Chapter Text
Talon watched Grandfather reach into the traitor’s mouth, forcing his arm into an impossibly tight space, only to pull out with a mess of intestines in hand. At some point, the traitor’s eyes had rolled up into his head. He’d crumpled to his knees like the dolls Talon used to play with, in the before.
Grandfather raised the handful of guts high into the air. The Owls clapped appreciatively. One of them gave a slurred, “Here here!” Grandfather bowed, then quickly reported back to his position beside Talon.
Not long ago, the gory sight would’ve been enough to make Talon sick. He used to be so squeamish at even the sight of blood. His – The people he was with before, they’d held him close whenever the world turned violent, pressing his eyes closed so he didn’t have to grow up so fast.
Now, Talon didn’t so much as blink as another victim was brought out, squirming and screaming as she was dragged by two other Talons. Why she in particular deserved the Court’s ire today, he didn’t know. But it wasn’t his place to know things, Grandfather had told him over and over and over again, so that was alright.
Things were always alright, so long as Talon could retreat far enough into his mind that everything took on a fuzzy tint to it. He’d told Grandfather about that space between spaces once. Grandfather’s face had twisted into something that could be described as proud, and he’d squeezed Talon’s shoulder.
“Excellent, Gray Son,” he’d said. Talon had straightened at the title. “That is a good place. Go to that place often. Visit it whenever you can. And most importantly…” He’d paused, and his grip on Talon’s shoulder had started to hurt, but that was good. Grandfather was always giving him extra training so that the hurt that the Owls gave him didn’t bother him as much. Talon was lucky to have someone who looked out for him like that.
“Most importantly, never forget to thank the Court of Owls for giving you such a wonderful gift.”
They made a game out of it. Grandfather would start a timer, and Talon would slow his already superficial breathing and force his eyes to unfocus, and they’d see how long it’d take for Talon to reach his special world. They used to play that game pretty rarely, but now it was a common occurrence that happened almost every day.
Once, Grandfather had stuck a knife into Talon’s open palm, and he’d been so deep in his own mind that he hadn’t noticed until the wound was already closing. Even once he’d been aware, the pain had been so distant that he’d hardly believed that it was his own. Grandfather had been so pleased, but then he’d started speaking and Talon hadn’t been able to understand what his words meant. Then he’d gotten very, very mad, and yanked the knife all across Talon’s arm until the bones and blade and tendons became terribly twisted within each other.
“Never become so conceited that you ignore your masters!” Grandfather had shouted. Talon hadn’t been sure whether he should retreat further into himself or come out with his tail tucked between his legs. “The Court of Owls gave you your mind, and we can take it away whenever we so wish.” Then he’d dragged Talon into the freezers, and hadn’t let him out until Talon proved his everlasting loyalty by gutting himself with his own set of blades.
As a trio of Talons made quick work of the sobbing woman, Talon took careful steps into the place in his mind. It got easier to enter the more he did it, but harder to leave.
Like the Hotel California, he thought to himself. Then he blinked and tried to remember what California was.
It was getting harder to remember things. He knew that he used to have so many pretty words spoken in so many pretty tongues. But now, it was so difficult to string together sentences. The other Talons laughed at him for that. That was because Talon himself was different.
The other Talons were soldiers. They had the minds of brilliant tacticians and the bodies of the strongest warriors. They committed whatever actions the Court ordered of them. Though they kept silent in the presence of their betters, at the end of the day, they had healthy enough minds to form important, complex thoughts.
Talon wasn’t like that. He was a tool to the others’ army. He was the Gray Son, destined to be the greatest weapon to serve the Court. Because of that, he wasn’t as smart as the other Talons. He couldn’t think or remember or concentrate as well. That was good, though, because it made him a better object.
“Objects don’t think,” Grandfather loved to remind him. “Any thought you have is stolen from the Court, and you must pay it back tenfold. Remember that, Gray Son, and be grateful. Remember that.”
How was Talon supposed to remember to be grateful if he didn’t even know what California was?
The light in the woman’s eyes went out. It was soon accompanied by a roar of laughter. One of the Owls popped open a bottle of champagne, and a swell of music began. With the crowd-pleasing opener over, the night’s festivities well and truly began. Rows and rows of Talons poured out of the doors. Every Talon carried a large domed dinner plate in each hand. They set it on the tables, and the Owls feasted.
The party must have lasted for hours. It didn’t feel that way to Talon. He blinked, and everything got fuzzy, and then it was over. Just like that, the tables had been cleared and the guests were gone. Talon still stood by Grandfather, but the only other figure left in the room was – was the Grandmaster, sitting in his Owl throne.
Grandfather started forward, Talon a half-step behind, but they both froze when the Grandmaster held up a hand. The man rose to his full height. He crossed the vast ballroom in long, stretching steps. It was so silent that Talon’s ears hurt.
On the way there, the Grandmaster picked up a lone flute of champagne that’d been left on a table. When he reached Talon and Grandfather, he held it to his lips but didn’t drink.
Grandfather fell to his knees, head bowed. Talon rushed to do the same.
“Rise,” the Grandmaster said. They did so. He tilted his head, examining Talon with a curl to his lips. “How is the Gray Son progressing?”
