Notes:

The Picture belongs to jiuge on Deviantart and is NOT my own.

So after I read for some time stories about Batman, I got this Idea of Jason being resurrectend and found by the Court of Owls to be trained as a Talon. Because I never found a Story about him being featured as anything else but the Red Hood or Robin, I thought it would be a nice change for once.

As for the age of our Robins:

Dick: 23

Jason: pre-death 15, now 20, though close to 21

Tim: 17

Damian: 11

I. Beginnings

Beta-read by RascalJoy

Winter decided to roll in early this year in Blüdhaven. The snow is falling steadily and the wind adds its extra frigid touch. The frozen trees haven't quite lost all of their leaves yet, October not even over and already a 2-inch sheet of snow covered the city. The cars on the streets below are honking. A few angry remarks can be heard from the impatient drivers, shouting at the others at the front to get a move on.

One might know Blüdhaven as one of the most dangerous cities around, but recently, the crime rate has gone down. While few might not know who exactly the vigilante responsible is, they do know that there is one protecting them during the night.

A shadow flies through the darkness, grappling rapidly from building to building and leaping gracefully from roof to roof.

Said vigilante stops at the edge of one such rooftop, looking down into the snow covered alley below him where a group of thugs had cornered a young woman in the corner. From the shadow comes a silent 'tze' as he silently jumps down the building.

In the alley, the men are moving closer towards the woman.

"Why don't you come with us for the evening, honey?" says the thug nearest to the woman, leaning menacingly against the brick wall she's pressed against.

"Yes, we could have such a fun time. Maybe some drinks or a sweet little talk in a bar," another says with a grin. His eyes glint with lust as they rove over the woman.

"No, please leave me alone!" she pleads, scooting away from the two men only to bump into the third one, who grasps her hips behind her. She jerks away and glares angrily at the men, though there is a hint of fear there, too. "Don't touch me!" she snaps.

"Seems like we got a fierce one here, guys!" leers the thug at the wall. As he reaches out to touch the woman's hair, a silhouette detaches itself from the shadows.

"I think the lady said not to touch her, didn't she?"

The thugs whirl around, one of them putting his hand into the pocket of his faded jeans and brandishing a pocketknife menacingly at the newcomer.

The woman eyes the knife fearfully, glancing at the shadow from the corner of her eye.

The shadow turns out to be a man in a kind of dark costume with a blue bird symbol on the front. Stripes extended from the bird's spread wings across the broad shoulders and down his well-muscled arms to his fingertips.

"You should respect a lady's wishes, don't you think?" he says cockily, shooting a grin at the young woman. He gives her a two-fingered salute. "Nightwing, at your service!" introduces the man – Nightwing, apparently.

Behind the woman, the thug growls at the intruder. "And who are you supposed to be, jerk?" he asks angrily, stepping forward.

Nightwing looks surprised, perhaps even a bit hurt. "You don't know me? Seriously? Now I'm upset..." He sighs, seeming a bit annoyed. "After all this time I thought they would recognize me..." he murmurs almost to himself.

The thug with the knife stares at Nightwing disbelievingly. "Are you pouting?" he snaps, anger underlining his words. "Are you making fun of us?!"

"I wouldn't dream of it," the man assures him, though he sounded a bit amused. "But…maybe I am?" he adds with a cheeky grin.

The first thug growls. "That's it, guys. Get him!"

In the next moment, the other two are circling closer to Nightwing, who just shakes his head and lets the grin drop a bit.

"And here I thought we could sort this out without hurting you guys," he sighs, almost apologetic. Nightwing puts his hands to his back, pulling two escrima sticks from the loops sewn there.

The two thugs are closing in, apparently unconcerned about the weapons the other is now holding. Thug A without the knife sinks into fighting stance, fists up and spread wide over his chest. Although he tries to look intimidating, his sloppy positioning makes it obvious that he has little to no experience in a fight.

Nightwing smiles a bit. That one will be easy.

