Chapter Text
A lone figure crouched on the top of a decrepit, aging building.
It was a monotonous stakeout, but necessary. Peaceful and silent. There was absolutely nothing that could disturb Deathstroke’s concentration. Absolutely nothing—except his currently ringing phone.
And I say, hey, hey-hey-hey, livin' like we're renegad-
“What.”
“Oof, great gust of cold wind blowing through. What’s got your panties in a twist?”
“I’m busy.”
“Hey listen, is this about the ringtone change? Thought it was fitting, what with my new suit-”
Dick was interrupted—rudely!—by possibly one of the loudest sighs he’d ever heard Slade exhale. And honestly, given how much he likes to talk back, and Slade’s subsequent intolerance of said talking back, he’d take it as a compliment. At least it seemed that Slade had given up on trying to train the attitude out of him; a futile task, he’s been informed.
“What. Do you want.” Dick could hear the whistling of wind in the background and the faint screaming of what seemed to be a siren.
“Ohh, when you meant busy, you meant… busy-busy…?”
“Get to the point.”
“Sir, yes sir!” Dick mock saluted, although he knew Slade couldn’t see it. “I guess I was just wondering, if, y’know,” Dick huffed, the words suddenly escaping his mind, “there were any new… tasks I could complete, since I’m free and all?”
“Kid, are you asking me for a contract?” The incredulity in his voice was apparent enough.
Dick sucked in a quick breath through his teeth, letting it out slowly as he contemplated his next words carefully. “Perhaps… with absolutely no relation to the needling of a certain someone, I suddenly find myself not as disinclined to consider certain jobs?”
Dick could almost imagine the self-satisfied smirk—not quite smile—and smug glint upon Slade’s expression. It was the expression he always wore when got exactly what he wanted, or finished a contract perfectly. As much as Dick hated the fact that he knew precisely what that looked like, he hated even more the fact that playing right into Slade’s hands didn’t feel as bad as it should.
“I’ll be back in three.”
“Three… what? Days?
“You’ll know.” And with that not at all vague description, he cut the line.
“Great,” thought Dick. “God, would it kill you people to communicate better?” But exasperation had no place in the smile that graced his face, nor the growing excitement he felt in his heart.
It was the exhilaration right before the drop; all he needed to do was to let go.
If Dick had been asked where he’d like to be when he was younger, there was no doubt he would have responded with the circus (not being trained by a mercenary, and certainly not gallivanting across the world with said mercenary).
Haly’s was his entire world, but devastation was all that it met.
From there on, it seemed tragedy was destined to mar his life. Each time he’d thought his life was finally turning up, some world ending happenstance would taunt him, reminding him that his happiness was temporary, and that pain would always ensue at high cost. With Bruce, all he was needed was his own death.
one year ago
One mistake.
All it took was one simple mistake for all of Bruce’s trust to just evaporate, as if they hadn’t had years of partnership to support it. (Partner, not sidekick. Dick had been adamant on that. He refused to be seen as lesser—a child to be shielded. After all, the only thing protection had ever brought for him was the death of his childhood. And he didn’t need another parental figure in his life because the only thing it invited was the opportunity to lose it all once again. So, partners. Close enough to trust, far enough to lose.)
And yet, Bruce’s trust always felt like a zero-sum game; it was herculean to gain in the first place, and yet always one string away from falling, like Damocles’ sword hanging over him.
It started with an Arkham prison break that day, because of course there was. Dick was already benched from an earlier incident involving Croc (he was absolutely fine, it was just a slight sprain on his already healing ankle, Bruce was overreacting!), and from disobeying strict orders to remain on bedrest until it healed fully (bedrest made him antsy, and frankly it was Bruce’s own fault for installing a gymnast’s absolute dream in the manor).
But Arkham escapes were different; all hands were needed, especially when the Joker was involved. There was no way Bruce could deal with each and every one of the escapees, Bat invulnerability and stubbornness be damned. And he’d have to be Harley-level delusional to think Dick would just standby waiting for another parent guardian to get hurt when he could help.
