"So. I don't suppose you'd like to tell me what the #$%% happened in there?"
Tim's voice cut above the rumble of the Batmobile's engine. It pierced the heavy silence that had hung over both Bats since the second they'd left the decrepit apartment building (leaving Howard Jemison cuffed to the leg of his coffee table and sitting ugly until the cops arrived).
Dick, however, only grit his teeth and ignored him.
His hands twisted at the wheel, and the car flung them down another side street. Wally and Conner had both taken their leave soon after they left the apartment. Wally had been called out on Central City emergency—something about a Captain Cold and Killer Frost team-up that Barry and Bart needed a little help with. And Conner had been picked up by an apologetic Kara citing 'issues on the farm'. She didn't elaborate, only dropped a haunted mention of 'cows' before flying off with her pseudo-cousin.
But it was fine. Batman and Red Robin needed a little alone time, anyway.
Tim huffed. "Anything?"
"Just leave it alone, okay?" Dick's watery eyes narrowed. "Please, Tim. I'm fine."
"You beat the $#!^ out of Jemison," Red Robin growled. He turned his head, looking out the window to watch the buildings streak by instead of the tears streaking down Dick's cheeks. "And then watched Barbara die."
His brother's voice was painfully hoarse. "Weren't you just telling everyone? She's not dead."
"And you're not fine."
Batman's fists clenched over the wheel.
"And Dick." Tim's eyes fluttered shut. "What's going on with your eyes?"
"'Scuse me?"
His fists clenched in his lap. "Your eyes," he repeated sharply. "One minute they're blue, and the next they're green. Then gold. The green I get—that's the Lazarus Pit—"
Dick let out a soft puff of a groan. "So you know about that, huh?"
"Yeah. I do." Tim reached up. Rubbed two fingers over his eyebrow. "But that doesn't explain the golden eyes. They look like Talon's. What the #$%%'s that about?"
"Tim."
"I want you to tell me, Dick."
"I don't—"
"Don't what?" Tim's eyes snapped open and his head snapped around. He glowered at his brother, jaw clenched tighter than a vise, and growled, "Don't know? Don't care? Don't want to tell me? Bull$#!^. All of it. This family has enough %*&%^#& secrets, and I'm beyond done. So you're going to tell me and you're going to tell me now! What the #$%% is going on with you?"
Dick flinched. But ultimately, he said nothing. They both sat in stunned silence, each listening to the engine and waiting for the other to work up the courage to speak. Two minutes in and Tim resolved to hold his tongue; he wouldn't be the first to give. With Jason or Steph (or maybe even Damian), Dick might've made the same stubborn decision. But Dick knew Tim, just as surely as he knew that there was no chance of beating the younger boy in a battle of wills or silence.
So he gave.
"Believe me, I'd tell you, Timmy," Dick said, so softly that the sound of his voice was almost lost in the rumble of the car. "If I had any idea."
Tim sobered a little. His brow unfurrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I don't have a clue. I don't…I don't know what's wrong with me. I—" Dick's words were cut off by a hitched gasp. A hand dropped from the steering wheel and clapped over his stomach. He doubled over, teeth bared and groaning. "Nnngg."
"Dick?" Tim squeaked. "Dick, are you okay?"
"Nn…no." Batman's eyes screwed shut as his head twisted. "'m not…"
Tim reached for the wheel. "Let me drive. We need to get you to a hospital."
"N-no. No, it's…see, it's already passing…" Dick let out a soft whine as he straightened in his seat. Then he glowered out the windshield. Like nothing had happened at all, and he was still just as pissed as ever.
"Dick…?"
"That's been happening on and off since the night Babs…the night she…" He blinked hard. "And before that? I've been getting…angrier. I feel like…like…mad."
Tim shifted in his seat, the belt sliding over his chest. He couldn't keep the tight concern out of his question. "Explain?"
"Like…" Dick hesitated, searching for the words. Tim watched him lick at his lips and swallow hard. And when he did find his voice, it was quiet and shaky and cautious. "Like—Jemison. I wanted to tear out his throat with my teeth, Tim.That was…my exact thought. What kind of person thinks that? And Slade…I wanted—still want—to end him. Slowly. I've thought of ways to do it—the kinds of things that'd…that would…"
Tim listened to his brother's voice break like a piece of glass. Something similar happened in his own chest.
"And on top of it all I just keep getting these…these zings.Randomly. Out of nowhere. One minute I'll be pouring my cereal into a bowl, and blam!" His hand banged against the steering wheel, and Tim jumped. "I feel a knife in my back or a shot to my chest or…or like I'm drowning. Burning alive. Suffocating. Like—"
"Dick!" Tim threw up a hand. His eyes were wide at the sight of his brother's shaking frame and staring, hunted gaze. Slowly, Tim laid his fingers against the Batman's shoulder plate. "It's okay. I get it. You don't have to keep—"
His brother's voice cracked like glass. "I'm going insane, Tim."
"No, you're not. It's just…" Tim faltered. "Okay, fine. I don't know what to tell you. None of that makes sense to me, Dick, but I promise we'll figure it out."
"We have to find Barbara," Dick said earnestly.
"And we will. But first—"
"No, you don't understand." The haunted look returned to Batman's face. "They're doing things to her, Tim. I can feel it. Like…this itch. And it keeps getting worse. I'm getting flashbacks—stupid, random stuff, like when I was a kid and playing toy cars with my dad…jumping off my first platform with my cousins…and…I don't know why. But it's like I can see it all perfectly, and when I do, it's like I can…like I can feel Babs there, too. Watching. And…and screaming…"
Dick trailed off, shaking his head listlessly.
Tim could only stare, slack-jawed, at his brother until they rolled into the Cave.
As soon as the hatch hissed and slid aside, Tim poked his head up and saw Jason and M'gann on the other side of the Cave. They were still circling the Talon—John Grayson—who was tied to a chair and grinning smugly back.
"Anything?" Jason growled.
Miss Martian's glowing eyes dimmed, and then fell shut. "Still no. There's…nothing in there."
The Talon's head listed to the side as he bared his teeth in a savage smile. His tone was dark and cavalier—like this wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation. "Now, now. There's lots of stuff bouncing around in my brainpan—I'm just too dead for you to pick up on anything."
Tim jumped out of the vehicle, and winced at the sound of his boot soles thudding against the ground. All three heads whipped around, and Jason raised one dark eyebrow.
"You guys're late. How'd it go?"
Dick hopped out of the car next, cape flapping behind him as he strode across the floor. Jason's eyes zeroed in on the empty cowl clutched in the Batman's fist, and they went round. M'gann went pale (well, more than usual, at any rate).
"Lousy," Tim told them, sincerely.
Jason's frown deepened. "Wait. Is that Barbara's—?"
Dick slammed the cowl down on the Batcomputer's desk so hard that the entire system rattled. Loose screws rolled and tumbled off, plinging against the tile. The keyboard jumped. The monitors shivered. And in the middle of it all, sat Batgirl's helmet, gazing at them with empty eyes and a void-like mouth that almost seemed to be mid-scream.
At the sight of it, John Grayson sat up a little straighter. "Where did you get that?"
And Jason, like the rest of them, heard the note of urgency in the assassin's tone. He leaned down, hand bracing against the chair's backrest as he pressed into the Talon's personal space. "How come? Look familiar, there, feather-head?"
Talon wiped the stern look off his face, and replaced it with another self-satisfied sneer. "Again, with the bird nicknames? Pot calling the kettle black, Robin."
Jason flinched, but didn't respond.
"No, no. I just wanted to know," John went on, raising his voice by a few degrees so that it carried over to where Dick stood, shoulders tensed, "Because our little doll came to us without her hat. The Grandmaster was thinking he'd make a call to the manufacturers about a replacement."
Tim's arms snaked over his chest, eyes flicking over to Batman. He didn't like the creature's tone. John had baited Dick before, and showed no signs of stopping. Which was why Wally, Conner, and Tim had been so eager to get the eldest Bat out of the Cave in the first place.
Now, Tim watched Dick's throat bob. His fists curled on the desk.
"And speaking of our little Barbie doll—" John crooned, blinking lazily. "She's been such a delight to play with. She talks, she cries, and she actually dies! Oh! And Dickie…did you know she's got removable parts?"
Dick's hands slid off the desk as he whirled. Tim didn't even have time to cry out before Batman's fists were wrapped in the material of the Talon's tunic. His teeth were bared. His eyes were bulging. He growled out a fierce "Shut up."
But John kept going with an eye-rolling scoff.
"Well, she does. Her fingers come off—her bones pop out—and her eyeballs even splatter when you hit her on the head just right…" The Talon's stretching grin was the stuff of nightmares, and his eyes were shining like fire. "Believe me," he added in a sing-song whisper, "It's been fun for the whole family."
"The #$%%?" Jason demanded, stumbling back. He was white as a sheet.
Tim felt like he was going to throw up.
And Dick roared. Pulled on the tunic so sharply that the chair's back legs rose a fraction of an inch. He and John were nose to nose. "I said SHUT UP! Don't talk about her! Don't talk about family!"
"Oh." The Talon's eyes narrowed to gleaming slits. His shark-like grin slipped into a wolf's snarl. "I don't get to talk about family? Me?" He tipped his chin up, getting even more in Dick's face than he'd been before. "That's rich, coming from you, Dickie. After you abandoned us."
Tim watched Dick's entire frame undergo a flash freeze.
"Abandoned…" His voice shook. "Johnny, you died! You were all dead!"
"And you walked away!" John shouted. Spit flew from his mouth as his yellow eyes went as wide as an owl's. Even the black veins that spiraled underneath his skin seemed to darken and spread. "It was gonna be you! It was supposed to be you! But you, you little Orphan Annie, shoved a silver spoon into your mouth and walked out on the Circus. On your family! And who did they blame? Poor old Jack! They made him foot the bill—they couldn't get their precious Gray Son and so they demanded the next best thing—a half-pint Houdini and the cousin's bloody corpse!"
Dick's grip relaxed ever so slightly. "What?"