It was a question about Talon, but not a question for Talon. He knew this by now, and kept silent.
Grandfather was quick to answer. “Excellent, Grandmaster. Reconditioning has worked perfectly in making it pliable. It has the utmost loyalty to the court. And you, of course.”
The Grandmaster took a long, slow sip of champagne. “What will it do if I strike it across the face?”
“Not a thing, Grandmaster.”
“If I put a bullet through its thick skull?”
“It will come back eager to serve you further, Grandmaster.”
The Grandmaster’s eyes wandered lower. “If I send it to its knees again and tell it to open wide?”
Talon was nine years old. He didn’t know what those words meant, or why Grandfather’s spine straightened, but he knew that they pointed toward hurt unlike the cuts and burns he was familiar with. He – wanted to be good. He did. That was his role as the Gray Son. But he was also nine years old, and he was very, very scared.
Grandfather didn’t skip a beat. “Its body belongs to the Court in all ways, Grandmaster. Everything is yours for the taking.”
The Grandmaster smiled. “Come closer, Gray Son.” Talon did, and Grandmaster set his hand so that it was resting on the back of his neck. He gave it a tight squeeze, and the corners of Talon’s vision fizzed.
“If I may, Grandmaster,” Grandfather started, and the Grandmaster broke away from the moment with a shrewd glare. If Talon still had a real heart, it would have beat a little slower as the Grandmaster’s grip loosened. “There is a boy in our capture that might serve you better. Do you remember Willis, the man who supplied the Court with their – substances?”
“Willis, the drug supplier,” the Grandmaster mused. “He betrayed the Court, did he not? Attempted to flee Gotham with the payment for the next three months?”
“Indeed, Grandmaster. The Talons executed him, per your demand, but grabbed his son as well.”
“Why?”
“Target practice, Grandmaster. However, if you’d like, I’d be more than happy to instruct my Talons to send him to your bedroom. He’s young. Inexperienced. You like them that way, do you not?”
The Grandmaster hummed. He turned his gaze back toward Talon. Talon didn’t blink. He didn’t know what was happening. That wasn’t important of course, because he didn’t need to know. Because he was a thing, and real people were talking, and that was that. Because because because.
“How old?”
“Twelve.”
The Grandmaster adjusted his grip so that Talon’s chin rested in his palm. Talon didn’t blink as the Grandmaster’s nails sunk into his skin. It hurt, yes, but it’d heal soon enough. “Gray Son, listen close.”
Talon yanked himself back from the foggy world he’d drifted into. This was time to listen. This was time to be the Court’s Gray Son.
“Tomorrow, when the third bell rings, the boy will be brought out. He’s hardly older than you. Shouldn’t be a challenge at all.” Talon saw where this was going. He’d done this a few times already, actually. “Kill him. Make it slow. I want you absolutely drenched in blood by the night’s end.”
Talon unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth and slowly, haltingly, said, “Yes, Grandmaster.” Just like Grandfather had taught him to.
“When you win, go to my quarters, sit on my bed, and await further orders.” The Grandmaster’s lip curled again, like a worm almost. He looked quite pleased with himself. “Head Talon, make sure he sleeps well tonight. He won’t be doing much of that tomorrow.”
“Yes, Grandmaster,” Grandfather said.
The Grandmaster released his grip on Talon. He nodded once, then turned to leave the room. One foot out of the doorway, he paused. “Head Talon,” he said without looking back. “If the Gray Son loses, I still want the boy. Same place, same time. Understand?”
Grandfather set his hand on Talon’s shoulder again. “Yes, Grandmaster.”
“Good.”
Jason was so, so fucked.
Like, unconditionally and irrevocably fucked. More fucked than a duck being plucked.
And the worst part was, he didn’t know how all of this had happened. It’d been a normal day; Donny H. had paid him thirty bucks to slash his old man’s tires, he’d grabbed a box of cereal from the discount shelf at the bodega, and then his dad’s lone head had rolled into the living room.
Jason remembered screaming and scrambling for the knife he kept stashed under the couch cushions and crying when they slit Mom’s throat and choking on the sweet smell of the cloth they’d pressed against his mouth.
Then he’d woken up here, in a too white room with monsters in the corners, staring him down like he was a piece of meat.
They were tall and thin, though they still had plenty of muscle to them. He thought that their eyes were orange at first, but was quickly proven wrong. It was just bug-eyed goggles they had strapped to their skulls, practically bolted on. He’d given up on counting all the blades they had fixed onto their clothes.
Worst of all was their skin. Papery white yet still so gray, like a rich dickhead’s marble countertop. The few times they’d yanked him around, he’d recoiled when their skin touched his.
He’d been here for less than a week by his guesses. More than three days. A few times now, they’d given him a bowl of slop and a glass of water that he only touched when absolutely necessary. His stomach panged with hunger, but that wasn’t a new feeling, so he ignored it with practiced ease.
Today was different. Today, the monsters in the corners laughed and pointed at him, whispering to each other in tones too low for Jason to pick up.
After far too long of this, he paused in the middle of shoveling slop into his mouth and gave one of the monsters a glare. “Hey! The fuck are you looking at?”
The whispering stopped. One of the monsters tilted their head at him, birdlike. “You got a big mouth for a little kid.”