But strapped to a chair, beaten within inches of his life, Dick made three realizations, cemented with the ticking of the clock:
1. Batman was not coming to rescue him.
2. He was going to die.
3. His father was not coming to save him.
5:00
He wondered if this was how his parents felt, all those years ago.
tick
Watching the floor come ever closer, resigned to their fate. Looking up, realizing that they’d leave behind more hurt than death could ever bring.
3:23
Wondering if their death would impact the world more than their existence ever did. Wondering why it all ever mattered, in the end.
tick
He was scared. Terrified even.
0:10
“I’m sorry,” he had tried to say, through bruised lips and rattling lungs. But all he could muster was a broken exhale, contributing nothing over the ever loud and present ticking.
He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease...
Seconds later, a silent black jet would land, witness to the death of the shining boy that was Robin, and the total destruction of a father’s bleeding heart.
Guttural was the cry that would pierce through the night, and desolate were the cries of that father, clutching the broken frame of his child.
It wasn’t often that one received summons for a contract from a secret cult hellbent on colluding in the shadows, but at this stage in his profession, there was quite possibly very little that could unsettle Slade Wilson.
At least it wasn’t the League. Slade might not be a religious man, whatever faith in any deity long squashed through the countless horrors he’s encountered and equally distributed on bloodstained and ravaged lands, but even he can acknowledge that Ra’s’ title as Demon’s Head is not unfounded. The whims of an idiosyncratic madman can be tiring at times, and Slade wants nothing to do with the man’s fixation on some powerless furry he deems a worthy opponent.
Unfortunately, the Court of Owls happens to be one of the few organizations insane enough to center their main base of operations in Gotham, along with their goddamn resident bat, an encounter Slade would like to avoid at all costs.
It wasn’t particularly because he thought himself a villain—he isn’t stupid enough to actively make the Justice League his enemy, and he simply follows the contracts he takes up. (And it wasn’t his fault the ones that pay the best just happen to be criminal. After all, no one was hiring a world renowned mercenary for a children’s birthday party; not unless the child was the target of some mobster, but even then, Slade still possessed some morals).
It was just… bothersome.
But as much as he despised troublesome affairs, Gotham’s elite did pay well, and if he was forced to be subjected to the hellscape of a city again, at least his pocketbook was happy.
To be quite frank, Slade was curious on whatever new development had William Cobb, a man known for his pride, to practically beg Slade to visit out of excitement. Last he remembered, the Court was still adamant on maintaining secrecy and ignorance to their existence. Most of all, an absolute censorship of their secret weapons, the rumored Talons.
Perhaps the Court has decided to finally make a move against their biggest threat; ironically, an inane billionaire with too much money to spend and stark ideologies on the world order, just like them.
Bruce Wayne or Batman, it didn’t matter to Slade. His involvement would only be a nuisance to deal with.
Besides, he hadn’t heard any news regarding his flashy partner recently, chalking it up to be the likely result of an injury of some sort.
It was shame, really; of all the opponents he’d ever faced, the boy possessed the greatest potential.
If only his morals were as flexible as his spine.
It wasn’t the strangest contract he’s ever been offered or taken, not by far, though Slade was already starting to regret ever stepping foot in this dreary city. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but all his instincts felt wrongfooted every time he visited Gotham, as if there were something watching him at all times, and he was experienced enough to know when to trust his gut.
Despite being fully armed, he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease, even after stepping into the scheduled meeting place, hidden in the sewer systems running beneath Gotham City.
He blamed the stench of the sewage and the continuous quiet pulse of disquietude thrumming through him for the ease with which his attacker snuck up upon him. What he did hear, however, was the sharp whistle of a blade cutting through the air. It took all of his well-honed instincts, born out of necessity from brutal fights and bloodshed, to narrowly dodge the sword that struck the wall beside him. The attack originated from behind him, rapid and unhesitant. Whilst taking a step away from his unknown opponent, Slade drew his sword, ready to meet the next strike.
As his assailant attempted to pull their weapon from the stone enclosure they had thrust it into, Slade was able to assess for himself who (or what) exactly was attacking him. A rather small build suggested an assassin built for stealth, which made sense considering how easily they managed to get near Deathstroke, enhanced senses and all. A dark, non-descript body suit covered their entire body, holsters with knives wrapped around in two sashes across the armor like an X across the torso. Other than a pair of dual swords strapped to their back, the only other attachment Slade could see was a final sword sheath on their hip, likely the origin of the sword they had initially swung.
