oh, just because you haven't heard from us lately doesn't mean we've been idle," Lincoln says, smiling. "There have been many deaths in Gotham and surrounding areas that were our doing, these last few years. These last two especially. You'd never guess what you can accomplish with the right person out of the way."

The dig hits where he'd hoped it would, and Bruce stiffens, anger sparking in his eyes.

"Do you want to know how he died, Bruce?" Lincoln goads. "Have you been wondering what happened to your precious son?"

That's all it takes for Bruce to lunge forward, closing the distance between them. He pins Lincoln against the wall, one fist twisted in Lincoln's shirt, the other raised in preparation of a punch.

But Talon is there instantly, catching Bruce's fist and twisting his arm. He has the element of surprise, enough that he manages to force Bruce away, placing himself in front of Lincoln in a defensive position, blade raised.

He's in his Talon suit, but not with the mask. His face is bare to them all, and Lincoln delights in the looks on their faces as they recognize who it is standing in front of them.

Lincoln brushes himself off, straightening his shirt and suit jacket. "Well, that was exciting."

"Dick?" Drake says incredulously, something vulnerable crawling into his expression. "Is that—is that you?"

"What have you done?" Bruce demands. He looks somewhere between horrified and disbelieving, and though he's speaking to Lincoln, he doesn't look away from Talon's face. "What did you—that's not him."

"It is," Lincoln disagrees, "and you know it is. I suppose I exaggerated the 'died' part, though that really depends on how you look at it, doesn't it? Heel."

Talon lowers his weapon immediately, stepping back, but his body remains coiled, eyes flicking over the group, wary of a fight. He doesn't know that they won't dare attack him. He doesn't know that they've mourned him, missed him, loved him. He only knows that the Court sees all of them as a threat, and thus a threat they are.

"What did you do?" Bruce demands again, but his voice wavers.

"The Gray Son was always supposed to belong to us," Lincoln says simply. "His destiny was always to be a Talon. It's not our fault that you abandoned him."

"We didn't abandon him!" Bruce shouts.

"What else would you call it?" Lincoln asks curiously. "He was all on his own in Bludhaven, all of you were busy with your own things—he was exceptionally easy to take, Bruce. And then you all gave up on him."

He can see that Bruce wants to argue, but the guilt is already creeping in. They did leave Grayson vulnerable, and they did give up on him. There was no body, no true evidence of his death except for a bombed building that a couple witnesses said they saw Nightwing enter, and yet Batman and his allies gave up. Nightwing was mourned. Dick Grayson had a funeral. They all moved on with their lives.

"He kept waiting for you to save him," Lincoln says, twisting the knife further. "He was so sure you would show up and get him out of our clutches. He endured the torture brilliantly, so strong and so positive you were going to arrive any moment."

He pauses, tilts his head towards Talon. "Eventually he gave up, too. Long after you did, though. Months after you'd finally stopped. While you were going on dates with random socialites he was begging for his father to help him—"

Bruce darts forward again, furious, but Talon intercepts him, throwing a punch to his sternum and then kicking him in the gut. It sends Bruce sprawling, the man unwilling to raise a hand to his son.

"You're lying," Damian declares, teeth bared in a snarl. "That's not Grayson, he would never break for the likes of you."

Lincoln's lips curve, amused. "Don't undercut my skills, boy. I've had Talon for almost two years—do you really expect him to hold out under daily torture for that long? After he's been abandoned? Whipped bloody, deprived of sleep, waterboarded? The list goes on and on." He smirks at Bruce. "And, well, we couldn't let his beauty go to waste, could we?"

He sees the words hit, and hit hard. The initial denial, Bruce not wanting to believe it, not wanting to accept that he's been sitting pretty while his son was tortured and raped for quite a long time. And then the despair, the unfathomable rage.

"I'll kill you," Todd promises dangerously, eyes gleaming green. He's coiled tight as a spring, one of Drake's hands in the center of his chest as an anchor, holding him back from attacking. "I'll kill you for doing this to him."

"What do you want, Lincoln?" Bruce snaps, hands clenched into fists at his sides. "If this is a negotiation—"

"It's not," Lincoln disagrees immediately. "Talon belongs to me. To the Court. I'm simply informing you of the new world order. The only thing I wanted was to see the look in your eyes when you realized how thoroughly you've failed."