So when thug A throws a fist at him, Nightwing dodges with ease, bringing one of his eskrima sticks down hard behind the thug's kneecap. The man crumples as his leg gives way, but before Nightwing can do anything else, thug B rounds on him from behind, knife raised and ready to strike.

The woman cries out to warn him, but is seized from behind by the last thug.

"Take care of him, guys, I'll meet you in the usual place," he orders, already dragging the woman down the alleyway.

She pulls against his arms, struck dumb with terror as she struggles to get away, but she's no match to the physical strength of her captor.

Nightwing ducks sideways to evade the swing of the knife, mentally thanking the woman for her quick warning. He notices that thug A has regained his footing and is limping forward to aid his companion. However, his attention is immediately recaptured by thug B as the now smirking man attacks again.

The knife flashes in the dimly lit alley, aiming toward Nightwing's chest. The vigilante blocks it with his first escrima stick and hits the hand of the thug with his second in quick succession. The man releases the knife with a hiss, shaking the afflicted appendage as thug A steps in to take a swing at Nightwing's head with both fists. Sidestepping the attack, Nightwing kicks the feet out from under the him, sending thug A to the ground with a 'thud!'.

"Son of a b-!" thug A starts to exclaim, but is cut short as Nightwing renders him unconscious with a well-placed strike to the temple.

While Nightwing is distracted, thug B snatches the knife from the ground and lunges forward in an attempt to slash his opponent across the arm. Just before the knife connects, the blade is blocked yet again by an escrima stick. A few sparks fly as the weapons clash, then Nightwing lashes out with his other weapon into the man's unprotected stomach.

The thug doubles over and Nightwing's follow up swing slams into the back of the thug's head, sending the man – unconscious – to the ground beside his similarly fallen friend.

Taking two zip-ties from his utility-belt, Nightwing quickly secures the hands of the two thugs behind their backs, sending a quick signal to the police station in charge of this district of Blüdhaven. Not that they would actually show up, but he had to try.

Once satisfied with the ties, he marches down the alley to follow the footprints of the last man and his female captive.

It doesn't take much effort for Nightwing to track him seeing as the thug left deep prints and drags in the snow, probably left by the struggling woman. He rounds a corner and spots the last man shoving the woman down another little backstreet. Running a bit faster, Nightwing looms behind the pair, his weapons at the ready as the man glances over his shoulder.

The last thug is much easier to deal with than the other two, mostly because he doesn't even try to fight back. The man throws the woman at Nightwing, who is forced to stop to catch her before she slips and falls. Taking advantage of the vigilante's distraction, the man makes a mad dash down the alleyway.

"You're alright?" Nightwing asks quickly, steadying the frightened woman. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

The woman shakes her head, clearly relieved at her rescue. "No, I'm fine, thanks to you," she breathes. "I'm very grateful for your help."

"That's great," Nightwing smiles, glancing at the alley in which the last thug had disappeared through. "You should go home now," he suggests to the unknown woman. "Go straight there, no detours. It's not safe."

The woman nods eagerly, already turning away. "Yes, you're right," she replies, waving her hand at him. "Thanks again. I owe you my life!" Then she runs off without another glance.

Nightwing watches her for a moment, then turns and sprints along the frenzied footprints of the escaping criminal down the lane.

One of the wonderful things about winter is that following people is easy, so long as they're on the ground. The footprints mark the path of every person, civilian and criminal alike, the only reprieve being if the snow were to fall hard and fast, which – fortunately – is not the case today. However, on the flipside, Blüdhaven winters are really cold.

When he gets home, forget the mission report; first stop'll be a hot shower.

As he follows the man's path, something new appears and his eyes narrow. There are two sets of tracks now, though he was certain nobody had entered the alley.

Now on high alert, he continues following the tracks around a corner and promptly freezes on the spot. There, sprawled in a puddle of his own blood, lies the thug, the snow melting into bright red crystals around him from the warmth of the fluid leaking from the knife hilt sticking from his back.