Weapons, Slade was well versed and accustomed to. Rather, it was the mask that unnerved him. A pair of reflective goggles were placed on top of a dark mask with gold embellishes, in the form of large, caricatured eyebrows, all of which perfectly concealed their identity. But Slade didn’t need to know their name to know exactly where they came from; sharp enough weapons to cut through stone, clearly skilled and trained on par with the League of Assassins, but most importantly, the goggles and owl-shaped eyebrows all screamed a connection to the Court. The only thing he couldn’t figure out is why this particular one was attacking him.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t given much time to think as the owl (owlet? They seemed rather young) finally wrenched their sword out of Gotham infrastructure, staring down Slade with those blank, emotionless eyes.
The kid—it was definitely a kid—seemed to regain their momentum soon enough, moving to strike once again. A quick slash of the sword is parried off by Slade’s own blade, before the exchange recommences, weapons interlocked in a battle of their own. Slade found himself on the end of vicious attack, those unsettling eyes attempting to pin him down as prey. The attacks was strong, almost on par with his own strength, but where Slade’s enhancements held the edge, the owlet beat him in agility and speed, twisting and deflecting as opposed to directly engaging with the brute force of Slade’s attacks. Newly enhanced, perhaps, not yet accustomed to fighting with power. But skilled and trained, and trained well.
Small, well aimed lethal strikes that would definitely kill a weaker target he fended off; although they likely wouldn’t immediately finish him off, healing such wounds would still slow him down.
It has been a long time since he fought against someone of such equal parity when it came to combat. But as much as the tenacity and skill of the talon impressed him, it could not hold a flame to the decades of experience Slade possessed. Feinting high, Slade knocked the talon down, tossing its blade with an easy disarmament. While its recovery was quick, rolling with the fall, before the talon could return onto its feet, Slade struck out, stabbing the talon’s own blade through the armor covering its lower stomach, carefully avoiding anything vital. Pinned, the talon’s hands scrabbled at the sword before Slade planted his boot onto its chest, his own sword drawn and pointed at its jugular. Threat well received, the talon slowly let go, arms stretching above his head in sign of surrender.
With his other hand, Slade drew his gun out of its holster on his hip, pointing directly at the talon’s head. No doubt it possessed enhanced healing, the already sluggishly bleeding wound in its stomach, as its body attempted to close over the sword still sheathed in its torso, a testament to its recovery speed. If the talon tried anything else, Slade could easily blow a hole in its skull and sever its head. Head wounds took forever to heal; speaking from personal experience.
“Were you sent to kill me?” he demanded, tapping his blade against the talon’s throat when he received no response. Still, none of these circumstances made sense. If Cobb truly wanted to kill him under the guise of a contract, he would certainly not make the conditions surrounding it so suspicious and vague.
He considered the talon once again. Perhaps it was an act of defiance, and not an order.
Now that the talon was no longer sheathed in the darkness and blurred by movement, Slade was able to be better analyze its mask. Although the face covering remained unblemished in large, upon greater inspection, cracks were beginning to form where Slade had thrown the talon into the ground.
Holstering his gun, he slowly crouched down. In one motion, he ripped those awful goggles off, along with the mask.
Gaunt, almost grayish skin with dark, inky black veins sunken below were all he could initially register. Until his eyes were drawn to its gold eyes, dilated likely from exertion, meeting his blankly.
He came to a horrible realization: he knew those eyes. Or more specifically, who those eyes should have belonged to. The same pulse of wrongness that had been pinging through his nerves since he entered Gotham suddenly swept through his body like a wave, drowning out his senses.
Sensing Slade’s unease, the talon took advantage of his hesitation, moving before he could react. With a sick squelch, its hand found the sword still embedded in its abdomen and pulled, simultaneously curling its body away from Slade and rolling backwards in a somersault, before popping back onto its feet, sword tip never wavering away from Slade.
