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Assassinating Bruce Wayne was Talon’s first-ever solo mission. This was supposed to be his first kill that isn’t just for practice, like that family the Owls ordered him to slit the throats of, or the many, many defective Talons who needed to be taught a lesson.
Technically, Talon wasn’t even supposed to be on this mission. Cobb was supposed to get it done several nights from now. Talon should have left it alone, but he knew what the Owls thought of him. He heard what they called him when they thought he wasn’t listening. Failure. Defective. Scrap the Gray Son and start over.
But Talon knew he could be good. He just needed to prove it. And what better way to do that than killing the most powerful man in Gotham?
Talon had never been outside of the Talons’ training compound before tonight. He forgot what air felt like.
It should have been an easy kill. A billionaire with few survival instincts and a reputation for being empty-headed in public. Even a baby Talon could handle such a simple mission, Talon thought while he listened in on the mission briefing—what little he could hear of it from his hiding place down the hall, at least. It would have been an easy kill, under better circumstances, except Talon didn’t know that his target somehow possessed combat skills that could rival even the oldest and most deadly Talons in the compound. Talon never stood a chance.
It's a short fight. Talon only manages to get in a single nick with his blade to the target’s neck before the target knocks Talon into a china cabinet with the kind of strength no ordinary billionaire should possess. Talon slices himself on shattered shards on the way down. A boot stomps on the back of his neck, keeping him from getting back up.
“You have ten seconds to tell me who you are and who sent you before I knock your lights out,” the target snarls, his voice ragged with exertion. Clearly he wasn’t counting on being ambushed in his home, judging by the pajama pants and robe. His mistake. Never be caught unaware, even when you feel safe. Talon learned that lesson a long time ago.
Talon’s next line is supposed to be, “The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.” That’s the line. It’s a vital part of the script instilled in him right alongside his combat training. Now is when he's supposed to say the line and deliver the killing blow, but Talon’s tongue is tied.
This isn't the first time Talon has choked during a crucial moment, and he's paid dearly for it before. The Masters have punished him countless times for such insubordination. Ever since Talon was taken from...from...
Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the Flying—
Since Talon became a Talon, words are…difficult. He’s the littlest Talon the Masters have ever trained. Some murmured during his training that he was taken too early; he wasn’t any use to them yet. He was punished severely for his inability to speak in those first few weeks, but the Masters aren't the types to pass up on a challenge. Talon would submit. They made sure of that.
You will speak when spoken to, Talon, or there will be consequences. And there were. Many, many consequences. Painful consequences. So, Talon became obedient. Do not speak unless spoken to. Follow the rules. Never stray from a mission. Kill ruthlessly and efficiently. Make the Masters proud.
Talon failed too many times when he was smaller, but there were failsafes for that. Too headstrong, this one, the Masters whispered among themselves. They were concerned he’d been given the Electrum too early. He was a botched experiment. Too childish, too defiant. But we have ways of fixing disobedient Talons.
It took several sessions, but eventually they succeeded in wiping all of the pesky, distracting memories from Talon’s head. A blank slate, perfect for molding.
Perfect, except he still failed. He’s failing right now, as his target waits for some sort of explanation that he won’t receive. Talon’s throat has locked up. He can’t speak. He can’t fight against the boot sitting on the back of his neck, pressing down and down until it feels like he's about to snap Talon's spinal cord. He feels something sharp poking at the center of his back—one of his own swords, Talon realizes. Dropped during the fight.
Failure.
Talon snuck out without permission, and now he’s about to pay the price for his disobedience. He’s going to be murdered with his own blade. He will go down in history as the worst Talon ever created—a cautionary tale for all the rest in the compound.
The boot lightens its weight on his spine, just a hair. The target hesitates as he takes in the pitiful sight of his assailant for the first time. “You’re…a child,” the target says, like it's a question. “How old are you?”
Talon doesn’t answer. He can’t. When he was small and faulty, he would cry in times like this. As it is, he can’t anymore, but his eyes sting anyway.
The Masters will kill him when he returns. If he returns. There is no doubt about that. First, they will make Talon suffer for his disobedience. They will send the other training Talons to pick him apart, flay the skin off his bones as a lesson to them all what happens when a Talon disrespects the Owls.
Then they will kill him, and they won’t even bring him back to life for later like the rest. No, a forever death is headed Talon’s way. Talons aren’t supposed to be afraid of anything, but Talon is scared.
At the whimper that wrenches itself from Talon’s throat, the target releases him. Talon doesn’t get up from the floor. He doesn't even twitch. The target stands over him, sword braced in his hand like he’s waiting for another attack. “Who…what are you?”
What are you? Talon asked when he was first brought—kidnapped—to the Talons’ compound in the catacombs beneath the city. He went by another name back then, though he can’t remember what it was now. Bad Talons like him don’t get their own names. No, they have to earn the right to a name.