Nightwing quickly doubles back behind a nearby dumpster, eyes flickering to take in the alley, the rooftops, and the open street for any sign that the killer is still there, waiting to strike. But he sees nothing. The city block seems empty outside from Nightwing and the bleeding out thug a few feet away. Finally, deciding the coast was clear, Nightwing creeps forward cautiously to examine the man.

Fear is still etched in the man's features, mouth gaping in an 'O' of surprise as wide, glassy eyes stare at the opposite empty rooftop.

Nightwing crouches next to him, routinely feeling for a pulse, though unsurprised to find none – not with the dagger embedded in the man's ribcage.

The disconcerting thing is Nightwing hadn't even heard a fight, let alone a dying scream from the man in front of him. Apparently, the thug hadn't noticed something was wrong until it was too late. Either that, or someone had held his mouth shut, which was unlikely judging from the man's dangling jaw.

Looking around, he notices no other tracks leaving the alley, so whoever attacked hadn't left through the other end. And there is no fire escape that could take someone up to the roof. He had a murderer on his hands that could apparently disappear into thin air. Great.

Quickly, he inspects the man, but besides the weapon in his back, there are no further signs of injury or clue to the murderer's identity.

Undeterred, he turns his attention to the murder weapon. The handle is wrapped in thin strips of shining black leather, the guard appearing to be some sort of golden claw with a single talon on one side and two on the other. The blade itself shines silver, almost white with little engraved lines along the blade. At the butt of the handle is a little symbol, which reminds him strangely of a bird. Perhaps an eagle or an owl?

Nightwing opens a line in his comm.

"Hey Red, do you copy?" he questions.

After a few seconds, a familiar voice answers: "Loud and clear, Nightwing. What's up?"

"I chased one of the usual street thugs down an alley and now he's lying in his own pool of bloody snow," Dick reports, glancing at the pale corpse. "There's a dagger in his back, nothing special about that, except there's a symbol on the handle. Could you have the comp run a search on it?"

"Give me a second," Tim instructs.

Suddenly, his lenses flare blue as Tim gains wireless access to his mask.

"Can you move closer to the symbol?"

Dick leans closer to the end of the dagger, wrinkling his nose at the smell already rising from the body.

"Thanks," Tim calls after a few moments. "I'll let the bat-computer run a scan. If I find anything interesting, I'll contact you."

Dick nods, though he knows that Tim can't see him. "Thanks, baby bird," he says, ending the line. The blue tinge in his vision disappeared as the connection broke.

Switching his attention back to the weapon, he takes in the drying blood on the unfortunate man's skin. A thin layer of snow already lay scattered across the cold flesh.

Taking the hilt in his hand, Nightwing begins to pull, only to find that it's solidly stuck in the man's back.

Huh… Probably went through a few bones,he muses.

Tugging increasingly harder, the dagger finally breaks free, and Nightwing discovers the true reason it hadn't come loose without a fight: the blade is not in fact straight, but curved with a little barb at one side near the middle.

Shooting one last glance at the corpse of the man, Dick sighs sadly and sends another automated message to the local authorities. Let them deal with the corpse.

Grappling to the top of the next building, he takes off into the night, dagger secured safely in his belt.

Tim should probably take a closer look at it for fingerprints or anything else that could be useful, he decides as he swings over the gaps between buildings. But first priority is a hot shower…

Out of the corner of the eye, he thought he saw someone watching him from the roof of a nearby warehouse. He grinds to a halt and jerks around, eyes probing the shadows where he thought the figure had been. Nothing is there.

Narrowing his eyes, he cautiously continues his patrol, keeping a wary eye out over his shoulder the whole way back to his apartment.

"Found anything useful yet?"