"Do you have any idea what they did to me?" John hissed through bared teeth. "They brought me back to life and then locked me in a stone box until my brain cracked. They ran me through a maze until my feet bled and my legs broke and then they made me do it again. They beat me. Tortured me. Put a knife in my hand and forced me to use it. And when they were all done, and I was a shaking, pathetic pile of clay all ready for them to mold? Do you know what they did, then, Dickie?"
John was shaking, and so was Dick. But the older man heaved a rattling breath, and then said,
"They killed me again. Strapped me to a table and put me down like a stray mutt. But the fun didn't end there—no, no, no. Those &*$^*%#$ pumped me full of the same stuff that brought me back from the dead, and then I woke up again! And this time? This time, Dickie, I was different." The Talon's chest heaved."See, I'm still dead. But now there's more."
M'gann took a step back, then another. "This is…the most we've gotten out of him all day."
"Explain, Hooter," Jason snapped.
John's eyes narrowed in their direction. Then his eyes flicked back up to his younger cousin's. Whatever floodgate Dick's mention of 'family' had pried open, it didn't seem as though it was about to close back up any time soon. "I'm strong. I'm fast. I can see in the dark and I can hear a pin drop half a mile away. I've got programming in my head that makes me the Grandmaster's #*$%^#& lapdog. But the Talon serum. That special sauce that made me into this? A hundred years ago, it was perfect, and it created perfect Talons. Perfect little killing machines that bent to the Owls' every whim. But those bygone days are behind us, Dickie. Their ingredients went stale, their recipe expired—I don't know what happened. But what I do know is that the Court's latest batches have come out…different. We can think for ourselves—mostly. We're not as unbreakable and infallible and perfect as the older models…meaning…"
John inhaled deeply through his nose, steeling himself. "We're expendable. Soon as the Court gets wind I'm missing, they'll flip a switch, and…well, let's just say I won't be making any more surprise comebacks."
The last bit was added with a bitter growl.
Dick looked absolutely shaken. "So you're—"
"Going to die again. Yes. And believe me, Dickie, there's no coming back from this one."
"Well, great."
Every eye in the room snapped over to Jason. He crossed his arms defensively over his chest and shrugged one shoulder. "What? Don't give me that look, guys. Birdbrain's got nothing to lose, right? So he can just go ahead and spill that brainpan of his—not like it's gonna matter."
"Jason," M'gann gasped.
"Oh, don't go feeling sorry for him now, M&M," he moaned. "Just remember he'd slit all our throats if he wasn't tied down."
John's eyes flashed. "And I'd enjoy every second. Especially cutting your throat, Gray Son."
Dick clenched his fists again, and then thrust John away. The chair legs smacked back down against the floor, and the assassin's body shook from the force. But he only wagged his head and sneered back up at the Batman. Who, through gritted teeth, demanded,
"What do you mean, 'Gray Son'? You keep calling me that. Your Talon partner at the Circus called me that."
"It's just your last name, isn't it?" Tim raised an eyebrow.
"No. Believe me, it's not," John snapped. He never tore his glowing eyes off of Dick. "But I'm not going to talk to that stupid mask anymore, Dickie. Take it off."
The others looked to Batman expectantly. The younger Grayson stood stiff and silent, gazing down at the man in the chair with slitted eyes and a thin frown. A million micro-expressions twitched over Dick's face, and if it hadn't been for the cowl, Tim might have been able to read them all. But then, after a sharp breath, Dick reached up.
A complicated set of clicks and whirs, and the cowl loosened. Dick pulled it off his head, letting his hair fluff out of it and fall in front of his eyes. A hand swiped away the dark, sweat-soaked strands.
And Dick Grayson looked down at his cousin with gleaming golden eyes.
Tim, Jason and M'gann gaped. John could only let out a loose smattering of breathless chuckles.
"You're farther along than I thought," he gasped, grinning wide. "Just look at you, Dickie. Aproape. Aproape ca mine."
At the string of words in what Tim guessed to be Romanian, Dick and John's mother tongue, the former's jaw clenched almost painfully.
"Tell me," he snapped.
"I'll tellyou what." John's chin tipped down until it almost touched his chest. His tone was laced with bitter mirth—the creature was enjoying this. "I'll tell you everything I know—with two small conditions, verisoara."
"Ce?" Dick snapped.
"One? Your two gadjo 'brothers' and the Martian &!^$# leave the room. What I say doesn't pertain to them." John's eyes fluttered shut. "And two? You let me out of this hole in the ground. Let me make like a bird and fly away home before I make like a bomb and go kaboom."
Jason took a sharp step forward. "Now hold on, just a—"
"Done," Dick said. He shot a meaningful glance in his brothers' direction, and aimed a stiff nod at M'gann. Who, with wide eyes, nibbled at her lower lip anxiously. Jason's face fell, and he grunted out a few choice words before he turned away.
Tim, though, wasn't about to stand down. "Are you insane? If we let him out, he'll warn the whole Court that we're onto them! Dick, think about Barbara—"
The look on Dick's face could have melted solid steel.
Tim's mouth snapped shut, even before John's low chuckle rumbled through the resulting silence.
"Oh, don't worry." The Talon feigned a soothing tone. "I'm sure the only thing that's really been on Dickie's mind this whole time is his sweet little Barbie doll."
"Shut up," Dick clipped, then to the others, "Get out."
"Dick." M'gann's arms wrapped over her chest.
"Miss M," the Batman shot back, in a barely-controlled, level tone, "Check back psychically in thirty minutes. I don't answer, come back in. But right now? I need the room cleared."
"Just think for a second!" Tim pleaded. "He's—"
Dick's tone was as taut as a wire. "Red Robin. Out. That is an order."
Tim bit down on his lip. Then opened his mouth to let Dick know exactly where he could shove that order. But then he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and looked up into Jason's stiff expression. His other brother's posture was tight and uneasy. His frown was deep and his eyes were ablaze, but when he spoke, he spoke gently.
"C'mon, Timbers."
Tim stiffened against Jason's grip. "But we can't—"
"Let's go."
#######
#######
Dick waited until the elevator doors hissed shut before he spoke. And once they had, his voice came in barely a whisper.
"I thought you were dead, Johnny."
John's glowing gaze was unwavering. His frown was colder than ice. "But you didn't waste any time, did you?"
"I'm sorry?" Dick hissed.
"You were there—I saw, just before I went out—standing right in the middle of our blood…our corpses. Until the bougie-man came and took you away before the Court could claim you. And you went with him—never even looked back." John growled, low in his throat. His shoulders tensed for a fight, and Dick wondered for the first time if the chains Jason had used—usually used for towing the Batmobile—would be strong enough to hold him. "Did you know that when they started letting me out into the city to train, I used to watch you? I watched you grow up, little cous. I watched you…be happy. You had a mentor who watched out for you, a girlfriend who adored you…"
John's jaw clenched and unclenched.
"So, did you even care?" he added in a pained whisper. "About what happened? Did you even mourn us? Or did you just decide right then and there to replace your familie with Bruce Wayne?"
Dick reared. A spike of pain pierced at his heart, but then he bared his teeth. "Is that what you think? Of course, I mourned!"
"No. You cried about it for a few months, then moved on." John leaned forward in his seat. "But see, Gray Son. The thing about 'moving on'? It's just one more luxury you'll always be able to afford. Not all of us were so lucky."
He looked at the Talon—really looked—and saw the pain welling up in the man's eyes. The hurt etched into every scar on his face, and flowing through every black vein in his body. Moving on? It had been #$%%, but eventually Dick had managed to reach a better place. To find people he loved and cared about to surround himself with. They'd eased his pain and helped him to become something, someone, better. But John…
"Johnny," Dick hissed. "I'm sorry. If I could have—"
"What?" John's voice snapped like a frayed trapeze wire, and Dick flinched hard. "What could you have done? Stormed into the Maze with your Batman and Batgirl and rescued me from the Owls? I'd still be a zombified freak. I'd still be a slush-brained monster!"
His chin dropped as he let his head hang. And for a moment, the two Graysons could only sit in silence. Dick traced the slope of Johnny's powerful shoulders with his eyes. He used to be so small—six years older than Dick, but still only a few inches taller. The John he'd known had probably only weighed a buck twenty soaking wet, but the man sitting in the chair looked like he could crush someone's skull without too much thought, let alone effort.
And then, Johnny looked up.
In a low voice, he slowly asked, "But I'm sorry. I cut you off. Maybe you were about to say…'if I could've stopped throwing a temper tantrum and agreed to go with the Court, then none of this would have happened'?"
"What the #$%% are you talking about?"
"Do you seriously not remember?"
Vague memories rose to the surface, poking and prodding at the edges of his mind.
His mother's hand in his, soft and reassuring. His father standing in front of him, like a wall of steel protecting against an onslaught. There was an ache in his mouth, near the back, and his hand had rubbed at it absently. He'd wondered why his mom and dad were so angry about something as trivial as a trip to the dentist.
"John, Mary. This was agreed upon before the boy was born. John has the genes—"
"No. Not my boy." Mary's voice in his memory was like ice, cutting and sharp. It was such a contrast from her usual warm tone that the sound of it lodged in Dick's mind. "Not after what you did. Without our permission—!"
"A necessary procedure, Mary. Please, believe me. I've tried everything, but all the usual bribes aren't working. They want Dick, and this time, I can't hold them off."
"There has to be something you can do," John Grayson pleaded. "You saved me, saved Richard. You managed to put them off this long—can't you persuade them to wait one more generation?"
"And would you rather Dick's children serve the Court? Can you doom your unborn grandkids, John?"
"CAN I DOOM MY SON?" John shouted, and his voice shook the room.
Dick had peered around his father's torso—and saw the gray face of Jack Haly on the other side.
"You will not take our boy away from us, Jack." Mary said, deathly calm. "We would rather die."
The rest of the tense conversation had sailed over Dick's head like a flying aerialist, but this, he understood perfectly.
"What?"
All eyes in the room turned on him.
"Mami? Tati? Am I going away?"
Mary's eyes welled up. John's face crumpled. And Jack Haly took a step back.