As Slade resigned himself to yet another round of fighting, a shrill whistle suddenly pierced the small area. Immediately, the talon stood down, sheathing its sword and kneeling towards a figure approaching from behind Slade.
“My apologies for the late greeting, Deathstroke. I do hope he didn’t give you much trouble?” an oily voice drawled, as it neared Slade in the small corridor. A petty show of power, but Slade was too well acquainted with megalomaniacs and their obsession with control to let his irritation show.
At least, visibly. Though if he sheathed his sword with a little more force than necessary, and if Cobb had noticed, he made no reaction towards it.
“Well it certainty was not what I had in mind when I received your… invitation.” Slade glanced over, body angled more towards Cobb now that he had made his appearance. Similar to the talon he had just fought, Cobb was adorned with a set of taloned claws himself, a pair of dark goggles hanging loosely from his neck. He still looked ever the image of the Court’s Grandmaster with the fine set of robes draped over his built figure, but most of all, it was the sheer confidence and audacity oozing from the man that distinguished him clearly from the still kneeling figure in front of them.
Perhaps all of those in Gotham were closeted furries. It would certainly explain the obsession over animal themed theatrics.
“Why am I here, Cobb?” Slade demanded, as uninterested as he could manage in an attempt to cover his ever present disbelief at the sight of the clipped bird a mere stone’s toss away.
Cobb laughed, an oily, unpleasant sound, before replying. “A man after my own heart. Very well, I too dislike useless pleasantries. I called you here, to request a favour.”
At Slade’s disbelieving stare, Cobb continued, gesturing at the talon, “Surely, you must be curious about my creations here, right?”
Stepping forwards leisurely, Slade moved to inspect the talon as if it were a mere decoration. “Who’s the boy?”
“My great-grandson.”
Slade paused in his assessment of the talon to turn and stare at Cobb through his mask. Figures the kid just had to be related to a mad-man with a pathological ego. Might also explain how he seems to somehow attract so many authoritative figures in his life, which admittedly, at one point in time, included himself.
But there was no doubt Cobb was unaware that Slade knew of his talon’s true identity, else he would not have remained so calm even after Slade had unmasked him in their fight.
“Seems you and Ra’s have more in common than I thought.”
“Please, Ra’s is the only one truly cheating life,” Cobb scoffed. “We all know that the Lazurus Pit is the only thing keeping his body alive at this point.”
“What’s your brand of immortality then?” Slade questioned, wondering not for the first time how a man like Cobb turned himself into even more of a monster, haunting the dark underbelly of Gotham. More importantly, how a man like Cobb had systematically broken down the boy in front of him, before piecing him together as a talon. The cutthroat, deadly nature of the predator placidly following the Court was an image Slade had trouble superposing over the untethered and carefree boy he once knew.
Perhaps their fight was not merely a test of Slade’s abilities, but also the talon’s, to evaluate just how deeply Cobb’s talons gripped into the boy’s will.
“A substance not unlike the serum flowing through your own veins; a metallic alloy that can reanimate even the dead: electrum. Normally, we drain the vessel of life before supplying it with the necessary mixture, but in this case, he came to us… already prepared.”
Cobb continued, muttering mostly to himself, “If it had not been a boon of its own, I would have long taught that clown a lesson—but he did practically deliver my boy straight to me, so I’d be remiss to pass on this blessing.”
So in the end, the Joker managed to get the final laugh. Deathstroke mentally added another target to his hit-list.
“Cobb, as fascinating as this conversation has been, you have yet to answer my question. Why am I here,” Slade intoned, unamused.
Cobb seemed to hesitate, a strange look passing over his uncovered face. “I must confess, my control is not as… absolute as I would like to admit. My great-grandson had a, well, different upbringing, leading to a stronger resolution than I can fully break through at times.”
Slade stared at the Grandmaster, this time truly in surprise. “So you’re asking me to, what, train him?” He almost laughed in disbelief, ceasing solely due to the hesitant nature with which the request was presented. Someone like Cobb would probably rather rip out each of his fingernails himself before admitting to his own inadequacies. No wonder his message was so vague; he couldn’t likely find it in himself to send a true request for help.