Dick leans over the back of the chair in which Tim is typing furiously on the bat-computer's keyboard. It has been a few days since Dick had chased the now dead thug into an alley, but nothing else had occurred that would give them a clue about where and – more importantly – who the killer might have been. The handle and blade of the knife held no fingerprints, so the murderer must have been smart enough to wear gloves. The toxology reports proved the blood that they found on the dagger has only been from the deceased man.

"No, nothing yet," Tim sighs, pausing briefly in his typing.

On the left side of the main monitor are flashing pictures of daggers with various symbols on the hilts, comparing them to the few snapshots of the dagger they had found on the right. The knife itself rests in a glass case on the table beside them. So far, there has yet to be a match that was even remotely close to the original.

Dick doubts that the murderer had purchased the dagger legally considering the intricacy of its design.

Perhaps the murderer had stolen it from somewhere? Would be a good reason to dump the kill weapon, for sure.

"It's almost as if this weapon just popped out of nowhere," Tim notes, breaking Dick from his train of thought. "There's no one who declares anything like it as stolen or missing and there is simply nothing recorded regarding where, when or who crafted it."

Tim falls back in his chair, folding his arms in front of his chest and giving an annoyed huff. "This is ridiculous. It's like searching for the needle in a haystack, only someone took the needle out beforehand without anyone knowing about it."

"You did what you could," Dick reassures, patting Tim on the shoulder. "Thanks, Timmy."

He turns away from the dizzying array of monitors, heading back through the cave and ascending the stairs into the manor. Just before he opens the clock, he pauses and calls back: "Are Bruce and Damian back yet?"

"Bruce is at a meeting at Wayne Enterprises right now and probably won't be back till around dinner," Tim replies, pushing the chair away as he stands up and stretches. He moves to follow his older brother upstairs. "Damian should be in his room. Bruce told him to finish a school project that's due tomorrow. You should have seen him hissing after Bruce told him that he's suspended from patrol for a week if he doesn't finish it in time," Tim adds with a smile. "He sounded like an angry cat, or something."

Dick laughs at the thought, and together they leave the cave, the bats hanging on the ceiling sleeping silently as the humming computer continues comparing symbols and daggers.

It's bright.

The plain, white room is illuminated in intense LED lights, making the room even more painful to the eye. Inside, the only furniture is a small cot with a table before it, a door built in the wall next to the two leading outside. On top of the thin mattress sits a young man in his early 20s, his black hair hanging over his eyes. A single silver streak runs through the strands at his forehead, standing out in stark contrast in the white lighting. He wears a dark red shirt that hugs every divet in his muscular frame and simple black trousers, his feet bare where they rest on the sheets.

Jason dislikes this room. No, scratch that. He despisesit. His eyes hurt, the light burning against his retinas without mercy even as his stomach grumbled in hunger on top of it all.

Leaving the room is not an option, even though he knows the door is unlocked. He could exit the room if he wanted, but he knows that disobedience is frowned upon and when his Masters finds out he will punish Jason further; probably add a few extra days to his isolation period.

Total isolation is the mildest of punishments that he can receive, though it doesn't make it anymore pleasant. How does he know leaving the room is futile? The first few times he escaped he was found almost immediately by the guards that were stationed outside. The end results were not pretty.

Opening his eyes, he sees only blurry images and colorful spots. After attempting to adjust to the light without success, he closes them again and lounges further back against the wall.

One hour, 30 minutes and 37 seconds until his next meal.

Fourteen hours, 30 minutes and 29 seconds left before his Master appears to lecture him about his mistake.

Thirty-one hours, 30 minutes and 16 seconds to go before he's released from this blasted room.

Mentally, he sighs.

How did he get inside this punishment room? Killing people is his job, after all. However, killing his prey before the victim could be interrogated didn't play in his favor, let alone leaving his dagger to be found by that dratted vigilante. Jason had been lucky that the thug he'd slain had not been important to his master's cause, otherwise he would be somewhere much worse than this room. It isn't like he enjoys it in here, but it's far better than getting himself killed in some kind of deathmatch with others like him. Not that there are others truly like him, as they are dead to begin with and it doesn't even hurt them anymore.