"You must want something," Bruce growls. "In exchange for his safety."

Lincoln knows that this is the opening the Grandmaster and the rest of the Court would want him to take advantage of. They'd want him to get the Bat to agree to do something in exchange for not harming Talon, or maybe even freeing him if the deal is big enough.

But Lincoln is feeling rather powerful right now. He holds all the power in this conversation. And he has no interest in giving any of it away, least of all to Bruce Wayne. Talon is his, and he will not cede ground to Batman and his ilk. No, Lincoln will not agree to any deals. He will not give Bruce anything.

"No," Lincoln says. "I want nothing from you, brother. His safety is no longer your concern." He looks to Talon. "Time to go."

"Dick," Bruce says, desperation creeping into his voice.

Talon doesn't react to the name, no recognition. Instead he follows Lincoln's command, guarding Lincoln's back as they head towards the patio doors.

"We'll get him back from you," Bruce growls, and Lincoln glances back at him unconcernedly. "We'll save him." His eyes slide to Talon. "We'll save you, Dick."

Talon just blinks back at him, expression not shifting. His gaze shifts past Bruce to Damian, who has stepped forward, jaw clenched. And then Talon looks away, continuing towards the door.

Talon is confused.

That meeting between Master March, the Batman, and the Batman's allies made no sense to him. The way they looked to him, spoke like they knew him, got angry on behalf of the pain he experienced. They are his enemies, extremely dangerous ones that the Court has attempted—and failed—to kill. And yet they were...protective?

Talon is very good at reading people, and there was no aggression targeted towards him in that meeting, despite him being far more of a physical threat than Master March. But no, all their rage was directed towards the master. And when Talon defended Master March from the Batman, the Batman did not fight back.

It makes no sense to Talon, and Master March offers no explanation. Weapons do not require explanations, the master told him a long time ago. Weapons do not need to know why they've been aimed. They simply need to follow through.

Talon is obedient. He is loyal.

But he doesn't understand.

Usually, that doesn't bother him overly much. The Court are his masters, and he will follow their orders without hesitation. If he needs to know something, they'll tell him. He doesn't need to know every minute detail of his missions, he only has to obey. He only has to let them do what they want. Resistance will only lead to pain, that he knows.

But this time...

There was a boy. He would never break for the likes of you.

Talon doesn't know why that rankles at him, why it...upsets him to have such a thing said. He is not broken, and Master March is his master. The words of a young enemy should not matter. But they matter nonetheless. They upset him nonetheless.

He would never break for the likes of you. Like Talon hadn't tried, hadn't held out for as long as he could, hadn't tried his hardest to fight and make them proud, as if he hadn't been abandoned in the dark, as if he hadn't been forgotten by those who always swore they had his back—

Talon closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. When he lets it out, he releases all these bad thoughts with it. He doesn't know where they came from, nor does he care to. He is obedient. He is loyal. Thoughts like that will only bring him pain. He is Talon, the Court's weapon. That is all he needs to be.

"Talon."

His name is called—no, not his name, he does not have a name, he is a thing, he is a Talon—and he turns, immediately kneeling when he sees Master March. His master strolls closer, glancing over the table where Talon's weapons are laid out. Talon had been cleaning them; they technically didn't need to be cleaned, but the methodical task made him feel slightly calmer.

Master March puts a hand on the top of his head and Talon does not move away, despite how he wants to. Talon does not like it when the members of the Court touch him, but what he likes and dislikes don't matter, only what the Court desires. And Master March desires quite a bit.

Master March has him lift his head, tells him to open his mouth. Talon doesn't hesitate, familiar with this task by now, despite how he does not enjoy it. His enjoyment does not matter. His master wants him to do this, and so he does.

He breathes through his nose, closing his eyes, remaining in place as Master March uses him.

There's a brief flash through his head, a similar task but a different weight on his tongue, a different taste, a different feeling—pleasure, instead of obligation.