"I…I don't want to go." Dick shook his head from side to side. "Mami? Don't make me go."
"I will never make you go, înger."
"Please don't let them take me, Tati!"
John's jaw was set. His eyes slid from his son to the ringmaster and narrowed dangerously.
"You tell the Court no, Jack. Or I'll take my family and run."
"We will disappear," his mother said, accent weighing down on her words as she nervously ruffled her son's hair. "The Court will lose the Grayson line permanently. Promises and traditions be &*#%$&."
"They…they won't stand for that." Jack Haly went very, very pale. "John, Mary. You don't understand what it means to defy them. They'll—"
"Let them do their worst."
"I can't. I'm sorry."
"Then consider this goodbye, Jack. After tomorrow's show, we will be long gone."
A gasp tore out of Dick's throat.
Head spinning like a top, he staggered back. His hands clapped over his forehead. Blood roared in his ears as he felt something rising inside of him, mounting and mounting like a tidal wave. Just on the verge of crashing and flooding.
"There it is." John was smirking up at him, satisfaction written in every line of his face. "You just saw that, didn't you? Can you feel another one coming?"
Dick's mouth flopped open and closed as he gasped for air. All around him was a crushing sense of panic, like his fight-or-flight response had been dialed up to the highest setting. He'd never felt like this—like he was about to implode from a feeling alone.
"Wha—what the h—what is—"
"Your bond." John's head quirked to the side, smug and certain. There was something in the sound of his voice that was even more so, like he'd just had all of his suspicions confirmed. "With your mate. With Barbara. Makes you feel everything she feels, and experience every exquisite sensation from her torture. It's probably been driving you insane, mm? All that pain, and not knowing where it's coming from?"
Dick's knees snapped against the floor. "Wh—?"
"You're even more Talon-ized than I'd thought." John sounded so self-satisfied. And maybe even a touch relieved. "Your tooth, little cousin. The one they stuck in your mouth when you were eight. When you died by Gordon's hand, the second your body went cold, the sample of Talon serum inside it got to work, triggering a reaction in your body's cells to begin regenerating."
John tossed back his head and laughed long and hard.
"Which means—!" he gasped. "Which means that if your sweet, self-sacrificing little girl had left things alone, you would've been back to normal within a few days. No Lazarus Pit necessary! Maybe you would've been a little…mm, let's say, different…but still, alive!"
Dick felt pain blooming on his side. It felt like it'd been sliced open with razorblades, and he could feel the heated, searing sensation like a branding iron. His breathing shuddered as he pressed a hand to the place.
"That right there," John nodded to Dick's gesture of self-comfort. "She probably took some claws to the ribs. Talon gauntlets…nasty things, those."
Dick's fingers shivered over the invisible wound.
But John wasn't finished. "The moment the serum was released into your system, you latched onto whoever it was you had the deepest emotional connection to. And now the connection is unbreakable. Which means that right now, she's feeling the same thing you are…only difference is she's probably bleeding. But that's not even the best part, Dickie."
"Wh—what are—"
"The higher-ups were talking about a brand-new, never-before-seen kind of torture. Real psychological stuff." His grin turned wolfish. "I hear it makes you see things. Memory-things. You just saw one, right? That means she did too. And if I'm right, then it's not even remotely over. So sit back, relax, and buckle up for the ride, cousin, because this train ain't about to make any rest stops."
Dick doubled over with a groan, a migraine-like sensation blooming behind his eyes.
"Gyeahhh!" he screamed.
His vision went white, painfully white, before solidifying into new color. Brighter color.
He blinked hard, and looked up at John for some kind of explanation, already opening his mouth to deliver a few choice words.
But his cousin was gone. And so were the dark, dripping stalactites, and dark, hard-edged lines and shadows of the BatCave. Darkness had been replaced with buzzing overhead lights, an open concrete room lined with all sorts of equipment—the kind of equipment that would make any acrobat worth his salt shout for joy.
He knew the place. It was the gym upstairs; the one Bruce had built for his new ward a few months after Dick had first moved in. He'd been missing the circus, and started getting antsy—flipping and jumping and balancing on anything that would hold still for long enough. The chandelier, the banister, the sofa, the entertainment center, Alfred, the trees out on the grounds, the roof…
Bruce had decided enough was enough, and had an indoor gym constructed inside the manor, complete with every aerial hoop, ring, silk, rope, net, high-bar, springboard, pommel, or balance beam a young ball of acrobatic energy could ever ask for.
Dick turned his head and spotted the place where there should have been a circular, spiderweb-like dent he'd put in the wall years ago during a teenaged temper tantrum. But the concrete was smooth and unmarred.
This was…surreal.
"Hello?"
His head jerked to the side, catching the movements of a young boy walking into the room. He was dressed out in practice leggings and a tshirt that had the Hamilton Elementary logo stamped on the front—Dick's old grade-school.
The kid was definitely Dick Grayson: short, skinny as a rail, with big blue eyes that took up half his face. He stared openly at his younger self as he marched into the room. Both of them wore raised eyebrows and confused frowns.
But the baby Grayson's puzzled expression wasn't directed at his future self.
Dick followed the kid's gaze to one of the balance beams across the room—
—and his heart may or may not have skipped a good beat or three.
There was a girl standing upright on the beam, one leg extended forward, toes tracing the edge. Wavy, rusty hair fell over her face as her head tilted down. She spun, one leg lifted to keep her balance, before her foot came back down and rested against the surface. There was something very ballet-like in that movement, but also very amateur. As if this girl was here to practice, but was unsure of what to practice, exactly.
At the sound of younger Dick's greeting, she looked up.
Her eyes were a startling blue. Dick was too far away to get a good look, but he knew those eyes like he knew his own name. He could almost see the flecks of yellow inside of them, could almost picture the emotion they conveyed so easily every time they—
"Who're you?" Younger Dick demanded.
"Who're you?" she echoed.
"I asked you first!"
He watched the girl's eyes go narrow as her shoulders squared. With ease, she hopped off the balance beam and stalked toward Dick's younger self. He recognized the swagger, the posture, the gait. It was all street-kid toughness, which meant Little Dick was about to either get a piece of her mind, or a fist in his face.
"'Scuse me?" she growled, marching up until she and Dick were two feet apart.
But, intimidated as preteen Dick Grayson was by girls, this one was on his turf, practicing on his equipment, and was about to get a piece of his mind.
"Your posture is $#!*," he growled. "What're you trying to do, anyway? Roll your ankle?"
The girl recoiled, eyes wide before they narrowed to slits. "For your information, kid, I've been doin' ballet, hip hop, and gymnastics since I was four. My parents made sure I—"
Her sentence cut off abruptly, and she turned away. He watched her throat bob.
"Your parents?" Younger Dick dipped his head hesitantly, trying to meet her gaze. Something in his hard expression cracked a little, giving way to something a lot softer.
"Dead," the redhead snapped. "So? Whatever. I can still twirl circles around you, smart*$$."
He stared at her for the longest time, saying nothing. In his head, Dick remembered, he'd been going over all the things he could say, all the ways he could offer condolence, sympathy, advice…
"Hello?" she demanded, waving a hand in front of his sad little frown. "Earth to Robin?"
And all of the nice words in his mind kind of fizzled out just like that.
"What did you say?" he hissed.
The girl rolled her eyes to the ceiling as she spun on her heel. Started to make her way back towards the balance beam. "Robin? Duh, buddy. How many other kids live in this house?"
Dick's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish's as he gasped, "Yeah, but how—and—and why—and—?"
"Because I told her." a voice announced from the other end of the room, low and commanding. The familiar authority of it made the two preteens perk up like they'd been shocked, and present-day Dick Grayson noticed that even his spine went ramrod straight at the sound.
And he looked, and saw the memory of his mentor step into the memory of this room. Bruce didn't have as much gray in his hair, and had fewer stress lines around his eyes. He wore a nonchalant smile that would disappear completely from his repertoire sometime around the day they lost Jason.
The loose gray tshirt and basketball shorts he wore were his typical workout attire, along with the towel he had thrown over one shoulder. "Good," he said pleasantly. "I was wondering when you two would bump into each other. Dick, this is Barbara. She's going to be our new partner."
"WhAT?"
"Barbara, this is Richard."
In this small snapshot of a moment, Bruce Wayne looked absolutely delighted to be officially introducing his two partners to each other.
A sentiment neither of the adolescents in the room shared.
"Ugh, charmed." The girl sneered. Then paused, as her eyes went round. Immediately, she let out a snort of laughter. "Wait, wait, wait, your name is Richard?"
Both arms snapped over his chest defensively. "So?"
"And…" she gasped delightedly. "You go by Dick?"
Preteen Dick Grayson's face betrayed a very Damian Wayne-esque snarl.
"By—by choice? Oh my &*#! Ahahahaha!"
"Barbara," Bruce's tone held a note of warning.
"It was my parents' nickname for me." Dick bit down on his lower lip, glowering deeply. "Okay? So—"
"So, what," Barbara continued, wiping a tear out of her eye as she let out a deep breath. "I guess your parents were the real d*cks, huh?"
The resulting silence was thicker than a brick wall.
Current-day Dick had a level of detachment. He could watch it all go down without the spark of unbridled rage that ignited in his younger self. He could view it all with clearer lenses. Babs hadn't had a clue about his parents. She'd grown up around kids who all had *$$#*%^s for guardians, and so she'd just been trying to strike some common ground. Make some sort of connection, even if it had been insensitive.
But eleven-year-old Dick? He didn't exactly have that same paradigm.
Instead, he crashed into Barbara like a runaway train.
In the time it took to blink, preteen Richard Grayson had preteen Barbara Delphi on the floor. They both hit the concrete hard. Rolled, kicked, screamed, bit, scratched, yelled, spat. A fist connected with a jaw, a knee to the groin, an agonized yell. Hair was pulled, eyes were poked.
And then Bruce finally managed to grab both hellions by their collars and haul them to their feet.
"Alright, enough!" he bellowed, and both kids stopped screeching.