He looked up at the birdlike masks of the people surrounding him and shuddered at their cold, blank eyes. There was still dried blood on his hands from…from something. Something had happened. Did he kill somebody?
Haley's Circus proudly presents its most renowned attraction...The Flying Graysons!
Someone fell. Two someones. Talon cried, and then…something swooped in. Something took him away. He thought it was to help him at first, but over time, it became clear to Talon that the stealer didn’t want to help him at all.
No, he was being drafted for a war.
Somehow, through no fault of his own, Talon has not died yet. He’s sitting on a hard bed in the middle of a cave hidden beneath the target’s mansion. The Owls definitely don’t know about this place. Distantly, Talon can see a computer the size of a car, and a car the size of a tank. Medical equipment surrounds them in this small section of the cave, but the target strangely doesn’t automatically reach for blades to hurt Talon with.
“Can you tell me who sent you?” the target asks. Talon doesn’t answer.
Talon has been on high alert the whole time since the target carried him down here and placed him on the cot, but the target hasn’t made a single move to harm Talon yet. He has not smashed Talon’s face open for the attempted murder, nor has he yelled at Talon for being so bad at it. Even his body language is intentionally non-threatening, although there is clear tension in his shoulders to show that he’s prepared to defend himself if Talon strikes again.
Talon could try again, but he has already failed his mission, and now he’s been kidnapped by the target he intended to annihilate. Talon will be still, and he will wait until the target disposes of him. Hopefully it’s quicker than it would be if the Owls got to him first. Talons can’t feel pain, but the Owls have ways of getting around that barrier.
The target frowns at Talon’s reticence. “Do you have a name? You can’t be older than ten years old. Do you have any family? Are they the ones who did this to you?” The target gestures to Talon’s face.
Talon touches his cheek. The target must be referring to the zombie-like gray skin, or possibly the yellow eyes behind his goggles—both side effects from the process of becoming a Talon. The chemicals hurt going in, but after enough time passed, Talon ceased to feel anything at all anymore.
Talon knows his skin must be colder than that of a normal human, too, considering no blood flows through his veins anymore. Talon has seen many, many dead bodies before. Sometimes he wonders if Talons and the dead are the same thing.
Talon himself has even been the reason for a good deal of those dead bodies. He felt bad about it at first, but his training was very thorough. The shame didn’t stick.
The target brings disinfectant-soaked gauze to the bloody gash on Talon’s temple, only to watch, perplexed, as he swipes away the blood to reveal intact, unblemished skin. He searches Talon’s scalp for wounds and comes up empty. “You were bleeding,” the target says, his tone turning it into a question. “You had a cut here before.”
Talon doesn’t understand the target’s confusion. All Talons can regenerate. They would not make very good assassins if they couldn’t. Only a fatal blow to the head can kill a Talon.
The target runs all sorts of tests on Talon. It’s a tiresome process to get a blood sample thanks to his lack of a functioning circulatory system. The target apologizes before every stick, which is silly, but Talon doesn't correct his needless concern. Talons don’t feel pain. They don’t feel anything. Surely everyone knows that.
The target is alarmed to find no heartbeat either, but at Talon’s lack of concern, the target says, “You’ve been like this for a while, haven’t you? Were you born this way?” Talon debates leaving the question unanswered like the rest, but he shakes his head. He wasn’t born this way, but he doesn’t remember what he was like before. Hopefully something resembling a human.
The target’s shoulders sag with relief, if only because this is the first indication he’s received that the Talon is capable of communicating. “What is your name?”
Talon merely shakes his head again. The other Talons have names. Cobb. Carver. But this Talon was too flawed, too disobedient for the dignity of a name. If he proved himself, maybe, but he’s squandered that privilege by now.
The only thing he can do at this point is obey the target and hope his death here is less painful than the one he’d receive from the Owls if he tried to escape. The target is slow, careful as he takes off Talon’s mask to reveal yellow eyes, the pupils slitted and practically glowing in the darkness.
The target inhales sharply when he changes Talon out of his sturdy armor into a shirt and pants that are far too large for him, but it’s the smallest clothing the target could find. Talon keeps his gaze fixed on a spot on the target’s shirt. He doesn’t need to look down at the scars that cover his body; he’s seen them enough. “Who did this to you?” the target asks with thinly disguised rage.
Talon bites his tongue. He can’t feel it when his teeth pierce tissue, but he can taste the blood.
The target sighs, running a tired hand through his hair. It seems he’s given up the pretense of bracing for an attack from Talon. Now would be the perfect time to strike, Talon thinks, now that he'd have the element of surprise. He could kill the target in seventeen different ways without leaving the cot. Six of them one-handed.
Instead, Talon remains still. If he’s a statue, maybe the target will forget he’s here and thus forget to kill him.