He scowled.
“Better put it to use tonight, huh?” the other monster said, grinning toward their partner.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
They exchanged a look. The taller of the two shrugged. “The Head Talon said to tell him eventually.”
The other monster took a few steps forward. By a combination of their impressive height and the fact that Jason was sitting on his ass, the monster was easily able to loom over him. “Means that tonight’s gonna be a big night for you.”
They jerked an elbow to the door. “Couple of hours from now, we’re supposed to bring you in front of all the Owls. You’re tonight’s show.”
Jason swallowed. “Show? What am I supposed to do, sing them a song or some shit?” Maybe it was like those fancy schmancy dog pageants rich people loved to watch. Gawk at the poor kid, marvel at the fact that he doesn’t already have track marks at the ripe age of twelve.
“You’re gonna fight one of us,” said the monster.
Jason’s stomach dropped. “What?”
“You’re going up against the Gray Son,” they said, stretching their tone like salt water taffy. “The weapon centuries in the making, foretold to be the greatest, strongest, deadliest Talon of them all.” They snorted, eying Jason’s skinny legs and skinnier arms. “Good luck, kid.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! Jason took a sharp breath, then another. Okay, this wasn’t great, but it was okay. He could fight. He’d messed up the bitchier of his classmates whenever they tried stupid shit with him. He had a good stance and quick fists, that was what Dad said. ‘Course, it was obvious who he’d learned that from.
He was good at surviving. Outlasting, outrunning – that was his specialty. He had what it took to be the final one standing.
Then again, he’d seen what those monsters could do. They moved faster than he’d thought was possible. One minute, Jason had been checking the expiration date on the Chef Boyardee he’d snatched from the soup kitchen, the next his living room was in pieces and Mom –
Mom.
He wanted his mom.
“If I win,” he forced out between gritted teeth, “I get to go home. Right?”
Knees pulled to his chest, he watched as the monsters shook their heads in tandem, like stringed puppets.
“If you win the game, you’re the Grandmaster’s.” The monster crept back into their post, stone limbs falling into their statuesque position once more. “We’re supposed to drag you to his bedroom and get you ready.”
His stomach twisted. If there was anything in it, Jason surely would’ve puked it up. Fuck.
“You’ll make it easy for us, won’t you, kid? I’d hate to have to get out the rope just ‘cause you couldn’t be a pretty little thing and take what’s coming to you.”
He didn’t want this. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want this, he didn’t want this.
A sort of grim finality settled over him. So this was how his shitty life turned out, huh? He either died on a stage for the pleasure of a bunch of bird-fetishizing freaks, or he got raped by said bird-fetishizing freaks. What a time to be alive.
He should be sad, right? Start crying, plead for his life maybe? There should be a pain in his heart. But there wasn’t. All that remained there was a burning, fiery anger that he’d felt few times before. His curled fists shook in his lap. Fuck.
It wasn’t enough to live and die at the whims of the one percent, huh? They had to get up and personal, looking him right in the eyes as they slipped the blade between his ribs. Fucking typical
He’d have to fight the Gray Son. What a dumb fucking name. If it was anything like the other monsters, then he had no chance. Maybe he could grab a dinner knife and slit his own wrists, put him out of his own misery before he was ripped to shreds.
What if the Gray Son was worse? If it was supposed to be the best of the monsters, then Jason had less than a zero percent chance. He had, like, negative odds. One foot already in the grave.
There wasn’t any scenario where Jason made it out of here tonight. Maybe Jason beat the Gray Son and maybe he survived what awaited him next, but after that? No one was looking for him. Fucking the street rat had to get old after a while. One way or another, his time was ending, and there was shit he could do about it.
Jason tasted blood on his tongue. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation.
Talon felt surprisingly alert as it – it? – as he watched the Owls file in. They were each escorted to their table by a sharp-eyed Talon, one hand resting on their knife and the other keeping a firm hold on their charge. It reminded Talon of how Grandfather used to walk with him, when he wasn’t sure if he’d need to cut out Talon’s heart in order to keep him in check.
He used to be so, so bad. He was very lucky that the Court taught him to be good.
When he’d helped him get ready for the spectacle, Grandfather had told him to remember that tonight. To be polite and grateful for all that the Court did for him.
Talon tried to remember that, even as his head got fuzzier at the sight of his opponent.
It was an owlet.
He was small, almost as small as Talon. His clothes hung off of him like a scarecrow. Angry, narrowed eyes flitted across the room as he was dragged forward by a Talon on both sides. His mouth was pressed in a thin line, but still he tried to bite the hands hoisting him up. Talon nearly cooed. He had teeth!
Talon reached forward and squeezed Grandfather’s hand. Eyebrows creased together, Grandfather looked down at him. He looked back and forth between Grandfather and the owlet, trying to convey what he was thinking. Grandfather followed his line of sight until he froze, and Talon’s hand in his grasp began to hurt.
Grandfather didn’t say a word, but he did shake his head once, and then snap his head back to attention.
Talon tried to do the same. Tried , and failed, because he kept sneaking glances at the owlet.