Dick was panting, hair sticking up at random angles. His nose was trickling blood like a drippy faucet. "Take," he panted, "Take that back."
"Congrats," Babs gasped, equally out of breath. Her lip was steadily beginning to swell, and the scratch on her cheek was weeping beads of scarlet. "Didn' know it was possible to be a d*ck and an *$$#*%^."
Dick growled and reached for her again, but Bruce yanked him back.
"That's quite enough of that," he reiterated, glowering down at both of them. His tone and his expression were both heavy with disappointment, and it had present-day Dick wincing in sympathy.
"Tell her to take it back," the younger boy snarled.
Bruce turned his head slightly. "Barbara—"
"I'm not taking back $#!^."
"Dick—"
"I'm not sorry!"
The man let out a heavy, exasperated, done-with-it-all sigh that would only be the first of many (many) more to come. With each successive child that entered this house, it would only get longer and deeper. But for now, with such limited experience in handling homicidal children, he could only shake his head and strain his muscles as he held the two opposing forces apart.
"You two," he finally said, after he'd clearly reached some silent decision, "are partners now. Robin and Batgirl. You will be patrolling together. Fighting together. I want—no, scratch that—I expect you two to have each other's backs no matter how much you want to rip each other to pieces."
"Heh, seriously? Batgirl?" Dick sneered. "More like Brat-girl."
"Don't hurt yourself, kid." Barbara's eyes flashed murderously. "Let's keep the clever quips to the professionals, aight? Wouldn't want to strain the last two braincells you got bumpin' around in there."
"I'll kill you, you—"
"Trust!" Bruce snapped, and both kids shut their mouths quickly. He looked at both of them in turn, brow furrowing into an expression that toed the line between frustration and sorrow. "Without it, we don't work. So that's all I expect out of you two. Got it?"
Barbara frowned. Dick's gaze rolled down towards the floor.
"I'm not asking you to be best friends." Bruce gave a defeated huff. "#$%%, I'm not even asking you to enjoy breathing in the same airspace. What I want, though, is for you to act like professionals when we're out working, and exercise justenough maturity to trust each other. Dick, when Barbara needs your help out in the field, you help her. Barbara, when Dick needs help, you help him. No questions asked, no hesitation. Because when all is said and done? If we don't have trust, we don't have anything."
Barbara looked at Dick, and Dick looked at Barbara. For a moment, both of them had the decency to look at least a little bit contrite. Barbara even seemed slightly apologetic.
But then Dick grit his teeth.
"I'll never trust her, B," he growled.
With a savage thrust of his body, he tore out of Bruce's grip and spun away. Stalked towards the exit like a wounded, sullen tiger. With a hand on the doorframe, and a note of hurt in his voice, Dick shot one last barb at his mentor.
"And after this, I'm not even sure I can trust you."
#######
#######
She wasn't sure how long she laid there on the ground. Only that eventually, inevitably, they sent someone down to get her.
Barbara felt two arms slide beneath her shivering body. Felt the rocking and swaying motions as she was lifted and then carried. But her eyes stayed stubbornly closed, eyelashes knit together by stale tears. She tipped her chin down, curling into the chest of whoever-it-was and let out a shaky sigh.
It was a man; she could tell by the scent. His heart beat against her temple, and Barbara got lost in the sound, letting the steady rhythm soothe her frayed nerves.
Pathetic.
What if he's here to kill us?
Does it really matter if he is?
They'll just pull me back again.
And again. And—
A whimper squeezed out of her throat.
"Shh, Barbara," she heard the man say. "I'm here."
The deep timbre of his voice was as familiar to Barbara as the sound of her own. But 'familiar' didn't necessarily equate with recognition. She stirred, furrowing her brow, as she struggled to place it. Nothing came to mind—but then again, Barbara's mind wasn't exactly well-organized at the moment…
Well, screw it.
She wheezed. "Who're'you?"
For a moment, there was nothing. Just that steady rise and fall of the man's chest. But the beating rhythm against Barbara's head quickened.
"A friend," he said finally. Carefully. "Of your father's."
"Oh," she sighed. Her head lolled further down until her chin rested against her collarbone. Something brushed against her forehead—smooth and cold and metallic. Her mind flitted to a memory of being carried like this, out of the Maze. They always sent a Talon to retrieve her.
It felt like one of their claws was stroking over her face.
"You've…been through quite a bit, haven't you?"
"…Mmm."
"And you've been so strong. But now it's time to rest."
"Mm-hm?"
Her fluttering thoughts began to drift, falling and melting away like snowflakes. The man's voice was a pleasant rumble, and the feel of it lulled her deeper into the darkness.
"I need you to keep fighting them, Barbara. The more you fight, the more we can…" There was a pause. Then a soft, "You can't let go. No matter what. Help is coming, but it won't do you any good if there's nothing left to save. Please. Just hold on."
Her stomach churned. Where had she heard that voice…?
"Nn—no," she breathed. "Wha's the point? They…won…won't let them win...but they… Where's Christina?"
"She's safe. But, Barbara, it's not about winning. It's about survival. Keep fighting. Please."
He said something else. Something low and soothing. But whatever it was, Barbara didn't hear.
She'd drifted away into the darkness.
#######
#######
'Keep fighting', huh?
Yeah. Sure.
What is it now?
I was having a good dream.
Really? Sarcasm? Not a good color on you, babe.
Just had to go and conk out on me, didn't you?
But don't worry.
I've been keeping an eye on us.
Oh, is that right?
Hm.
Right now, we're back in the hole.
They've mostly left us alone, but I doubt that'll last.
Thank &*# you have me.
Why are they doing this? What's the &*#% point?
The Court tortures their Talons until they're malleable. That's what they've been doing to me up until now, so—
And we, the unbreakable Barbara Delphi, haven't proven so easy to mold, have we?
Face it, honey. They're done waiting around for us to crack. They're on a time crunch—can't you feel it?
They're speeding things up. Taking a shortcut.
Time to break out the psychological warfare.
Why bother?
Really?
Fine, then. Guess I'll do all the critical thinking for the both of us.
Let's review, shall we?
And we'll start from the top.
First of all, they want you. They want their Gray Son.
So. Who do they nab first?
Me…but what does this have to do with—?
Humor me.
Why do they nab you first?
To get to him?
Plausible, but I think that's an oversimplification.
Try seeing it this way: let's say we want to snag our two most high-profile targets, and do it in a way that neither of them will catch on before we've done it. And their friends and allies will be none the wiser while we do.
Who do you take first?
They wouldn't take you both at the same time.
I think—and you'll agree—that the whole Roulette debacle was a test run in more ways than we first thought. Not just for the devices. But for the abductions, too.
The Court wanted to see what would happen if you and Dick were both taken simultaneously. And, remember—what did happen?
Steph and the others mobilized the Birds of Prey…
Ex-actly. You take both Big Bats out of the equation in one swift move, and you put the other heroes on high alert.
So…they pick us off one by one. Like…having James take Dick and Damian…
But the Grandmaster said that was an accident. That it was supposed to be me.
On the nose, Babs. Good job.
James was supposed to take you. Kill Dami, fake your death, and make it all look like some stray tragedy. Could have happened to anyone—but it just so happened to happen to you. Get it? Meanwhile, they'd bring us here, and work on cracking us like an egg until they were ready for Dick.
But that little scheme went flying out the window, so now they're onto plan B: take out the moody one who's been voted by everyone as 'most likely to throw a tantrum and run away to pout'.
So now they have us.
And they're still trying to crack our brain-shell.
But turns out we're a little more hard-boiled than they were counting on.
Okay, I'll bite.
Good. Listen up.
They've been watching us, Babs.
For a long, long time.
They know us. They know all about our little protective streak.
Think long and hard about this: when Roulette had you both in her arena, she got Dick to fight by telling him she had you.
She got you to fight by telling you they had Steph.
Now, why do you think that is?
I…
Is it because Dick's safety wasn't enough to keep you in line?
No. &*# no, if anything happened to him, I'd—
So why? Why Steph?
I…
Fine. I have no idea.
Care to enlighten me?
With pleasure.
Dick's not a very angry guy, right?
Right…
When he snaps, it's a pretty big deal, wouldn't you say?
So.
The thing about Dick Grayson's anger is that it is rare, and it is intense—
—but it is extremely predictable.
And extremely fratriarchal.
They know exactly what buttons to press for the desired outcome, Babs.
Tell him he'd better behave or they'll slit little brother or sister's throat?
Dick would've laid waste to that whole arena if he didn't see proof.
But.
Tell the poor boy they've got you tied up in their basement?
He'll rage, and he'll scream, but he'll dance to whatever tune they like if it means keeping you safe.
So that's exactly what they did.
But—
But if you try it vice versa…telling you they've got him.
Well. Let's just say that your anger is a little harder to predict, Babs.
What do you mean? I'd do anything to keep him safe.
I know.
Of course I know.
But think back to the arena. If they'd told you they had Dick.
What would you have done?
I…
For Stephanie, you'd play their game.
Because you feel responsible for her. Because you've watched her bleed to death in a hospital bed. Because they would have set her against a rabid Troia, and you knew she wasn't strong enough to win that fight.
Dick is different.
When it comes to protecting you, he treats you like glass.
Don't forget, he's seen you in a hospital bed, too.
But when it comes to protecting him?
If Roulette told you they had Dick, you would have fought them tooth and nail.
Knowing that you'd both come out of it.
The Owls saw how you reacted when Dick was taken. They saw what you did when he was killed.
And they either think one of two things at this point:
One, that they can control your anger—the same anger that killed Lady Shiva to save Dick Grayson.
And if that's the case, then they are severely deluded.
Or, two.
They know they can't control it. And that scares them so much they are willing to place you in the hands of the Light's best interrogator and enforcer, your psychopathic cousin, a psychiatric professional, and a hacker with a superiority complex, just to break you down in the unconventional way.
Every other Talon initiate, they've taken care of themselves.
But not you.
They had to orchestrate this carefully.
Orchestrate…?
All of this.
And they started by putting just the right kind of stressors on your relationship with Dick—seeding just the right amount of doubt—
—and pretty soon, Grayson snapped like a dry twig.