“You know,” the target says after a long minute, “you remind me of a nursery rhyme my parents told me when I was around your age.” He recites slowly, “Beware the Court of Owls that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadow 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—”
“Talon,” Talon whispers. He swallows down a mouthful of blood.
The target freezes at the timid voice. “Talon,” he repeats. “You were sent here by the Court of Owls.”
Talon nods, even if that isn’t the full truth. He wasn’t sent, but he came here anyway. He broke the rules. He’s a bad Talon.
“I thought the Court was an urban legend, but there have been...whispers about them. Rumors that they’re growing in power, taking out whatever powerful figures stand in their way. I’ve been researching the rumors. Clearly I was getting too close to the truth if they sent an assassin my way.”
Talon doesn’t confirm a word of it, but his silence must be enough.
“Do you know who I am?” the target asks. He gestures at the cave around them, the stalactites hanging from the ceiling.
Talon nods hesitantly, though it feels like there is some underlying meaning he’s missing. Bruce Wayne is the second most powerful figure in Gotham. Everyone with a pulse knows him. Talon only knows because he snuck in on the Owls’ briefing with Cobb.
“Then you understand that I will subdue you if you try to harm me again. I wouldn’t recommend it. Hurting children is not something I enjoy, and I would prefer to avoid it altogether.”
If Talon could bring himself to speak again, he would reassure the target that he needn’t be so concerned about hurting him because Talon isn’t a child. Children are helpless. Children can’t defend themselves against an assailant, but Talon can. He has and he will. But the target hasn’t laid a harmful finger on him since he brought Talon here, so Talon nods.
“Do you know where you came from? Were you born into the Court?” Talon shakes his head. “Do you remember where you were before they took you?” Another head-shake. The target nods, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve already run your DNA through the missing persons database covering the past decade, but it will take an hour or two to compute possible matches. It would be easier if you had fingerprints, but it appears they’ve been burnt off. Do you remember when that happened?”
Talon nods. It was early in his training, back when he still cried at pain. His trainers eliminated that instinct from him swiftly after. Good Talons don’t cry.
“Can you tell me your name?”
Talon squints. The target knows exactly what Talon is. Why should he need any other name?
“You don’t remember your real name?” At Talon’s confusion, he waves the issue off. “It’s all right. We’ll work on that later. You can call me Bruce.”
The target—Bruce helps Talon off the high cot and leads him through the cave toward a set of stairs a short distance away. Talon follows behind Bruce like a shadow, trying not to look around himself because that’s not what Talons are supposed to do. They’re never supposed to take their eyes off their target, but it’s so rare for him to experience any piece of the outside world that he can’t help but be curious. It’s a big, old-looking cavern that reminds him almost of the catacombs under the city. The dark corners are inviting, perfect places to hide. The dank cave smell is almost comforting.
Bruce leads Talon up the stairs to the same mansion they were in before. They walk past the shattered remains of the china cabinet Talon was thrown into. “My friend, Alfred, is out of town for the night,” Bruce explains, lending the ceramic shards a mournful look. “Terrible timing, I’m aware. This would all be so much easier if Alfred were here. He’s better with children than I am.”
Bruce sends Talon a tight smile over his shoulder. “We’ll just have to make do without him for now, hm? Alfred should be home sometime tomorrow afternoon, and then we can sort this whole mess out.”
Talon assumes that “sorting this whole mess out” means this Alfred person will be the one tasked with disposing of Talon. Of course the billionaire doesn’t have what it takes to execute an assassin himself. He has servants to do that for him. If Alfred is a professional killer, maybe that means it will be quick. Efficient. It’s a kindness Talon doesn’t deserve.
“You must be hungry,” Bruce says, talking more to himself than to Talon. He stops walking and turns to look down at Talon. “Do you eat food?”
Talon shrugs. He can eat food, but Talons typically don’t need to. Nothing can kill them. Not suffocation, not starvation, not bodily injury. They are designed to kill for eternity.
Bruce brings Talon to a room with a shiny floor composed of tiny squares. The counters are lined with big metal appliances. He sits Talon in a chair in front of a long, high table that runs along the whole length of one of the walls. Bruce opens the fridge and rubs his chin as he takes in the options. “I guess there’s no point in asking if you have any allergies. Water would probably be a better starting point.”
He pours Talon a glass of water from a cold pitcher. It’s possible that this is Bruce’s attempt at poisoning him. Maybe this has all been an elaborate trick to lull Talon into a false sense of security before his death. A cowardly way to go about it, but justified.
Bruce notices Talon’s apprehension and pours himself a glass from the same pitcher. He takes a sip. “See? The water is safe, I promise. I don't intend to hurt you. You can drink it.”
With that permission, Talon obediently takes a sip. He hasn’t had water in a very long time. The cold sensation on his throat is…interesting. Refreshing. He drains the glass.