Jason's pain tolerance is high above that of an average human, though it certainly doesn't mean he feels nothing. While a punch is muffled against his scarred skin, a stab of a knife or a shot by a gun still hurts a whole lot. Their Master made sure of his high tolerance to pain when he arrived here and underwent their inhuman training.

More than once Jason found himself on the brink of death, only to be fixed immediately afterwards. He's not afraid of death, oh hell no. Death is not as scary as some might think. He has been there, done that, and come back afterwards to spit right in its ugly face.

Jason remembers his life before his death almost perfectly, only a few gaps not counting what happened directly after his resurrection. He remembers Bruce and Alfred, the Manor, Batman… hell, he even remembers the golden boy, Dick Grayson.

He grits his teeth, his hands clenching in fists at his sides.

Right… The golden boy, the one reason Jason got stuck in this hell hole in the first place. Anger bubbles within him as he recalls the stupid man's smile and laughing blue eyes.

Soon after his indoctrination into the Court of Owls, his so called Master explained to him that Dick should have been Talon in Jason's place. Jason could distinctly recall the slightest hint of malice and regret in his master's voice as he said those words, almost as if he wished Dick was standing there in Jason's place.

Of course Jason knows that Dick had been a circus acrobat, but what the golden boy doesn't know is that the circus he had been raised in had been training Dick to become the Talon Jason himself is now. Hell, even Dick's grandfather before him had been a Talon and that asshole is still in this hideout somewhere, sleeping like a stone in one of those tanks in the chambers awaiting to be woken up by the Court.

Jason shudders at the memory of the day he had first woken up in one of those tanks, various tubes attached to his body like some kind of test-subject. It had not been pleasant to wake up in such a nightmare, only to find out it was now his reality. His time in those tanks made him pale, the influence of whatever they gave him turning his once blue eyes into a sharp gold, like the eyes of a bird of prey—like an owl. He loathes his own eyes now. They remind him of the Court, of his eternal bondage to the whim of these monsters. He had cried the first time he saw himself in a mirror after that, smashing the wretched glass to pieces under his fist before he had fallen to his knees, sobbing on the unforgiving ground.

For five, almost six years now he had been under the Court's influence, shaped like clay into something they deemed fit to use for their twisted machinations.

Inside, rage threatens to overwhelm him, but he forces himself to take deep, calming breaths.

They trained Jason for around four and a half years before they even thought about letting him leave the 'nest', as they called it. He doesn't remember the first few months he had stayed in this place. Sometimes though, he sees bits and pieces of what happened in his dreams, but most of the time he forgets them like water flowing through the gaps of his fingers. Only from when he woke up in those tanks does he remember everything in detail, particularly the pain.

Again, Jason shudders. He had tried to escape his captors in his blind rage and confusion upon waking, but had been quickly taken down by the black clad persons guarding this facility. And Jason didn't fall down easily.

His Master calls him Talon; one of many, at least. During his stay he had met many of the dark clothed individuals, though all but a few of them were not responding to anything he did, ignoring everything and everyone except for their master. Heck, they didn't even breath!

Finally, he had asked his so called Master about them with a sneer. The man had given Jason a disapproving glare and backhanded him for his insolence, but replied nonetheless and said that they were dead as if it were something completely normal. Jason chose his words carefully around him after that incident. The few others that were technically still alive talked to Jason sometimes, but not more than a couple sentences every few weeks, and afterwards they seemed to just disappear. Probably turned into one of those undead ones.

Most of the other people around were members of the Court with owl masks like his Master, though those didn't even spare him a glance, like he wasn't good enough for such people. Jason didn't let their aloof, above-it-all attitudes bother him. He never had among the aristocrats common at Bruce's parties back in the day. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if some of those stuck up rich people were hiding behind those moon-shaped masks right now.