His anger is predictable, after all.
He drives you away, just long enough for the Owls to pull that stunt with Raya Vestri to keep the Grayson line going and simultaneously ensure you two don't kiss and make up.
And then Dick stays mad at you—furious with you for not taking his side—until the Court decides it's time.
Time for what?
Let's face it. Eventually? We'll break.
And when we do, they'll make sure Dick sees it.
No. Not if we don't break.
We will.
Not trying to be the cynic, Babs, but we haven't eaten in two days, and haven't had more than eight hours of sleep in the last week.
We'll break. It's only a matter of when.
We've lasted this long, haven't we?
True.
But…
I can't shake the thought.
If they want us to break so badly—and soon—
-and if they really have been watching me closely enough to know my weaknesses, then…?
You're wondering why they haven't just grabbed one of our kids already? To slice apart while they make us watch?
They have to know that would break me.
I think they do.
I absolutely think they do.
But they also know that we're the only one they could 'disappear' at the moment without raising any suspicion. Think about that.
They orchestrated all of our relationship problems with Dick. They turned Dina, and took your phone. The Court has your whole family convinced that you're on a deep cover mission—and they've made sure no one will ever question it. In fact, the only person you'd conceivably share the details of said mission with…the only one you'd ever possibly bring into the loop—
Is…Dick.
Our closest partner and confidant.
But we're not exactly on speaking terms at the moment, are we?
So who else would you turn to?
…Dina.
Who, by the way, is the only other person who could either sound the alarm or keep the Birds pacified.
Well, her and Stephanie.
And they already got Dina, so…
Do you think they're going to grab Steph?
No, I don't.
They have the others lulled into a false sense of security.
As far as anyone else is considered, you're fine. A bit touchy at the moment—but fine.
But. If they grab anyone else, that'll stir the pot.
It'll get the others wondering why you haven't been answering your calls.
They already know something's up. The text message…
I know that. And you know that.
But the Court doesn't.
And besides, the text only means that they know our phone's been compromised.
I can't promise they'll come, sweetheart. They might not even know to come.
All I'm saying, is that if the Court grabs another Bat, then all bets are off and the jig will be up.
They know that.
So, to answer your question—
No. I don't think they'll kidnap Batgirl.
I think they'll send a Talon for her.
Make it look like her grapple gun was faulty, or like a stray thug got the drop on her.
They'll kill her. And then make it look like a tragic accident.
The others will be too busy mourning to even consider anything else.
But then, for all they know, the others would try to tell 'me' and…how does the Court really expect that to go?
I think by then, they'll be ready for the next phase of their plan.
Getting their Gray Son.
And they won't take him, Barbara. They'll make sure he comes of his own free will.
His anger is predictable, remember?
All they have to do is wave you around like a fishing lure and he'll come running.
Any anger he had toward us will fly out the window. He'll come rushing to your rescue, desperate to make amends and save the woman he loves. You're his greatest weakness, just like he is yours.
You know this.
Then the Court will have you both. And they won't hesitate to start taking out the rest of Gotham's Bat population—they'll probably have you and Dick attend to that, personally.
No…
Yes.
And let me tell you this, Babs.
We're going to break.
And it will be because we watch all of this go down—
—absolutely powerless to put a stop to it.
There was a sharp bang that made Barbara's limbs twitch, and her eyes slide beneath her lids.
Oh, and by the way, we've got company.
Good luck.
Soft bootsteps clapped against the floor. She counted them as they came closer, closer, closer. And then something brushed her cheek, lifting the hair away from her face.
"Mmhh," Barbara breathed, rolling away from the touch.
Her visitor clicked his tongue. "Now, now. Up and at 'em, princess. I brought you your dinner."
At the tantalizing prospect of food, her eyes shuttered open. She blinked to clear away the bleariness, and caught sight of the knees in front of her nose. As Barbara's gaze slid up to the man's face, she grimaced. Deathstroke was smirking down at her. In one hand he held a rectangular tray, and in the other, a matching cup brimming over with sloshing water.
Slade set the cup down with a soft clink against the stone floor, and the warm smell of the tray's contents hit her like a slap to the face. Saliva pooled in her mouth, and Barbara's stomach mumbled out a few colorful complaints.
She tried to push herself into an upright position, but found that her hands were bound. While she was out, they'd looped steel chains around her wrists, and tied off the end somewhere out of sight. She couldn't do much more than wiggle her fingers. A fact that she became acutely aware of as soon as Slade gripped the chain with his free hand and yanked.
Barbara's arms jerked upward, and she squeaked as her body followed. With a leer, Deathstroke propped her up against the cell wall, leaving her in a sitting position, and leaned in close.
"How was the nap?" His breath hit her in the face as his grin widened. "Sleep well?"
Her eyes narrowed. Then slid from his, down to the steaming meal in his other hand.
A lean cut of meat—probably beef, maybe even pork, but so, so tempting—a dab of mashed potatoes with a pad of butter already melting into it, and a small but perfectly browned dinner roll.
Good &*#, they were giving her carbs. And #$%% if it didn't smell amazing.
Barbara felt her jaw loosen as her eyes locked onto the tray. She was hypnotized. Entranced. Just then, she might've told Slade anything he wanted to know about anything just to dig into that food a little sooner. #$%%, she would've sold her soul for just one mouthful of potatoes…
"What's the matter, baby doll? Nothing to say? You usually have such witty little one-liners for me." Deathstroke followed her salivating gaze, and his smirk widened. "Ohhh. Guess the quips take a backseat to appetite, mm?"
Barbara blinked. But her eyes never left the food.
"Or maybe we are finally beginning to wear you down?" Slade set the tray on the floor, and brought his hand up to her face. Barbara didn't even flinch as he slid his fingers below her chin, and tipped it up. The rough leather of his gloves scraped over her skin like sandpaper, and though she didn't look, she could feel him studying her with careful precision. And whatever he saw, he must have found extremely interesting. She felt him stiffen. His fingers tightened on her skin. But the small points of sudden pain were just distraction. Barbara didn't react. She couldn't make herself react.
It didn't matter. Nothing did.
She was powerless to stop whatever happened next. Resistance was futile. Resistance meant pain.
And, frankly, she just didn't have the energy for that.
"Amazing," Deathstroke breathed. He tipped her head side to side. Barbara resisted the urge to shiver at the feel of her hair brushing one bare shoulder, then another. He mumbled the words under his breath, and Barbara barely even registered them. "I don't know what you saw in there, but…&*#^. Their little machine did its work, after all. Would've taken me another month to break you down like this. But just… look at you."
Barbara pressed her lips together in a frown, but stayed silent.
He dropped her chin, his eyes narrowed to slits. "I wanna know if you can still vocalize, sweetheart. Go ahead and sing for me."
Sing? He wasn't going to feed her, was he? With a soft breath of a sigh, Barbara let her eyes fall shut, and tipped her head back against the wall. The feel of the hard surface against her skull was grounding. She could've sat like that all day, but then Slade yanked up on her wrists, and her eyes snapped back open.
"Words, darling," he growled. "Sing me a song, and I'll give you a bite of meat. Though, if you're not feeling cooperative, I can always go get my tools…"
She swallowed hard and wet her cracked lips. Staring into Slade's eyes she managed, through clenched teeth, "Give me the tray…and I'll give you a &*#^ soliloquy."
Her voice sounded weak and crackly, like she'd spent the day gargling nails. It was barely above a hiss, but it was enough to make the mercenary blink in surprise. And then, tip his head back with a huff of triumphant laughter.
"So," he chuckled, reaching for the fork he'd brought in on the tray. "Not broken, just beaten. Good to know."
She watched as he carved a bite-sized chunk out of the mystery meat, and lifted it towards her face. Her hands lowered, fingers grasping. But Slade jerked the chain up with his other hand, and she felt the screeching pain of chafing skin as her wrists were tugged back up. A soft cry leaked from her throat.
"Uh-uh," he chided, brandishing the fork like a fencing saber. "Do I need to remind you how this works, doll? I do the honors. Open up."
Barbara scowled.
"Now, Barbie girl. Unless you'd rather watch me eat this lovely homecooked meal, myself?"
Their stare-down lasted a few stretching seconds. Then Barbara's lips parted.
The moment the savory morsel hit her tongue was the greatest moment of Barbara's life. She chewed mechanically, but let out an ecstatic groan. The warm juices burst across her tongue. She chewed and chewed until the meat lost its flavor, and then swallowed. Slade breathed out another chuckle of a laugh, and spooned potatoes and beef—it was definitely roast beef—into Barbara's open mouth.
As he fed her, he talked.
This wasn't the first time they'd done this. #$%%, she'd lost count how many times they had. Normally, Slade made her beg a little more for her food. But maybe he could sense Barbara's fatigue, because tonight, he didn't press her too hard. Instead, he told her about his work. His petty arguments with the other torturers, his annoyance with the Talons and the Courtiers (most especially the Grandmaster). He mentioned his daughter, Rose, and his frustrations with her in particular. Apparently, she'd run off a while back to join the Teen Titans, and after all the hard work he'd put into raising her, and training her, and disciplining her, too. The nerve. The audacity. Teenagers, today.
Barbara nodded as she ate, tuning out the chatter, and focusing instead on the flavor of the first nourishment she'd enjoyed in days. And once she'd swallowed down the last mouthful, she licked her lips mournfully, frowning up at Slade.
"…swear I'll make Red Robin pay for dragging her away—and you can mark me on that. Although…" He trailed off, tipping his chin down a little as he studied her. A cruel sneer curled slowly at his mouth. "I guess you already beat me to the punch, hm?"
Barbara shivered. Turned her face away.
"How'd it feel, sweetheart?" he growled, leaning in closer. "Ripping the heart out of an innocent boy? It's always a rush, isn't it, watching the light go out in their eyes?"
A violent shudder shook Barbara to her core.
"I'll admit, the resemblance to Drake was absolutely uncanny. I had a hand in picking him out of the lineup, just for you. Figured you'd get a kick out of offing your annoying little bro—"
"Stop," she whispered.