The owlet was seated right next to the Grandmaster, which was an honor that someone must have forgotten to tell him, because he only glared and made a rude gesture when the Grandmaster spoke to him. A shiver of unease hit Talon as he watched the owlet display so much blatant disrespect. Didn’t he know that he’d get whipped if he kept at it?
Talon distantly recalled doing the same exact thing, once. Being presented toward the Grandmaster, only to respond with spitting hatred. They’d taught him not to do so very quickly.
Another horde of Talons set down the dinner plates for the evening, serving the guests in seconds. Tonight, the show would take place after supper.
The owlet’s eyes grew round at the huge slab of steak presented on the dish before him. Before the other Talons had the chance to serve him the sides, he was digging in.
Idly, Talon wondered when last he’d ate. A week ago, maybe? Two? Talons didn’t need to eat, Grandfather told him. Just like their hearts didn’t need to beat. Doing so despite no need was a reward, and Talon had not deserved a reward in quite some time.
The owlet pocketed a steak knife when the Grandmaster turned to speak with another Owl. Ooh, he was very clever. Talon fought the urge to whisk him away into the catacombs to hunt together. That was Talon’s favorite game, because then he got to be sneaky and hide away the dead mice he’d found into the other Talons’ shoes.
One Owl, hand loosely wrapped around a wine glass’s stem, leaned in very close to the owlet. The owlet pulled a face and inched away, but the Owl persisted. They grabbed his face, pulled him closer, and whispered something into his ear. Then the owlet shoved him away and scrambled to his feet.
The Grandmaster caught all of this. With a barely noticeable eye roll, he rose to his feet and cleared his throat. The effect was instantaneous; the hall quieted.
“My Court!” the Grandmaster announced. “I believe it is time to begin our festivities.” He snapped his fingers, and the owlet was swarmed with Talons. The owlet screamed. The Talons dragged him into the center of the room, flailing limbs and all. There, they dumped him onto the ground.
The owlet got to his feet, scowling. His hand ducked into the pocket where the steak knife lay.
“State your name for the Court, boy,” said the Grandmaster.
He spit on the ground.
The Grandmaster frowned. “Graceful as your father, aren’t you?” He reached over and grabbed a glass. Swirling the contents around, he continued. “You all remember Willis Todd, don’t you? He procured the very pleasures we tonight will enjoy.” The Court fell into murmurs as the owlet flinched. “Let us hope that you will be less of a disappointment than he. Gray Son!”
Talon snapped to position. He hurried to the Grandmaster’s side. The Grandmaster made the smallest motion, and Talon fell to his knees.
“Our Gray Son. It has its orders. Tonight, it will display the skill we have so carefully cultivated within it. Tonight, it will make an example of all those who betray the Court of Owls!”
The Court cheered, and Talon bit back a grin. He loved the roar of a crowd. The quiet fall of bated breath as everyone sat on the edge of their seats, eager to view what was to come. It was electric.
“Rise, Gray Son.” At the Grandmaster’s command, Talon got to his feet. He kept his eyes low to the floor. He didn’t risk making eye contact with one of the Owls. He knew that he wasn’t meant for that. “Before we begin, prove your loyalty to us. Show us who you belong to. I think we’d all like to see how far you’ve come.”
Oh. Grandfather had told him what to do if he was requested this. Talon pulled out one of his sharpest knives, slowly, so the Owls had appropriate time to wonder what was to come. He raised it in the air, and then, at the slightest gesture from Grandmaster, plunged it into his own heart.
The crowd fell into excited shrieks. Talon’s vision crackled, growing smoky. Though he would not die from this wound, it still hurt the same it would with any person. Objects still felt pain. They just didn’t react, because there was no reason to. Because the pain wasn’t real in the way it was for people. Because because because.
“More,” said the Grandmaster.
With the same blade unceremoniously ripped back out from his heart, Talon carved a myriad of shapes into his arm. A diamond, a triangle, an owl. A few people oohed at that. He bit down on his tongue as the tip bit into his veins.
“More,” said the Grandmaster.
Talon’s mind rushed to come up with fresh ideas. It was a tightrope act, maintaining the right amount of fog in his head so that he could keep pressing forward, yet also keeping a clear enough head that he could think. But that was what made him the Gray Son.
Already, the cuts buried deep in his heart were stitching themselves together. The scars on his arms would follow soon.
Talon neatly set his blades back in their rightful pockets. Then he grasped his right forearm with his left. Hooking his fingers tightly around the slits he’d carved, it wrenched its shoulder out of its socket. Then it did the same with the opposite arm.
“More,” said the Grandmaster.
A cold sort of calmness settled over Talon. It found it so interesting how such raw pain could simultaneously balance itself with that distant apathy.
It took out the grappling gun it couldn’t remember ever holding before. That was okay, as Talon didn’t remember a lot of stuff. Like California. With fingers that didn’t feel like its own, Talon pressed the edge of the gun against its temple. It fired.
The world was colors. At the end of the day, that’s all it ever was. Colors. Talon had been taught that the most important colors were red, green, and yellow. That was wrong. It’d been lied to. The Court corrected that mistake, informing it that orange and black reigned supreme. How wrong it’d been to assume otherwise. It was so very thankful that the Court had taught it right from wrong.