“…Yes,” was the hissed response, drawn out as if the word itself inflicted pain upon the other man. “My request is not unfounded. I have, admittedly, seen the work you have done with the League, and the progress you have made training their assassins. I only ask you do the same here. To retrain his reluctance with terminating life, and with harming those he deems weaker than himself, all of which are traits unbecoming of a talon.”
Privately, Slade hid his satisfaction at hearing Cobb’s annoyance. It seemed that regardless of what ordeals the kid endured, at his core, he would always remain a protector at heart. A hero.
As Cobb went on to explain his plans for mass murder or world domination, Slade tuned him out, lost to his own thoughts.
No one ever called Slade a merciful or kind man; only fools ever tried to appeal to his “ever so present” forgiving nature. After all, the last he allowed close to his heart lost him both his eye and the remaining shreds of his heart. But it might be because he hadn’t talked to Joey in a while, or that Grant’s upcoming death anniversary was weighing on his mind, or perhaps it was due to the recent reveal of his daughter, that upon seeing the boy, who couldn’t have been older than 15, and who would remain that age for forever long it took another hero to dismantle Cobb’s regime, that Slade’s unmoving, enhanced heart actually seized for a moment.
It was foolish; in his line of work, slave labour was unpleasant but prevalent, with less said about the trafficking rings the better. He wasn’t, shouldn’t be, unfamiliar to the sights of a child with no say in the forces acting upon their life. But there was just something in meeting a boy, brilliant but disillusioned at an early age on how horrible the world could be, who still chose to take all the darkness inside him and shine a light upon all those he met; in seeing that same boy now, molded and manipulated into a weapon for someone else’s gain. Something personal in which Slade considered doing something he never would have thought of in the past: go against his contract.
“I’ll do it. Until one condition.” Slade cut in, drawing Cobb’s monologue short. The other man in turn drew up to full height, evidently trying his best in hiding his enthusiasm at Slade’s acceptance.
“Name your terms.”
“I’m given full reign over the extent of his training. That includes training exercises, discipline and more. I refuse to work under surveillance and an arbitrary timeline.”
“All within reason. Shall we discuss your payment and contract then?” Cobb replied easily, likely expecting Slade’s stipulations regarding the job. He probably also knew Slade wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to train someone with potential, as showcased in their fight, like the calculating asshole he was. Still, Slade wouldn’t idly be a pawn in Cobb’s game this time.
“Last question. What is his name?”
“The Gray Son.”
present day
It was three days time before Dick finally caught wind of Slade in the form of a disgruntled mail person, asking for a signature on a small brown package. It was strange to receive contact through an unverified messenger, not solely for the liability risk it presents, but also as a matter of security.
For the past year, Dick had been stationed at various safehouses Slade kept around Gotham, as the two of them erased all possible roots of the Court’s rule. Whether it was wiping all remaining databases or killing anyone high enough rank to matter, Dick had to personally ensure that the Court was gone for good, regardless of how miserable staying in Gotham felt—his emotions a cesspool of nostalgia and fury.
So it was weird Slade would reveal this latest location to anyone, unless… it meant that the next contract would finally be in another city?
Although Dick was long trained out of possessing both strong emotions or opinions, he couldn’t help be feel a thrill of excitement of finally getting a little action. While it hadn’t been long since he started following Deathstroke on contracts as Renegade, he has admittedly been getting a little antsy with all the waiting around recently.
Hey, adrenaline is one hell of a drug, and Dick has been addicted to it since his circus days.
But before he could even begin peeling back the seal on the package, Dick’s burner phone suddenly breached the silence in the safehouse, ringing where he tossed it onto the sofa earlier.
Walking over to the living room to pick up, Dick dropped the package beside him on the settee, before taking a seat himself.
“I’m assuming you aren’t calling about the delivery guy.”
Slade sighed, before answering, “Look kid, I know I promised you a contract, but I just got a ping from Wintergreen. He says he has information on the last active dredges of the Court.”
Dick’s silence seemed to tell Slade all he needed to hear, prompting him to sound almost uncharacteristically apologetic as he signed off, promising more details when he returned.