Bruce looks pleased, which sends a bizarre warmth through Talon’s chest. It isn't often that he's recognized for being good. “I take it this means you eat food as well?”
Talon shrugs again. Sometimes the Masters will give training Talons nutritional formula if they are not healing fast enough, but it’s mushy and tasteless. He’s not quite certain if it qualifies as food. The Electrum is all they need.
With the new motivation, Bruce goes around the room pulling out bowls from cabinets and a paring knife from a wooden block. He retrieves a plastic container from the refrigerator filled with small red…things. The proper word for them is right there in the back of Talon’s mind, but he can’t grasp it. The Owls did away with all of the useless memories their newest Talon wouldn't need.
While he prepares the strange meal, Bruce keeps up a steady monologue about his lack of cooking skills. “That’s what I have Alfred for,” he explains, “but I didn’t think you would like the frozen veal and asparagus he left for me to microwave while he’s away. I think it’s his way of punishing me for my uselessness in the kitchen. He knows I hate asparagus.”
Talon wonders why Bruce would hire such a useless assassin if he can’t even poison someone right. Maybe he’s better at killing with weapons than with poison.
“You’ll like Alfred, though,” Bruce reassures Talon after seeing the expression on Talon’s face. “He’s a good man. He’s the one who raised me, so I’m sure he’ll know what to do with you. This isn’t exactly something you can call CPS for, and I’m not sending you back to your masters, whomever they are.”
Bruce washes the red things thoroughly, then sets up a cutting board. “I hope you like strawberries. There isn’t much else I know how to prepare.”
Strawberries. Talon remembers now. He nods, his eyes wide. He remembers strawberries.
Bruce cuts the green parts off and slices the strawberries in half, filling both bowls with an adequate amount of fruit. He grabs two forks from a drawer and places a bowl and fork in front of Talon before taking a seat next to him. “Usually I take my meals in the dining room, but you seem comfortable here at the counter. It’s a nice environment, isn’t it? I’ve always felt safer in the kitchen, too.”
Talon waits for Bruce to pick up his fork before Talon mimics the action. He tests the tines with the pad of his finger, curious. He’s never trained with a weapon like this before. Instead of turning the pointy end at Talon, Bruce spears a piece of strawberry and eats it. “They’re safe, see? Try some.”
Reluctantly, Talon spears a strawberry onto his own fork and takes a tiny bite. The taste is both foreign and familiar at the same time, like trying to remember a dream from years ago. The sweetness of the fruit makes his mouth water. He forgets all decorum and digs in, savoring the flavor in every bite. He can’t remember the last time he ate food with colors. Colors always taste better. How could he have forgotten?
Bruce looks surprised at the fervor with which Talon eats. “They don’t feed you there, do they?” Talon shakes his head, still chewing. “You don’t need permission to eat or drink here,” Bruce says seriously, catching Talon’s eye to make sure he’s listening. “If you’re hungry, you can eat. If you want to speak, you can. This is not a prison.”
No, it’s not a prison. Talon doesn’t know what this place qualifies as. He’s never heard of a prison that gives its prisoners such delicacies before slaughtering them. Prisons are also supposed to be filled with hordes of bad people, but the only bad thing here is Talon. Does it count as a prison if there is only one prisoner?
A loud pinging sound makes Talon jump. In an instant, his fork is raised in a defensive position, his eyes scanning the room for the threat.
Bruce raises his hands placatingly. “It’s all right. It was just a notification from my tablet. Your blood test is finished processing.” He gestures to the rectangular device set aside across the counter. “I’m going to pick it up and check, all right?”
He waits for Talon to lower the weapon before he retrieves the tablet and navigates to the information he’s looking for. Talon finishes off the rest of his strawberries, watching tensely.
Bruce’s eyebrows furrow at the results. “Richard Grayson,” he murmurs. Talon stops chewing. “From Haley’s Circus. Two of the circus's acrobats, Mary and John Grayson, died three years ago after an accident occurred during their high-wire act. Their son, Richard Grayson, went missing the following day.” He looks up at Talon. “Richard.”
“Dick,” Talons blurts without meaning to. He slaps a hand over his mouth for talking out of turn, but—but that name.
Dick Grayson.
He remembers it like a dream, except it’s not the regular kind of dream he had before he was a fully conditioned Talon. The kind of dream where he wakes up in a cold sweat after watching two strangers fall fifty feet and slam against the ground, their bones snapping and limbs contorting sickly on impact.
No, Dick Grayson is a good dream.
He wishes he could remember it.
Shaking, Talon removes his hand from his mouth. Bruce hasn’t struck him for speaking. He hasn’t even moved. Slowly, carefully, Talon tests out the word again. “Dick,” he whispers.
“Dick Grayson,” Bruce says. Then he smiles softly. “That’s a good name. It’s nice to meet you, Dick.”