"—ther. Did he beg, any? Try and plead his case?" His foul breath blasted her in the face. "You should know—in life, that boy was a street urchin from the Narrows. Ironic, isn't it? Just trying to provide for a younger sister. Worked for Falcone's gang, but he was saving up and trying to work the ranks in order to get into the old man's good graces. Go to college, drag himself and little Emiko out of the gutter…a real sap-story. I'm sure you know how it goes…"
Barbara turned her face back towards the man and fixed him with her most venomous stare. The kind that could melt granite.
"What's the matter, doll? Did that strike a nerve?"
Her jaw clenched tight.
"Because," Slade said, yanking her chain hard. Barbara's wrists stretched higher, the metal cutting into the soft skin. She let out a grunt of pain, but her tormentor continued. "I think you've lost the right to hold onto that precious 'holier-than-thou' angle. You killed some homeless nobody…and now you're just like the rest of us. You've got innocent, civilian blood on your hands, Barbara. So tell me, before I drag it out of you…how does that feel?"
How did it feel? The truth was more horrible than anything Slade could have thrown at her—
—she felt nothing.
In that small place in her chest, the cavity carved out by the sight of that poor boy's sightless eyes and lolling tongue…there was silence. A void. Where there had only just hours ago been excruciating pain…
There was nothing left.
And that, Barbara decided, was scarier than any session underneath Slade's knives.
She felt the pang of it, the loss. She wasn't even sure when the regret, the disgust, the horror, had been taken from her—maybe it had happened by degrees. But the fact that it was gone, that she was now incapable of mourning the life she'd taken…
Wilson was watching all of the many emotions cross over her face carefully, taking the time to dissect each and every one. His eyes travelled slowly. They took in the lines of her forehead that traced her pain out like a sketching pencil, then slid down her face to her lips. To the hollow of her throat. And then even lower, and lower still, before they made their way back up to her face. Barbara didn't blink, just narrowed her eyes as she stared him down.
"Well," Slade muttered under his breath with a leer.
His fingers curled around the metal cup, and he lifted it invitingly. "Let's switch gears. How long has it been since your last drink? A day? Two?"
Barbara's gaze traced the beads of condensation on the sides, and her tongue felt as dry as dust. Two days.
"Bet you'd like a sip right about now, mm?"
She watched helplessly as he tipped it against his lips. Streams of water trickled into his mouth, and down his chin. Her mouth dropped open as she watched the precious liquid go to waste. And he kept going, and going. Every millisecond she watched—and every drop he wasted—sent a shiver of anxiety prickling across her skin.
She licked her lips. "S-Slade."
More water bubbled past his lips.
"Slade."
He gulped, then puffed out a sigh as he lowered the cup. Smacked his lips. Then said, "What's that? Couldn't hear you, sweetheart."
"Please, Slade," she whispered, then winced, lowering her eyes to the ground.
His eyebrows darted up. "Look at you, remembering your manners. Good girl."
Slade's grip on the chain tightened, and Barbara's shoulders burned. But the pain was forgotten as he raised the chilled rim of the cup to her lips. She opened her mouth, and felt the first splash of cool water on her tongue. It streamed down her throat, and Barbara swallowed the rest with enthusiasm. Slade tipped the cup higher and higher. This time, the water overflowed from her mouth, and she felt the wetness slide down her chin first in droplets and then in rivulets. Her skin prickled as the chilled liquid trickled down to her throat.
But when the water was gone, Barbara gasped, "Nngyuh…heh…heh..." And Slade withdrew the cup with a satisfied smirk, watching her now-damp chest rise and fall. He dragged his gaze up to her eyes and bared his teeth.
"Grayson," he mused, too slowly. "Doesn't deserve you. In more ways than one."
Barbara's head lolled. Stomach full, and thirst quenched, nothing else mattered. If he was going to hurt her some more, let him hurt her—at least she'd gotten to taste something other than her own tongue.
"What, nothing to say to that?"
She managed to shoot him one sour look, then glanced away. "Why bother? You're…a-absolutely right."
Slade reached up, slowly, carding his fingers through her hair. Barbara's scalp prickled as his hand moved. Goosebumps shivered over her skin. He leaned a little closer as he said, "I am, aren't I? Someone has been learning. He's a good kid—doesn't deserve a selfish little snake like you. And, let's face it, you're too much of a firebrand for a bleeding heart like his. But me?" His breath puffed hot against her mouth as he pressed in, closer still. "Well, me…I can handle the heat."
Barbara's eyes widened as Slade's fingers tightened. He gripped the roots of her hair and dragged hard. Her neck arched back, her face tipped up. And before she had the chance to utter so much as a squeak—he was kissing her.
She thrashed against his grip, at first. Craned her neck to escape. But her aching muscles and shivering limbs were a stark reminder of just how weak she'd become during her time in this #$%%-hole. He only pressed harder, lips working against hers, forcing them open. Barbara could only whimper. Let her eyes fall shut and wait for it to be over. Twin tears dripped down her neck as she went limp.
After an eternity—one, agonizing eternity—Deathstroke pulled away. His face was only inches from hers, but he smiled. Moved his hand from Barbara's hair to her cheek, and let his thumb stroke lazily over her skin.
"Sooner or later," he rumbled, with lidded eyes, "they're going to Talon-ize you. Make you theirs in body and mind. You won't even be able to blink without their say-so."
His thumb dipped lower, tracing over Barbara's swelling bottom lip. She let out a soft squeak.
"Total control, I'm told. I'm sure it'll be a living #$%%. But I wouldn't worry too much, baby doll. There are other parties interested in your…" He blinked slowly, reptile-like. "Special talents. You've really caused quite the stir in all the important circles. But…when the time comes, love, I'm going to make sure you're placed back under my watchful care."
Barbara shuddered.
His hand dropped, and Slade got to his feet. Grip snaking up the chain, he found the place where it had been tied off, and Barbara heard the soft jingling as it was unwound. Then her arms screamed as he tugged down. Barbara's body jerked and twisted as he pulled her higher, higher. Toes brushing against the stone floor, she cried out, as she swung from the ceiling.
She could hear Slade twisting the chain into place somewhere behind her, and the clinging jangle as he dropped it. His boots thudded against the ground as he stepped around her. His hand trailed against her waist as he circled.
"Until next time, baby doll," he purred, fingers lingering. Then he stepped over to the door, and waited for the panel to fall away. His shark's grin flashed before he disappeared. "Consider this the last phase of your training. If you survive, you'll be a changed woman. If not… Well, I'll be there when you wake up."
Barbara's tongue froze to the roof of her mouth. What?
But the panel slid shut with a low hiss and resonating click. She was left alone in ear-shattering silence.
And that's when the next vision hit.
#######
#######
Alright, this was ambitious, even for him.
Jason guessed he had to appreciate the confidence the others seemed to have that he'd be able to pull off a stunt like this. No weapons, no backup (unless you counted the 'Special Guest' he was supposed to pick up for the evening's event, which he didn't) and basically no real plan.
On second thought, maybe this was supposed to be some kind of punishment.
After retreating upstairs, as per Dick's orders, the others had milled around sullenly. Five minutes into waiting, Jason had decided that enough was enough. Their sister was missing—and, if the Talon they had downstairs was telling the truth, being tortured—so every second was precious. If they stopped moving, they wouldn't find Babs. If they stopped looking…
Images crashed into his mind—flashbacks from years ago. Flaming buildings, thugs fighting in the streets. And weaving her way through all of it, a limping, bloodied, ravaged Spoiler. Her hair falling out of her torn cowl, eyes torn and gazing at the landscape with a haunted sheen. Jason could still feel her too-light body cradled in his arms as he dashed her into Leslie's clinic. He could still hear her choked, labored breathing as she gargled her own bone fragments. Could still remember the sound of the heart monitor flatlining, and Barbara's long, drawn-out scream of anguish.
Not again. Never again.
Of course, Timmy had picked up pretty quick on his restless energy.
"You want something to do?" he'd growled, still pissed at Dick and looking to lash out. The edge in his tone seemed to crave a fight. "I've got a few ideas."
Jason didn't take the bait. "Just get me out of this house."
And now, Jason's hands drummed against the steering wheel as he psyched himself up. His eyes kept darting towards the door, tracing the holiday wreath the owners had hung up with its gaudy red ribbon and glittering red ornaments. What kind of psychopath puts up Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving? he thought, frowning. Okay. Okay, okay, okay. This is no big deal. We're getting out of the car in three…two…ah, %*$& it.
He flung the driver's side door open, circled the car, and sprinted up the porch steps. Shoving one hand in his suit coat's pocket, he raised the other to the brass knocker mounted in the center of the unnecessary wreath. Three quick taps, before he stepped back and took a deep breath.
It was almost scary how fast the door flew open.
A woman in a sweatshirt and leggings answered the door, one eyebrow quirked high, unamused. Jason took in her appearance quickly. Dark hair pulled up in a messy bun with chopsticks, a few strands falling over her face, which sported a few stiches along her hairline and cheekbone. One hand held the door handle in a death grip while the other—bound in a neon-green cast—cradled a splotchy box of Chinese takeout. She had no shoes, and clearly even less patience as she snapped,
"You must be Peter."
He swallowed down the lump in his throat and nodded. "And you must be Officer Montoya."
The eyebrow twitched up higher. "Detective."
"Right."
She took him in just as thoroughly as he had her, eyes trailing up and down his body, taking in the tailored suit, the red cravat, the slicked back hair, and the bead of sweat running down his forehead...
"Are you afraid of me, Mr. Haywood?" she asked suddenly.
Jason bounced a little on his heels. "Sorry?"
"Red Robin mentioned something about your partnership with the Bats, your history with the gangs…" Her eyes narrowed. "Hard to believe a big tough street-runner like you could be scared of a fragile little woman like me."
Her hand slid from the doorknob, tracing up the door as she leaned closer.
"So…are you afraid of me, Peter?"