When Talon came back to itself, it was laying in a crumpled heap in front of the Grandmaster. It scrambled to get back to its feet, but a foot was lowered onto its back, keeping it in place. Talon could have easily broken the hold, but it didn’t. It never, ever did.
“ – you monster!” someone was screaming. The sound made Talon’s ears ache. Everything else ached too, though, so it wasn’t cause for concern. “You sick son of a bitch! He’s a baby!”
“Watch yourself, boy. Your turn is soon to come.” A chuckle. “So needy. I’ve heard that you people are impatient, but honestly.”
The crowd laughed with the Grandmaster.
Then a cold liquid was poured over Talon’s back. Against his better knowledge, he bucked underneath the Grandmaster’s hold. It burned , it burned like icy fire, how was it possible for something to be both so cold and hot at the same time?
“Eyes open, Gray Son.”
Talon rushed to obey. He craned his head up at an impossible angle to see the Grandmaster holding a lit match between two fingers. The Grandmaster looked down at him like Talon was a particularly interesting bug he’d found squashed underneath his footsteps.
“Who do you belong to, Gray Son?”
He licked his cracked lips. “Talon belongs to the Court of Owls, Grandmaster.”
“What is your role for the Court?”
“Talon exists to serve the Court in any way they deem fitting, Grandmaster.”
“ What are you, Gray Son?”
The liquid smelled foul. “Talon is yours, Grandmaster. Yours, and the Court of Owls’.”
The Grandmaster smiled. Then he dropped the match.
Talon screamed as his back erupted into a fresh pain. Flames licked his wounds, welding them closed even as they forced themselves back together in a rush of electrum. He buried his nails into his arms, shrieking against a pain he couldn’t name.
“Shut up, Gray Son. We don’t wish to hear your whining.”
He clamped his lips together, shaking apart as silently as he could. He was good, he reminded himself. He was good, he was good, he was –
Talon cupped his palms over his mouth to muffle his sob.
What the fuck.
Jason wasn’t dead yet, which was honestly a surprise.
He’d expected to be absolutely thrashed for struggling against the monsters so much as they dragged him here, or to collapse onto the ground from poisoned food. Even if he made it past the meal, he hadn’t thought that he’d make it more than a few good sentences before the fucking Gray Son got him.
But he was wrong. He wasn’t punished for trying to get away, dinner was probably the best thing he’d ever eaten, and the Gray Son hadn’t painted the walls with his blood yet.
Because he was, like, six.
Jason had nearly dropped his jaw when the peewee scurried up to one of the Owls and bowed. That was the Gray Son? He’d caught sight of the kindergartner when he’d entered the ballroom, scanning anywhere – anywhere – for an exit. He’d stuck out like a sore thumb. A good head shorter than even Jason, his pale skin made him look like fucking Casper the ghost. He was probably young enough to be reading Casper anyway.
Jason had thought that he was someone’s kid. Another rich dipshit who wanted to dress up like one of Daddy’s toy soldiers for the day before scampering back home, ready to reinsert that silver spoon back into their mouth.
Holy shit, had he been wrong.
Jason had thought that he’d seen some fucked up shit in his life. Fuck, he lived in Crime Alley in Gotham. Getting administered a good dose of heavy fucking trauma at a young age was a given.
But fucking hell, what the lickity shit split was this?
The kid writhing on the floor could have easily been any of the other neighborhood brats that the older teens took under their wing before they could get got by the sleazebags who thought that the alley was a fucking candy shop. He could’ve been one of Miss Sugar’s million grandsons, or a student at his school.
And he’d just gutted himself for the pleasure of the fucking Court of Owls? Which existed, apparently? When the fuck was someone going to tell Jason that? He supposed it was on him for not putting two and two together when they started name-dropping Talons.
Jason was so far out of his element that it wasn’t even funny. Whenever he saw a younger kid in danger, he usually did his best to get them the hell out of Dodge. But this? This was too much, even for Jason.
He wanted his mom, he wanted his mom.
None of the other Talons holding him back did a thing as the flames on the kid went out. Stomach turning, Jason watched as all the kid’s wounds knitted themself together like the dolls Candace from apartment 3C fixed up.
This was so fucked.
After a moment, the kid climbed back onto his feet. He stood facing the Grandmaster – by the way, the fuck kind of name was that?
“Thank you, Grandmaster,” the kid croaked out, “for letting Talon serve the Court.” His head hung slightly as he spoke. The Grandmaster simply nodded, and the kid took a shuddering breath in.
What the fuck.
Talon’s head swam. He could barely make sense of what he was looking at, it was so blurry. His body was a never ending pulse of agony. Yet the Grandmaster’s voice was as clear as a bell.
“You’ve all seen the loyalty that our Gray Son had for its Court,” said the Grandmaster. Talon straightened at the title. Always alert, he was always alert. “Now watch as it shows just what happens to traitors of the Court.”
There was the sound of a struggle, footsteps on the floor. Talon watched as the other Talons let go of the owlet, who fell to his knees. He inched away from Talon, white-faced.
“A word of advice, boy? Aim to cut off its head. After all, we’ve no use for a dull blade.”
A shiver of something cold hit Talon. Decapitation: the only thing that could keep his still heart forever silent. He didn’t want that. Unless the Court wanted it, then of course he’d happily hack away at his bones until electrum coated the floors.