It was likely that a sensor left at one of the last Court hideouts alerted Wintergreen to scan for potential suspects: sketchy scientists who want to revive talon technology, hiding low ranked Owls, or even free talons themselves.
Still, of the few remaining stray talons who were out on missions when he blew everything up, Dick has since helped most with granting their wish to eternal rest by permanently severing the signal to their cheapened version of life. Others desired to leave Gotham as far behind as possible, seeking their own idea of freedom—a life in which they will never again follow another’s command in the artificial chain of power.
Alerts were more frequent in the early days of flushing and uprooting the entire cult; now, it was more likely to receive interference from a curious raccoon than an escaped Court member.
Besides, if they escaped, it meant they were low enough of a rank to escape attention—meaning they have far too little power or motivation dedicated to resurrecting the beached whale that was the Court. Not with Batman’s current level of scrutiny and the very unknown forces that took it down in the first place still active.
So that fact that this mission was important enough for both Deathstroke and Renegade to get involved meant it was large scale or severe enough to require all hands on deck.
Truth be told, Dick had a feeling he wasn’t yet done clearing all of the Parliament out of Gotham society, although hearing his suspicions confirmed really didn’t help.
With a reluctant glance at the still unopened package, Dick hauled himself to his feet, the call of vengeance bubbling under skin once more, running through the unbeating lines of his dark veins.
Succumbing to the darkness, Talon awoke, eyes glowing gold in the midnight moon.
Deathstroke would tell him that non-stop vigilance was the difference between life and death, and maybe he has a point with that. Renegade would blame the sheer number of false alarms that he had to deal with on lowering his guard.
It turns out, he was initially correct in his assumption: most of the surveillance alarms were faulty, although the sheer number of them meant that early in the night, they split up to cover the most ground. It had already been hours of trekking through the sewers and slums before Dick finally reached the last lookout point.
It was in a decrepit old warehouse, because of course it was. Crouching in the shadows, he could see about six robed figures, waving their hands around and chanting around a drawn ritualistic circle.
They seemed to be working with arcane magic. If Dick had to guess, they were likely here to reanimate and reverse engineer the process of creating talons through harvesting the electrum in the remaining corpses. Unfortunately for them, there were no more talon corpses, each one long disposed of with due respect.
That being said, the lack of tangible material didn’t seem to impede their chanting, excitement palpable in their animated movements. Dick didn’t need a translator to know that "conversio” and “tempus” were two words that never boded well in a ritual. And he certainly didn’t need to have spent time around Ra’s Al-Ghul to know when someone was dabbling in chronomancy.
There was a distinct humming originating from each corner of the room, magic thrumming from four pillars and channeling into the circle.
Time tended to be a rather fickle and tricky spell, threatening the very fabric of existence if conducted incompetently. It was for that reason that Dick elected to observe for a bit longer before intervening.
However, it seemed fortune did not in fact favour the patient, as before Dick could truly decide on a plan of attack, a black projectile flew from the opposing roof, embedding into the southern pillar before detonating.
Debris showered the cultists, panicked shouts erupting from the chaos. But before they could gather themselves, a dark figure dropped from the skylight, emerging from the formless shadows.
Dick froze. He must truly be slipping if he hadn’t registered Batman’s presence all this time.
In his hesitation, the Batman had already made quick work of the amateur wizards, dodging any stray spells aimed towards his direction. The night was always his expertise, blending into the shadows like a phantom.
Perhaps Dick could get out this encounter without confrontation. No feathers ruffled and all.
With all of the cultists finally subdued, Batman finally stopped to scan his surroundings, expressionless mask staring intently at the remaining pillars. But it wasn’t expressionless to Dick. Every measured breath, the tensing in his shoulders, he could read each and every movement like a lost language only he held the key to, that only he could speak. Even though each interpretation bore at his soul. Even though he despised the man that stood before him with every fibre of his being.
It was with that long forgotten knowledge that Dick knew exactly what Batman was about to do before he performed it.
A lone throwing knife crossed paths with the batarang’s trajectory, knocking both aside and deactivating the detonator inside. Dick didn’t need a crash course in Batman-ese to read the shock lining the small flinch of Batman’s figure, visible through his enhanced senses.