The sound of the doors opening alerts him to someone entering the room, and he lazily opens one eye. The outline of a black clad person is visible through the curtain of his hair, the golden lines on the suit implying that it's one of the Talons. The stiff posture and the abrupt way it walks marks it as one of the dead ones.

The sound of rattling silverware fills the room. Ah, so apparently around an hour and a half has passed by while Jason had been thinking. He wasn't surprised by his own zoning out anymore; life was pretty boring at the Court of Owls complex.

The other Talon places the meal on the table at the foot of his bed and leaves without a word. Not even they want to linger here in this brightness.

Jason sighs, but gets up nonetheless. He won't be of use to anyone if he doesn't take the tasteless meal.

Besides, his Master won't be pleased if he skips it.

The hours fly past despite Jason's hatred of the room and all around boredom. In fact, he doesn't move again until his Master enters the room and Jason is forced to get up from the bed and kneel before him. Jason loathes this gesture, but he knows from experience he will be punished if he doesn't comply.

"You made mistakes, Talon," his master says calmly, hands clasped behind his back as he looks down at Jason. "Why is that?"

Jason does not trust the other one, especially when he is speaking calmly towards him. Most of the time it does not bode well for him in the end.

"It has been a stupid mistake on my side," Jason answers, his head bowed towards the ground. "I assure you, master, it won't happen again. Please forgive me for my inadvertence." He can almost feel the stare that his master directs at him.

The other man clicks his tongue and turns around, away from Jason and towards the door. Before his master leaves though, he stops while holding the door open for himself. His master turns around towards Jason, only the side of his face visible.

"We do tolerate a few mistakes, Talon," he says and his voice sounds cold with malice. "But do not let it become a habit. You know what happens to the ones that fail." With that, he leaves.

Jason feels as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders and lets out a deep breath, though a shudder runs through his body as he remembers his master's last words. Yes, he does know what it means. If a living Talon makes too many mistakes, he will be turned.

The only reason he is still technically alive, is that his pros outweight the cons. His ability to think strategical during fights and the fact that he has been trained by the Court and Batman himself makes him to a great tool for his master. Jason sighs and gets up from the cold floor and returns to his place on the cot.

When the door opens the next time, it's to two other Talons sent to retrieve him.

Jason often wonders how they can even move what with being dead and all, but on the other hand, it might not be wise to ask that. He likes to be alive and would like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

The Talons are walking beside him, one on each side as they lead him to his real quarters. Not that that room actually belongs to him, seeing as it only served as a place of rest between missions and contained nothing personal.

The only furniture within is a simple but well-made bed with a nightstand, a big chest at the foot of the mattress and one big wardrobe with a table and chair right beside it. As he changes into his Talon uniform, the other two Talons leave to go to wherever it is they go when they're not marching Jason about.

Finally, fitted into his uniform, he straps on his thick belt, the two pouches on the sides filled with little throwing knifes. Another crossbelt hangs over one shoulder, adorned with a few small daggers and his clawed gauntlets. At the back of the belt are two straps, in which he holsters two guns. Not that he uses them very often, but sometimes they come in handy.

The suit itself is black with the usual golden lines, two of which run from the back of his upper arm to the inner part of his elbow. Another two slither down from the shoulders to his lower back where they meet at his spine and continue down his legs. On his upper thighs are two more wrapping down the inside of his legs, another extending from beneath his belt all the way down to his ankle.

In the center of his chest is the golden symbol of the Court: a bird with wings extended. One stripe runs down the entire length of his torso and through the middle of the symbol, two others springing from the end of each wing and following the first down his upper body before curving around to his back at hip level, ending right above his belt.

Retrieving two pairs of daggers from the bedside table, he slides them into the straps beside the pouches of his waist belt.

Looking himself over, satisfied, he exits the room.

Surely, Master will have some kind of mission for him. Jason scowls at that. There is almost no time between missions for the Court outside of his occasional (many) punishments. After all, he is the most dangerous of the Talons.