Jason cleared his throat roughly. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good," Renee said, nodding slowly as she nibbled her bottom lip. Her eyes never left his as she growled, "Because if you so much as look at her the wrong way, I'll make sure they toss you in the dankest hole in Blackgate and never let you see the light of day again. Capiche?"
"Yes, ma'am." Jason's head bobbed. "Capiche."
She cocked her head to the side, smiling. "Excellent. Cariña! Your date's here!"
"Uggghhh," came a responding groan from somewhere inside.
Which summed up Jason's sentiments pretty well, too.
A woman materialized in the doorway beside Renee and crossed her arms over her chest defensively. Her dress was a glittery red thing meant to match Jason's tie, and her equally red hair was tied up into some elaborate updo that Steph or Babs probably would've been able to appreciate more.
Jason caught both women staring expectantly at him, so he cleared his throat, offered up his hand, and said, "You look nice."
"Gee," Kate Kane said flatly. "Thanks."
Renee elbowed her girlfriend in the ribs and cackled. "Loosen up and try to have a little fun tonight, okay?"
Kate's fierce expression softened slightly as she turned her face down towards Montoya. She leaned down to place a quick peck on her lips. "I wish it was you coming with me, baby."
"I know…" Renee pouted. "But I owed the Bats a big one for saving your life. Giving one of their buddies my spot was a small price to pay for…" She batted her eyelashes and tipped her chin up. "…well, you."
Kate closed the distance between them, and Jason felt once again like he was intruding big time. Not a feeling he was unfamiliar with, between Bruce and Selina's frequent makeout sessions on patrol. Other honorable mentions included Dick and Babs, Roy and Kori…and probably him and Steph if he had to be totally honest.
And speaking of his girlfriend, where was she, anyway? She'd missed check-ins an hour ago. Had things with the Birds gone sideways? Maybe they were just catching up? Having a couple drinks and putting together a game plan for finding Babs? But what if—
Oh, crud, they were looking at him again.
His 'date' shot him a sharp look, and Jason swallowed hard.
"So," he squeaked. Then cleared his throat again, going for a deeper tone. "Shall we…um…"
Renee smirked up at Kate. "Go easy on the poor boy, alright?"
"Hn. Fine. But only if you and I get to have a bit of our own fun when I get home…" Kate raised one eyebrow meaningfully.
"Mmm, claro que si," Renee hummed. "Now get going! You're going to be late."
Renee shooed her girlfriend and her date away from the door before she slammed it in their faces. That horrible holiday wreath swung, needles scritching across the wood, and little ornaments clinging softly.
"Heh," Jason attempted, trying to loosen up a little. "Pretty eager to get rid of us, huh?"
Kate huffed. Scuffed one high-heeled shoe against the welcome mat disdainfully as she said, "She's pissed 'cause I binged Golden Girls without her while she was in the hospital…which…" She heaved a groan and pinched the bridge of her nose tightly. "You didn't need to know. Let's just get this the #$%% over with, yeah?"
Jason offered her his arm, noting the way she cringed when she took it.
"Believe me," he assured her. "You took the words right out of my mouth."
#######
#######
The drive was short. Mercifully short.
Because Kate refused to say a word to him the entire way, despite his lame attempts to strike up a conversation. Sure, it was awkward. He was taking his lesbian pseudo-aunt-or-second-cousin-or-whatever on a date. And she had to be a decade older than him at least, though he didn't dare ask her age. He figured that was probably right up there with asking a lady for her weight or social security number. And Jason, having already died once, was not too eager to repeat the experience, thank you very much.
Both of them, though, let out sighs of relief when they pulled up to the Vanaver mansion.
There was still a little more waiting to do, as they lined up in the queue for the valet parking, so Jason took the spare minute or three to reach over to the passenger side.
"Whoa," Kate warned, scooting away.
"Wha—? Oh." Jason jerked his hand back like he'd almost touched a live tarantula. "No, sorry. That's not what I'm—I mean. Just look, okay?"
He gestured to the glovebox, and nodded at her to open it. Kate frowned, the warning evident on her face, but reached down carefully and popped the compartment open.
Two party masks flopped forward as the hatch swung down. Both were glittery black and red, covered with enough sequins to make even Steph gag. (Seriously, where was she? She wasn't answering any of his texts.)
But Timberly had done his research. He and Montoya seemed to be pretty buddy-buddy ever since the attack at the GCPD, and she'd tipped him off to a party Kate had been invited to—a party being thrown by Abraham Vanaver. Apparently, old Abe was a suspect around the precinct too, since he'd been allegedly leaning on Gordon to join his little secret group. The police had no idea what kind of 'little secret group' that was, exactly, but as usual, the Bats had more information on hand. And as such, they were the ones who'd be going in. Montoya hadn't wanted anything to do with the party before the Joker's armed thugs put her and the rest of her men in the hospital, and that sure as #$%% hadn't changed after the fact.
So she called Tim. And Tim readily agreed to send a proxy to snoop around for clues.
Which was where Jason and Kate came in.
See, Kate couldn't get out of this little shindig if she tried. The invitation had been addressed to her—the daughter of Colonel Jacob Kane, and primary stockholder in her family's company. No matter how Gotham City's social class felt about the black sheep of the bourgeoisie, all of them still wanted to be in the Kanes' good graces.
But if Kate didn't attend this shindig, she couldn't bring a plus-one. And if she didn't bring a plus-one, then there'd be no way for any of the Bats to infiltrate the manor. Not on such short notice. Not without more meticulous plans in place. And definitely not when they were stretched so thin already.
So, as outlined in the invitation, this would be a Masquerade Ball. Meaning, masks.
Which was, in Jason's humble opinion, absolutely idiotic. But whatever.
Both of them slipped the monstrosities over their faces quickly, wincing at the scratchy lace and sharp-edged sequins. But, as Stephanie liked to say, 'pretty hurts'—
(Okay. Twelve text messages and no answer. Jason was officially on edge.)
All he could think about as they stepped out of the car, let the valet rumble off in one of Bruce's fancier sports cars, and shuffled up towards the entrance, was his Blondie. She'd been so antsy before leaving for Cormorant—she hid it well, but Jason could tell that Dina's 'off-ness' had really rattled her. After all, the woman had practically been a second older sister to Steph when she'd come back from the dead and started working with Oracle. Dina had trained her, hung out with her, went shopping with her…all those things women did with each other when there was a close, sisterly bond. Just because Jason didn't understand all the nuances didn't mean he was blind to that relationship.
Just like he wasn't blind to her anxiety about what might have happened to Dina…and how that related to what could have happened to Babs.
"Hey, Blondie," he remembered telling her just before Zee, Artemis, and Roquelle dragged her off on their little endeavor. "Whatever you find out, we'll roll with it, okay? That's what we do."
He could still see her fake smile dip just a little bit, eyes filling with uncertainty. "Jay, what if she's…"
He reached up, cupped her face in the palm of his hand and leaned in to peck her on the forehead. "Hey. Don't go there yet. Just walk in, be the Stephanie Brown those ladies know and love, and wow them into telling you everything. Babs is as good as found with you on the case."
A dry laugh. Then, "You seem pretty confident, smart guy. Wish I was the one playing twenty questions with Bird Brain over there…"
"No you don't."
"Yee-ahh…you got me." She winked. Then her expression melted into something a little more honest. A little more worried. "But I am scared. Of what I might find."
"Do you trust me, Blondie?"
"Pfft. Depends on the time of day, Big Red."
He chuckled softly. Leaned in to kiss her once, quickly, before saying, "Well, it's ten a.m."
"Well, then, guess I'd better hear you out."
"You're going to kill it out there," he promised, pulling her close for a parting embrace. "I promise. There's nothing to worry about."
"Peter," Kate hissed. The sound of his pseudonym slapped Jason in the face with a cold, hard reality check.
What the #$%% was he thinking? He had to focus. Steph was fine, and the others were fine…everything was fine. The only thing there was to worry about right now, in this moment, was their approach to the open door.
Light and string music filtered out, and Jason could catch a few hurried glimpses of masked partygoers beyond the doorway. Over the shoulder of the bouncer-looking lug standing guard between them and the intel. He had at least a good six inches on Jason, and probably a hundred or so pounds, judging by the width of his shoulders and the way he held himself. Probably wouldn't be too easy to take down if this whole thing went off the rails. Jason made a note to avoid the guy at all costs tonight, just in case.
Which was a note that he immediately scrunched up and tossed out altogether, as the thug waved a hand at the party guests in front of them. Both guests lifted their masks briefly—just long enough for the man to wave a wand-like device in front of their faces.
$#!^.
So much for 'nothing to worry about'.
Kate must have noticed the way he suddenly went stiff as an iron pole, because she shot him a sharp sideways glance. "You good?"
The thug waved his hand again, and the guests lowered their masks and stepped inside. As if this were just a minor little inconvenience. A necessary precaution. A simple blip.
Jason could now admit that the idea of a Masquerade Ball was slightly less ludicrous when you ran facial ID on all your guests before they ever set foot in your home.
He cursed under his breath, adding in a huff just shy of a whisper, "Vanaver, you sneaky son of a—"
But even that was cut short. It was their turn.
Jason felt sweat prickle on the back of his neck as the bouncer waved one meaty fist through the air. Watched Kate lift her mask and give the man a very unamused smirk. Watched them both watch him expectantly…
Jason reached up, pinching the edge of the lacy sequined prop between his fingers. Then lifted.
There was a swish of the wand through the air, a quick slash that made Jason's eyes spazz out as he tried and failed to track the movement.
But the little light on the handle blinked green.
Jason felt his knees quiver a little as he fought to keep the groan of relief inside. As the bouncer waved them through, though, he did allow himself a small exhale.
Thank &*# Tim had been right. Holo-masks weren't just for fooling the eye, it seemed—they could also fool facial recognition tech like a dream.
The face he wore now belonged to some rando Tim and M'gann had generated online using one of those face-mash websites. The end result was the carefully-constructed combination of Jim Carrey and Beyonce Knowles. And Jason would make Tim pay for that later, when he had a little more time and resources at his fingertips.