“Show us your worth, Gray Son. Begin.”
Each of Talon’s hands pulled out a blade. At the Grandmaster’s nod, he crept forward. The crowd was all but silent as he stalked toward the owlet.
The owlet, who stared at him with wide eyes, quick breaths tearing through him. He was a small, trembling thing. For every step Talon took forward, he stumbled one back, until his back was to one of the round tables. An Owl seated at the table giggled and gave the owlet a shove in Talon’s direction.
Talon – didn’t want to kill the owlet.
He remembered another boy, in the before. He’d been wiry and bony like the owlet, and he’d taken care of Talon. Made him laugh, took him on adventures. He liked being with that boy.
The owlet was scared. Talon didn’t want him to be scared.
It didn’t matter what Talon wanted. Talon existed to serve the court. He was the brass threaded underneath knuckles. He was loyalty incarnate. He was good.
The owlet could be good too. Maybe if Talon showed that to the Court, they’d let him keep him. Talon could prove how good he was at restraint and protection and delicacy, all the things Grandfather yelled at him for failing. He could have someone else who was like him, smaller than the other Talons yet still so very eager to prove his worth.
He could have a friend. It’d been a very, very long time since last he’d had a friend.
Talon quickened his pace, excited by his own plan. But the owlet gave a strangled little squeak, and his heart fell. Oh, that would not do. The owlet was not to present his fear for the Court. He was supposed to keep it hushed, never ever admitting that it was even a possibility.
He took a quick glance toward Grandfather, who watched and watched and watched. Surely, he’d caught the admission of weakness. If the Court of Owls were to keep his owlet, he’d need to show them just how brave he could be. Useful, his owlet was useful. He promised.
Talon tightened his grip on his blades, locked eyes with the owlet, and lunged.
Jason didn’t know if he should try to hug the kid or go at him with the knife he’d stashed away.
‘Cause that was a baby. That was a little fucking kid who should be watching bootleg Disney DVDs at Miss Sugar’s. But he was also a little fucking kid who was rapidly approaching Jason with a shit ton of knives.
The only reason why Jason hadn’t turned his blade on himself the moment that he’d gotten ahold of it was because of this indecision. Before he’d entered the ballroom, there’d only been two paths forward. It’d all been black and white, this or that. But with the sight of the kid came something new. He didn’t know what yet, but it was something.
However, that meant that he had to make a choice right now. Fight the kid or not. Whether he won or not wasn’t important, but he had to decide to dig in his heels or not.
As he was mulling this over, the kid sprang forward. The Owls gasped as he soared through the air, weightless. Jason almost gasped with them. But he didn’t have the luxury of enjoying the spectacle. In fact, he was the spectacle.
Jason scrambled away, but there was only so far he could go. He felt a hand hook itself around his shirt collar as he grabbed the white tablecloth covering a small table. He was pulled down onto the ground, and so was the tablecloth. It covered him and the kid like they’d dressed up as ghosts for Halloween, even as he thrashed.
He was making horrible, terrible noises, shrieks and breathless pants, but he couldn’t stop it. He needed to be away away away, back home with Mom and Dad even though Mom hadn’t gotten out of bed in days and Dad walking through the door always meant walking away from him with a new bruise.
In a blink, the kid was less than a couple of fucking inches away from Jason’s fucking face , what the fuck. Eyes wide as the dinner plate Jason had just been eating off of, he pressed a finger to Jason’s lips.
“Shh,” he whispered.
Jason tried not to cry. The kid had absolutely slaughtered himself for the Court a few short minutes ago. Yesterday, Jason had given an alleycat a bowl of water from the tap. Last week, the school librarian had told him that a new shipment of Emily Dickenson was incoming. How did things go from that to then to this?
In between one kick that didn’t place and another, the kid leaned in and said, so quietly that Jason had to strain to hear him, “Talon doesn’t like cold.”
What, Jason had to reiterate, the fuck.
The kid pulled back like that was it, his work was done, and then the world twisted. The tablecloth was pulled off of him just as the kid punched him in the nose hard enough that his skull snapped back against the marble floor. Fuck!
The kid’s eyes flickered. They switched from meeting Jason’s gaze and landing on the kid’s own hand, fingers wrapped around a knife. Jason followed his line of sight, and kicked away the oddly slow-moving blade right before it planted itself in his chest.
Jason shifted his weight forward. The kid must’ve done the same but in reverse, ‘cause they switched positions far too easily for someone who was giving a fight their all. Jason found himself on top of the kid, fists shaking. He could punch the kid. He could. But then there’d be blood, and Jason would feel like a really shitty kid for hurting a baby.
He wanted his mom.
The kid’s little fingers scrabbled against Jason’s throat, though they didn’t find any purchase. He gave Jason’s arm a squeeze, a heads-up, and then they were rolling to the right like a tumbleweed. They crashed into a dessert table, and Jason almost tried to snatch a red velvet cupcake before he remembered himself. Right, not the time.
His mom liked red velvet.
His mom was dead. She couldn’t like things anymore.
The kid looked up, toward the contents of the table. Familiar with this tactic, Jason followed, and he saw a five-foot ice sculpture of a regal owl, sitting in a bowl of water.