Dropping down from the ceiling, Dick called out to him; internally praying for a miracle, while silently resigning himself to his fate.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that.”
Dick was met with the full force of Batman’s glare, suspicion dripping from his reply. “And why is that.”
Dick couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him, born from the unease he tried and failed to convince himself he felt from seeing all that distrust aimed at him from the man who was once his entire world. “Because, World’s Greatest Detective, time magic is… tricky, to say the least. Destabilizing the core pillars of its creation isn’t something I’d advise you do. At least, not one at a time.”
Silence permeated the room. Dick could visibly see Batman sizing him up, eyeing him as a potential threat.
“So if you don’t mind, I think I can deal with this myself.” With the quick flick of a wrist, Dick tossed four more knives, each finding itself embedding in a vital position within the four unconscious cultists in front of him, ending their lives.
Hey, he was a professional. And regardless of the atrocities they were likely to commit, they still deserved a quick death.
Turning around to deal with the last couple “wizards”, Dick completely forgot about the biggest threat in the room: Batman’s saviour complex. Rookie mistake, but he was still off-footed with meeting his ex-mentor, screw him.
He might have expected the batarang penetrating his hand, forcing his knives to clatter onto the cold hard ground, but he was definitely caught unaware by the second projectile aimed at his throat, drawing a thin cut across his Adam’s apple.
Silver blood dripped from his newly acquired wounds, seeping steadily into his undersuit, and dripping onto the floor like the last drops of his faith in the man before him.
“I can’t let you kill them.”
Relax Renegade. You knew this would happen the moment you saw that stupid cape.
Taking a deep breath, Dick forced himself to speak through gritted teeth.
“No offense, but my interest in this case is personal. I’d get out of this building, if I were you, if you don’t want to get blown up into pieces.”
“I understand. But that does not mean there may not still information they can give, research on any possible ways to reverse… your condition,” he replied, with a calm and knowing look at Dick that made him want to strangle him. It was always about control with Batman—control over situations beyond his understanding, control over everyone around him, even when he was long lost.
Even now, he thought Dick was a mere puppet, lashing out over his long dead masters. Not the boy he had long failed.
“Oh believe me, Batman. If there was a way to reverse this curse, I would have found it a long time ago.” Dick grinned cruelly, teeth flashing as a sick facsimile of a smile.
Batman started slightly, as if coming to a realization. “Back then, that list of Court members—was that your doing?”
“Well, I needed someone to take out the trash, and I figured a few small errands wouldn’t hurt you. Besides, I was busy with… bigger fish to fry.” Running his tongue over his sharpened teeth as a silent threat, Dick couldn’t help but ruminate on Batman’s words. So he didn’t know who gave him that list of Court members—all affluent officials or elitist assholes—and yet he still trusted that source enough to follow it to a tee? Trusted it enough to investigate and lock up all of those members at least.
Maybe Batman was slipping more than Dick thought. But he had to admit it did make his job dismantling the Court much easier, directly handling the disposal of the talons himself, while Batman weeded out the nest.
Cobb, he dealt with himself, however. That was more… personal.
Batman seemed to be reevaluating his initial analysis of Dick, eyes lingering on the bisecting colours of his suit, trademarks of Deathstroke’s insignia.
“The Court of Owls, I understand. The other talons too. But what I don’t understand is… why would you kill the Joker?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”
“Don’t pretend. Deathstroke’s apprentice: first notable appearance directly following the murder of the Joker, in his cell in Arkham. No noticeable break outs or tampering with the security,” Batman recited, almost as if he was reading it off a screen.
At that Dick laughed out loud, before tilting his head slightly. “Think of it as a small favour. He was irritating me, is all.”
“You can’t play at God, acting as judge, jury, and execution—”
“But he can?” Dick interrupted, breath quickening into an unbearable pace. It felt like he was suffocating, choking on his anger and despair. “He chose who he wanted dead every single day before he croaked, and you did nothing to end it. How many more will you let die before you finally realize?”