Talon forces the thought from his head. Thoughts like that are dangerous and bring only pain. Talon does not want more pain. He spent so long in that room, his only constant companion the pain and Master March, always Master March. Talon doesn't want it. He's not supposed to have preferences, he's supposed to give his masters all the information and let them decide the best course of action, but he doesn't want the pain.

And so he keeps the flash to himself. He keeps all the flashes to himself.

They've been getting more frequent, since the meeting with the Batman and his allies. He doesn't tell Master March or the others, hoping that with time the flashes will fade, but they don't.

We'll save you, Dick.

He doesn't have a name.

Dick? Is that—is that you?

But they kept calling him by one.

That's not Grayson.

That's a title Talon recognizes, the Gray Son of Gotham. But the boy said it differently. Like one word. Like a name.

He doesn't have a name. Weapons do not need names.

But they all...

I'll kill you for doing this to him.

Talon dreams of warm smiles and vibrant laughter. He dreams of being held and gently kissed. He dreams of flying across rooftops and feeling joy. He dreams of steady hands stitching him up, and him returning the favor. He dreams of freshly baked cookies.

He does not tell Master March or the trainers about the dreams. He's supposed to. He knows he's supposed to. But he covets them like stolen gems, terrified of having them taken from him. They are bright spots in an otherwise gray life. He doesn't want to give them up.

He keeps going on missions for the Court. When he climbs across the rooftops of Gotham, he finds himself wishing for a grapple gun. He finds the whip of wind through his hair makes him feel delight, instead of simply being a sensation.

He is...afraid. Fear grips him in the dead of night, worried about what this all means. He likes it, he wants so much more of it. But this is dangerous. He belongs to the Court, and if the Court learns that he's been hiding things from them—if Master March learns he's been hiding things from him—it will bring so much pain.

D—Talon is tired of pain.

He doesn't see the Batman or his allies again. Master March tells him, with a smug look on his face, that they're searching for him, but he is very well hidden. And on missions Talon is very good at remaining out of sight. The Batman and his allies fail in tracking him down.

Talon does not understand why that fact stabs like a knife.

Things were good. Things were steady. Then Master March took him to that meeting, and now everything feels out of balance.

He does his best to serve. He gives Master March and the Court his all, trying so hard to prove his loyalty to them while doubting it inside his own mind.

Master March seems pleased at least. He enjoys Talon giving him his all. He enjoys taking everything from Talon.

No one at the Court is gentle with him, not really. They don't have to be, he is theirs to use. But Master March has always been particularly...rough. Talon is not fragile, he can take it, but he is so tired of having to.

He dreams of rain-soaked rooftops and faces that change.

Talon is sent after the Red Hood.

So far the Court has not paid him much attention past his association with the Batman, but he is investigating a murder that was purposefully made to look like an accident, and the Court can't let anyone find out what really happened.

It's been two months since that meeting, and Master March has deemed it perfectly reasonable to send Talon after one of the Batman's allies. Some other members of the Court push back, voicing concerns about Talon's capability to complete such a mission—and Talon is pretty sure the doubt is not about Talon's skills, but about something else he doesn't understand—but they are overruled, the Grandmaster siding with Master March.

So Talon tracks down the Red Hood.

He finds him in a small apartment in the middle of Crime Alley. Talon disengages the special lock on the window—feeling like he's done this before, but doesn't know why—and slips inside on silent feet, drawing his blades. He knows the Red Hood will not be an easy target, but he is excellently trained. He can do this.

"Dick?" the Red Hood says, momentarily stunned when Talon appears in the doorway of the kitchen where the vigilante is. It's a credit to the Red Hood's training that his surprise fades quickly enough that he is able to dodge quickly away when Talon sends a blade for his head, the man rolling out of the room and drawing a gun from some hidden location before pointing it at Talon.

He does not, however, pull the trigger.

"Red Hood," Talon says, "the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die."

The Red Hood scowls at him. "Yeah, I bet March is jut laughing it up, isn't he? Sending you to do this."

Talon's brow furrows, confused by the specification. "I am the Court's top agent," he says. "You are a threat. The Court has sent their best to take you down."

The Red Hood snorts. "Dickie, if you want to take me down, you're gonna have to do a helluva lot better than this. I don't wanna hurt you, but like hell am I gonna just let you hurt me."