Talon didn’t like the cold.
Jason didn’t want to kill this kid. He’d never killed anyone before, despite what the other kids tried to pin on him. Sure, he used his five-finger discount here and there, and he gave an ass-whooping to anyone that requested it, but he had a line. There was only so much you could come back from. Ending someone’s life was a sure way to make sure that Batman punched your lights out and sent you to Arkham in the snap of a finger.
He wished Batman was here. Adults were supposed to fix things like this.
When Jason was younger, he’d seen Batman drop men with guns off of skyscrapers, only to catch them just before they fell. He watched Dagger, the Bat’s first sidekick, stick his gleaming sword into Penguin’s goons’ feet instead of their guts, because the Dark Knight behind him frowned when the blade got too close. He’d been witness to the times when Dagger’s successor, Batboy, had skirted the line between heroism and villainy.
Maybe adults had to make difficult decisions too. Who would’ve thought?
Gritting his teeth, Jason reached up and pulled down on the overhanging edge of the tablecloth. It came crashing down, and with it was the ice sculpture. Jason bit down a scream when one of the razor sharp feathers cut into the space above his eyebrows. The kid got nailed by the body of the sculpture right in his shoulders. His face went blank, and then paler than Jason thought was possible when the bowl upended itself all over the two of them.
The kid went limp. It felt like a corpse was sitting on him.
The Court was, for once, completely silent. Not even the fucking Grandmaster made a goddamn peep.
Jason had a knife in his pocket. They’d told him to go for the head. It wasn’t like the kid would be fighting back anytime soon. He could start hacking away right now, probably finish the job by the time the Owls pulled themselves together. He could kill a Talon.
But if he did, then he’d be pulled into that bedroom. He knew what would happen then. Even worse, he’d know what he’d done to get there. The ‘victory’ that he’d won.
Jason was tired of getting fucked over.
A slow, resounding clap startled Jason. He looked over to see the Grandmaster, clapping more while he stared at Jason with narrowed eyes. He cleared his throat, and the other Owls began to copy him. Clap, clap, clap.
“Well done, boy,” said the Grandmaster, though he didn’t sound very pleased. “You’ve all but vanquished our Gray Son. Not an easy task, I’d say.” The clapping ceased. Somehow the absence of that sound was louder than the sound itself. “Finish the job.”
The kid, still sprawled over Jason, gave a soft huff. His eyes were closed. He rested his chin on top of Jason’s chest, and Jason reached up a hand to cup the back of his head.
“No.”
The Grandmaster frowned. “ Kill it.”
“He’s not an it!” Jason sat up, still hugging the kid close to his chest. “I won’t kill him, and I think you know that he won’t kill me either. So just – let us go.” He thought about tacking on a please , but thought better of it. It wasn’t like the Grandmaster was going to listen to him anyway.
Jason knew how this ended. He’d known it from the moment that he decided not to bring out his knife. The Court was going to kill the both of them for not killing each other, and there was nothing he could do about it. At least he could be a rude bastard ‘til the end, just like Mom’d taught him.
The Grandmaster studied him, and studied him, and studied him. Like Jason was some piece of fine art that a pretentious oil monger’s kid had slapped together to be the next great Picasso.
Then he smiled, and Jason got that much more scared of what was to come. “What a – beautiful show of loyalty,” he said slowly, tone dripping with something Jason couldn’t decipher. “The Court of Owls value loyalty dearly, do we not?” The Court was silent. The Grandmaster arched a brow, turning to the crowd. Louder, he said, “ Do we not?”
“Of course!”
“Here, here!”
Satisfied, he turned back to Jason. Jason fought the urge to hold the kid tighter. Shit, he didn’t even know his name. “Such loyalty deserves to be rewarded, I would think. What do you think, boy?”
Hesitantly, Jason nodded. He didn’t know where this was going.
“You like water, don’t you?” The Grandmaster eyed the puddle that was the melting ice sculpture. “Filthy little dirt child. It’s probably been weeks since last you showered.”
There were a couple scattered titters in the crowd. Jason tried not to snarl.
“Well, the Court of Owls is nothing if not generous for Gotham’s people.” The Grandmaster snapped, and in an instant, Jason was surrounded by Talons in weird, exterminator-like suits. They looked like fucking Ghost Busters with their – their hoses. Those weren’t regular hoses. Oh fuck.
In one universal motion, they all turned on their pressure washers, and Jason would have screamed if his mouth hadn’t quickly filled with water. Fuck, fuck, fuck! The water was all but boiling. He felt his skin blister in seconds. The sheer pressure pushed him back against the table. He turned, shielding the kid from the brunt of the blast as best he could. As Jason’s vision filled with steam, the kid began to stir. He pawed at Jason’s chest, but he shushed him, holding him tight, his chin resting on the kid’s head.
It was over in less than a minute. When the stream died down, he raised a dripping head to glare at the Grandmaster. The Grandmaster only smiled back, the same way Lex Luthor did whenever Superman rescued him from his own burning monument.
Then the Grandmaster snapped again, and the semicircle of Talons stepped back to reveal a new set of Talons, these ones holding – fuck.
Jason wanted his mom. He wanted his mom so fucking bad.