“So it was personal.” Bruce seemed almost smug with Dick’s outburst, like he had proved an argument only he was debating. Like he was just riling up an opponent in order to reveal the truth. Like his words didn’t cut into the very heart Dick had long convinced himself had stopped beating, bleeding anguish into every cell of his undead body.
Look at me, he wanted to scream. Look at what you’ve turned me into. Look at what I’ve become.
Turning away from Batman made every instinct in his body curdle in him, but he couldn’t bear the disappointment and pain. Hardening his heart once more, he resigned himself to his fate yet again.
“Sure,” came the reply. “It was personal. And so is this.” Arm extending once more, a knife flew from his hand like an extension of his will, aimed straight into the head of another cultist.
This time, he did expect the tackle that came almost immediately after he let his weapon loose, a desperate grapple as Batman once again tried to preserve the sanctity of life, even when it was undeserved. Even when it was aimed at another.
The fight that ensued felt like a badly choreographed dance, one where Dick knew all of Batman’s moves, while he remained an enigma to the other. Long gone were his flashy acrobatics; in their place was a ruthless killing machine, specialized in assassination. Brutal efficiency, almost a sick mimicry of Batman’s callous fighting style.
“He’s holding back,” Dick thought. Or rather, Dick was simply better, surpassing his ex-mentor easily. It didn’t take much for Dick to quickly overwhelm Batman, knocking him down and pushing him onto his front, arms locked behind his back.
Pinning his arms tightly, Dick leaned over Batman to whisper in his ear, “What would it take? To cross that line?”
The answer came through gritted teeth. “Nothing is worth kill—”
“Not even the death of your little bird? He isn’t worth avenging, worth caring for?”
Pressed to closely to his armor, Dick could feel Batman flinch at his words, as if he were truly remorseful. As if he actually cared about him.
“I—”
“Get off him asshole!” The shrill demand came ringing from Dick’s blind spot, punctuated by the well aimed batarang directed straight at Dick’s mask. No, not a batarang. A birdarang. His birdarang.
A flash of red, yellow and green sprung in front of him, but not before landing a direct blow onto his face, cracking his mask and disorientating him.
In his slight daze, Dick stumbled backwards, inadvertently releasing Batman.
Before him stood… himself? As Robin? No, that was impossible. The arcane runes had yet to be activated.
“Robin, what are you doing? I ordered you to go back!”
“Well, all I saw was your ass being kicked, so you’re welcome for the rescue old man!”
No, it wasn’t him. Scrawnier build, hair with a reddish tint, this was a whole different child, masquerading in his costume. The one he died in.
The laugh that erupted from his chest surprised himself as much as his company, growing in volume as he shook, hysterical tears threatening to escape his broken mask. It felt like every hurt he had ever experienced was magnified into this moment, and all he could do was laugh, laugh until his sides hurt, until the ache inside him consumed his every being, making him wish he could just lie back down into the ground he was long buried in.
Between cackles, he managed to speak. “How long?”
Clearly freaked out, Batman tried to regain grounds in their interaction. “What do you mean?”
Smirking up at both of them, Dick answered. “How long was it after my death that you decided you needed a replacement for the old, broken model? That you could strip me of every last bit of my identity, of my memories?”
At this, the Batman’s lenses widened almost comically, his jaw dropping as he put the pieces together.
“You—?”
Dick continued his diatribe, rolling over Batman in volume. “The Court might have spent every single waking moment tearing me down into broken pieces, torturing me until I lost everything I could hold dear, but at least they never pretended to be something they weren’t.”
“Dick please—”
“You said killing was never justified, no matter who is killed. Well Bruce, when will it be enough?” Dick ripped the remaining shreds of his mask away. “Was my death not enough?”
All he could see was gold, his eyes flashing dangerously, anger clouding his every thought. All he could focus on were the words that would follow, the justification for his actions. As if it could absolve him of all his sins, forgive his transgressions.
But he would never hear his response.
A burst of light behind Batman drew Dick’s attention, and reflexes he thought were long buried surged forward, compelling him to push Bruce aside, taking the blow for himself.
As the blast hit, it felt like every single one of his cells was on fire, a feeling he was unfortunately familiar with. He stared into the satisfied eyes of the final cultist, before white filled his vision until it all he could see.