Talon throws a knife, which the Red Hood dodges, and then the fight begins in earnest.

It is long, and hard, and Talon doesn't understand why he feels like he knows the Red Hood's moves personally, but eventually the fight ends. Eventually Talon is standing over the unconscious form of the Red Hood, the man completely vulnerable.

Talon crouches, drawing a blade. He does not plunge it into the Red Hood's chest. He can't bring himself to.

Instead, he examines the Red Hood's face. He recognizes him of course, from that meeting two months ago, but he recognizes him too. Deeper than that. Further back than that. He knows the Red Hood. He tries to understand how, tracing the slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw, playing with the strange streak of white in his hair, but he still doesn't understand.

In his head, he can see a brazen smile, a confident walk, a gentleness when handling the baby bird a boy brought to him. Bruce was so exasperated when Damian showed up with another pet, a few newly hatched birds abandoned by their mother, but Damian and Dick managed to convince him to allow them to stay, and Jason looked so funny holding them in his hands—

Talon swallows. He can hear his pulse thudding in his ears, can feel his chest a little too tight, air straining to get in. This is the first time he's had a flash that big.

He's supposed to kill the Red Hood. He's never failed the Court before.

The front door of the apartment opens, and the figure entering freezes, eyes wide as they lock onto Talon's. It's one of the boys from the meeting, and the girl from it is right behind him. The boy's eyes flick to the unconscious form of the Red Hood with a spark of fear, but the girl puts a hand on his shoulder, keeping him still. It seems to calm him, and he allows her to step around him.

"Hello," the girl greets, talking to Talon.

Talon simply blinks back at her. She doesn't seem bothered by the lack of response, instead sitting down on the other side of the Red Hood, crossing her legs beneath herself. She offers him a smile.

"You aren't going to kill him," she says. It's not an order, it's an acknowledgment. Talon swallows.

"I'm supposed to."

The boy shuts the door and hesitantly walks over, sitting down beside the girl when she tugs lightly on his pants. "But you don't want to," he says.

Talon shakes his head. "I want to." He does, he wants to obey. He wants to kill the Red Hood for his masters, and he wants to hurt the boy and the girl for acting the way they're acting. Don't they understand how dangerous he is? They need to get far away from him before he hurts one of them, need to get him away from everyone else—

"But you're not going to," the girl says again, shrugging a shoulder. "That's okay. You don't have to...do what they want. We'll help you."

"My Master—"

"Hurts you," she says softly. "We won't."

Talon narrows his eyes.

He's angry with himself because he believes her. He's angry with himself because he wants to listen, to not return to the Court. He owes the Court everything, doesn't he? He cannot betray them. He won't betray them.

"You don't have to do anything," the girl says, her smile kind. "We can just stay here. For a little while."

The boy reaches into the bag he brought with him, and Talon tenses in preparation of an attack. But the boy only pulls out a bag of chips and a few cans of soda.

"What she said," the boy says, offering a soda to Talon. "We can just...chill here, for a bit. Go from there."

Talon bites his lip and glances down at the soda, then to the open window. Master March will be waiting for him, waiting for his report. He'll punish Talon for failure, and the punishment will be well-earned. He did not kill the Red Hood, even when he had the chance. Still, right now, he has the chance, and he's not taking it.

Talon will have to tell Master March about the flashes, too. Prevent them from happening again, if they're keeping him from doing his job. He cannot be weak enough to resist killing a target again.

But he also...is very glad he didn't kill the Red Hood. And he wants to sit here and drink a soda with these people that make something deep inside of him spark.

He pushes himself quickly to his feet. The boy jerks like he wants to stand as well and follow, but the girl grabs his arm and keeps him still, not moving as Talon strides to the window and slips out of it.

He stands on the fire escape for a moment, staring at the bright bat-shaped light in the distance, chest filling with a strange sort of hope.

And then he leaps off into the night, heading back towards the Court.

"We have to go after him!" Tim shouts. "We have to—"

"No," Cass disagrees, smiling softly. She takes his hand between hers. "No. He'll be back. Not today, but Dick is...there. He'll be back. And we'll be ready."