They were holding fucking cattle prods, and Jason and the kid were absolutely drenched, and even he wasn’t stupid enough to see what was happening here.
If his mom was here, she’d probably hold him the way that he was holding the kid. Maybe she’d swear at the Grandmaster with that fiery mouth Jason had inherited. Maybe she’d actually use the knife Jason still had sitting in his pocket. Or maybe she’d hide behind Jason and go off into that distant place behind her own skull and wait for all of this to be over. Like usual.
The kid looked up at Jason, and there was a heavy glaze covering his eyes that made Jason want to cry. He didn’t look scared or angry, like Jason was sure he must look right now, but resigned. He’d gutted himself because the Grandmaster had asked him to just a little while ago. He was a little kid, and he shouldn’t be here. Jason shouldn’t be here.
Jason held the kid a little closer, and tried not to bite his own tongue off when they jabbed him with the tip of the prod.
He screamed past his locked jaw, trying not to squeeze the kid too tightly even as his muscles cramped. He spasmed, practically pounding his skull into the pavement. The electricity burned, but what burned more so was the knowledge that the Owls were watching this all with the same level of intrigue that a kid would to an ant they fried with a magnifying glass. It was all a show. That’s what it was, at the end of the day. A show.
The kid’s little hands grabbed his own. Oh. Yeah. Jason had almost forgotten how easily electricity carried. In between his sobs and the shift from the end of one shock to the beginning of another, he rubbed a hand along the kid’s arm. Tried to tell him that it was going to be okay, even when it clearly wasn’t. That’s what the mom he pictured in his head would’ve done, even if the mom he’d lost wouldn’t have.
Eventually, the cattle prods were ripped away. It ended as it began, with Talons and the Grandmaster towering over the two of them.
“What a show!” the Grandmaster yelled, throwing his hands up. The Owls cheered appreciatively. “I think it’s time for dessert.”
They’d crashed into the dessert table, Jason thought, a delirious chuckle forcing its way out of his lips. Unless they were the dessert. Owls, vultures, what difference did it make?
As the Talons rushed to serve the Owls yet again, this time armed with small dishes piled with delicate truffles and bite-sized pastries, the Grandmaster moved alongside the chaos to lean down in front of Jason, still smirking like the cat that got the cream.
“I hope you’re happy,” he grumbled. His smile turned rotten. “This all could have been over by the night’s end.” He scowled. “But no, you just had to break my toy.” The Grandmaster straightened. A Talon was quick to press a champagne flute into his hand. “If you’re so prepared to dull its teeth, you better be prepared for what happens when it has none left.”
Jason didn’t think he’d ever hated someone as much as he hated the Grandmaster. Rich, stuck-up, and unbearably greedy. Everything that made Jason’s hackles rise.
He would kill the Grandmaster one day. He promised himself and the kid in his arms that he would.
The Grandmaster made a motion, and the Talons swarmed his vision again.
“It has been compromised.”
“Yes, Grandmaster.”
“The Court wants it retired permanently. They don’t think it can be trusted as cannon fodder, much less as the Gray Son.”
“And what do you think, Grandmaster?”
A sigh. “I think that I have spent far too much time and resources on this project only for it to amount to nothing at all. I’ve come too far, Head Talon, do you hear me?”
“Of course, Grandmaster. If I may offer a suggestion?”
“Speak your mind.”
“Reconditioning through the threats and implementation of punishment has worked well on the Gray Son thus far, Grandmaster, but I’ve long suspected that we could be doing more.”
“More how
“We’ve used a stick, now it is time to use a carrot.”
“A reward? Absolutely not. The affection you have for it has clouded your mind, Head Talon.”
“I’ve no affection for it. The Gray Son has believed that I care for it only to give it something to fight for. Grandmaster, if it is to progress, constantly striving to improve, then it needs a reward at the end. A prize to be won if performance is acceptable, and a beloved to be lost if not.”
A laugh. “The stick and the carrot. How, then?”
“The boy’s already proven to be cause enough for it to rebel. Nurture that bond. Force a codependency between them. What pain the boy feels is to be felt by the Gray Son. Why damage our own goods when whipping another serves the point just as well?
“Hmm. I like it. And the boy, he’s – What? An extra mouth to feed and whisper treacherous thoughts into its ear?”
“The bond goes both ways, Grandmaster. And I’m sure the boy will provide us use, one way or another, if the Gray Son’s fate rests upon his service.”
“There’s a reason why you are Head Talon, Cobb. You certainly are good at what you do.”
“Thank you, Grandmaster.”
“Lock them in one of our cells. They’re only to interact with each other for – hmm. We’ll start with two months, and see how it goes from there.”
“Yes, Grandmaster.”
“Head Talon?”
“Yes, Grandmaster?”
“At the end of all of this, the Gray Son is to kill the boy. I don’t care how many years it takes. Decades, even. For whatever use we wring out of that Talon through that boy, it will never truly be our Gray Son until he is loyal to us, and us alone.”
“Of course, Grandmaster.”
“What’s his name?”
“Who’s, Grandmaster?”
“The boy’s. The one who’s damn near ruined our Gray Son.”
“Jason Todd, Grandmaster.”
“Jason Todd? Hmm. What a dreadfully plain name.”