But for now, there was the party—and with it, all of the nightmarish lights and sounds and music and sensations that burst everywhere like flashbulbs. A woman on his right let out a piercing chirp that sounded too close. One well-to-do gentleman tripped over his wife's train and his drink sloshed precariously against the brim of his cup. A musician let their bow slide on the bridge of their cello just a little too hard, and Jason felt it in his teeth—
"Hey. Uh-uh-uh, don't you dare leave me alone out here, soldier."
Kate snapped her fingers in front of Jason's face, and he winced sharply at the dry sound.
His date took notice, and instantly softened. "Peter? You good?"
"Mmhm-yeah." Jason chomped down on the inside of his cheek and forced a smile as a woman in a feathery yellow mask glided towards them, lifting her fluted glass in greeting.
"Miss Kane," the woman said pleasantly, twirling her free hand in a grand gesture that made Jason's eyes spin. With her flowing butter-colored gown that had little milky pearls stitched literally everywhere, she was easily the best-dressed lady in the room. She was old enough to be Jason's grandmother—could've been, since the predatory curl to her manicured fingers and the edge to her smile would have fit right into the Todd family dynamic.
Clearly, this was their hostess.
"I wasn't expecting to see you tonight, darling!" The socialite leaned forward with a simpering smile on her lips. "Goodness knows it's been far too long! How is your father holding up? Shame he couldn't make it tonight."
Jason had to hand it to Kate—her 'Deal With These People' grin was on point. (And he'd seen a lot of 'Deal With These People' grins in his day.) She leaned forward a little too, cradling the glass she'd plucked from thin air close to her chest like she and the old woman were sharing some sort of little secret exchange.
"Well, you know Daddy," she said, voice low and light. "Always wrapped up in his work."
"Ah, yes." Her tone was oozily sympathetic and overly sweet. "Poor dear, always cooped up in that office. But not to worry, darling. With any luck, we'll make sure he sees some action soon."
Kate gave the best fake laugh Jason had heard in a while. "That's the hope, isn't it?"
"Oh, but who—" Their hostess shifted her attention to him, and her eyes went owlishly wide. "—may I ask, is this? Renee couldn't make it either, then?"
"Just got out of the hospital. My wounded warrior." Her façade slipped down just a smidge, but Kate drew it back up over her shoulders with a shrug. "But excuse me for failing to introduce the two of you. This is Peter Haywood, a friend of…Renee's. Peter, Elizabeth Vanaver."
The old bat offered up her hand, and Jason brushed a kiss over her knuckles expertly.
There was no introduction needed. Jason had been keeping an eye on her family for a while now, even before Babs had gone missing and the Vanavers started to look like very appealing suspects. No, no, he'd been carrying a grudge for the woman in front of him ever since that debacle at Gotham Academy with Timmy and Dames. This bag had called Dick the g-word and Babs a w***e. (Both perfect ways to earn a spot smack dab in the middle of Jason's crap list.)
"The pleasure is all mine," he lied through his teeth. And if the woman seemed bothered by the cheesy cliché, she didn't show it. At least, not at first.
Elizabeth drew back her hand, satisfied, then sniffed lightly. "He reeks of…proletariat, darling. Exactly which gutter did you scoop him out of?"
Jason straightened a little. Kate didn't even react.
"No matter," Vanaver said, turning away from the conversation to shut it down completely. But not before she added over her shoulder, "It's a relief, at least, that you've given up your deviance, even if only for tonight. I highly suggest you bed him—then you'll see the true appeal of the natural order. Enjoy!"
With that, she was gone. Swallowed up in the sea of socialites and splendor.
Jason struggled to keep the sounds and sights around him from crashing back in as he turned to his date. She'd gone rigid, and her smile—though still fixed firmly in place—seemed a little more cardboard-like than before.
"Hey," he said. "Don't let what she said—"
"Please." Her hand slashed through the rest of his sentence like a katana, and Jason's next words were cut off completely. "I've been dealing with windbags like her since I was old enough to start coming to these $#!^shows."
That didn't stop the sympathetic line that appeared between Jason's eyebrows. "Kate—"
"Now." She turned to him, eyes blazing through the holes in her mask, and said, "Let's talk about what we're really doing here tonight, Jason."
#######
#######
He grabbed her arm and spun them towards the center of the room.
"Hey!" Kate snarled. She did her best to jerk her arm out of Jason's grip, but he kept his fingers locked around her bicep like a vise. It wasn't too difficult to maneuver them forward; he had half a foot on her in height, and probably outweighed her by a good hundred pounds. Ergo, dragging Kate turned out to be a little like dragging a rag doll.
"Don't," he warned her through his forced grin. "Just dance with me."
"What? You son of a—"
They made it to the middle of the floor, where couples swayed and spun to the symphony orchestra set up on the far side of the room. Jason knew from experience (plenty of experience) that the dance floor was the ideal spot for hushed conversations you didn't want anyone overhearing. The music was too loud, and every other couple was already engaged in their own convos. (Either that, or they were too focused on where they were putting their feet.) Jason had had many a whispered exchange with Babs and Selina this way, when they asked him to dance. Mostly complaints about the party, other times passing along vital intel, and on the rare occasion, a quick anecdote about how many shrimp Dick had managed to fit in his mouth, or the latest gossip on Bruce's current fling.
Right now, though? It was time for serious talk.
"My name is Peter," he told his dance partner, scooping up one of her hands in his. He let his other hand settle on her waist, and she scowled up at him. Probably contemplating potential murder weapons and dump sights.
"Sure it is, Jason," she snapped right back.
Jason began to lead them back and forth, swaying gently. He sent a silent thanks out to his older siblings for their impromptu dance lessons. Sometimes, he'd sneak out with Babs and Dick while Bruce was distracted with his guests. They'd find some remote part of the venue, like a spare room or hallway, and goof off. Sometimes this meant pranks. But when Jason had first started out in this little family, Dick and Babs had walked him through the steps to every dance he'd ever encounter at Bruce's tortuous parties.
"Fine," he growled under his breath. He eyed a couple nearby suspiciously, but it didn't seem like they were paying them any attention. "How'd you know?"
Kate scoffed, her feet meeting his step for step. "I recognize you from all of those Wayne and Kane parties. The scrawny kid who always got overwhelmed by all the noise and lights? Richard and his girlfriend were always taking you out of the room so you wouldn't freak out."
"Huh." Jason spun them around. "Guess I remember those nights a little different."
"My question is, how did you wind up working for Red Robin? Renee told me he's the one who put all this together." She moved fluidly, following his lead. Jason had a sneaking suspicion that she was only letting him lead for the sake of this conversation. The second she stopped interrogating him, Jason was pretty sure Miss Kane would be dipping him over her knee.
But he huffed out a laugh. "Okay, let's get one thing straight—I do not work for Red Robin."
"Then how do you know him? How did you—" Kate cut off sharply as he gave her a twirl. At first he thought it was just the sudden movement, but when he pulled her back close to his chest, her expression was absolutely dumbstruck.
"You," she said, "Red Hood."
Oh. Great.
"Huh," Jason squeaked in a voice that was just a little too high. "&*#% it."
"It all makes sense," Kate muttered, not meeting his eyes. Her brow furrowed as the gears in her head spun full steam ahead. "Oh my &*#. All those times you snuck out of the parties. Richard and Barbara, too. And…and Bruce…"
"Nope, sorry. You're way off base, there," Jason said quickly. "Like you said, I'm a real sensitive guy, always had to leave early. Babs would take me home, or Bruce sometimes. And Dick has this really bad allergy to, like, everything, which gave him the runs like you wouldn't believe—"
Kate's voice was thin and awestruck. "Holy $#!^. My cousin is Batman."
"No he is not—"
"Richard…Nightwing…Barbara…Batwoman…"
"Yeah, no, purely coincidence, I promise—"
"And that would make Red Robin…Little Timmy?" Kate shook her head back and forth. "Oh my &*# it all makes sense. All this time—"
Jason dragged Kate again, this time off the dancefloor. But this time, she was a little too shellshocked to fight him on it. He led them out into the hall, and balanced his date against the wall to let her catch her breath.
With both hands on her shoulders, he said, "Look. I could stand here for hours trying to convince you you're wrong. But we don't have that kind of time."
Kate blinked, then scowled. "And why's that, Hood?"
He let out an annoyed huff. "You asked me what we're really doing here? I'll tell you—" Jason waved his hand at the empty hallway. "The Vanavers. Something isn't right about them."
"That," she replied with a snarl, "Is the understatement of the century."
Jason found himself nodding in agreement, before he continued. "Batwoman—ah, screw it—Barbara dropped off the face of the earth a few weeks ago, and we think Abraham's behind it."
"Why? He's a grade-A creep with more money than human decency, I'll give you that, but what would he want with Batwoman?"
Jason kneaded the inside of his cheek between his molars. "Nnnn…okay. You ever hear of the Court of Owls?"
"The nursery rhyme?" Kate squawked.
"Rhyme, yes. Nursery? Not so much." Jason straightened, running a hand over his face. "We think Vanaver's their leader."
Kate's eyes narrowed as she shook her head. He was losing her.
"So," he said, "We're here tonight to snoop around. See if we can dig up any dirt on Abraham. Or Elizabeth. Any evidence to support our theories. Any clues about where they might be keeping Babs."
He watched her nod slowly, running her tongue over her teeth as she thought. Jason knew this was a lot to process, and he'd be lying if he were to say a part of him wasn't flipping out a little. This lady had just cracked everybody's alter-egoswide open in the span of thirty seconds. And all from Jason's sensory overload.
Okay, then.
Bruce Wayne and Kate Kane may have looked nothing alike, may have led different lifestyles, and been two completely different people—but &*#% if deduction didn't run in the family.
Then, Kate spoke again, scattering Jason's thoughts like confetti. "Let me help."
"Sorry, what?" Jason shook his head.
"I'll get you the intel you need," Kate breezed. "Ex-military, remember? I'm sure you Bats have done your snooping on me. I was supposed to be a &*%# marine before they threw me out on my *$$. This? Piece of cake."
Well, &*#%. Maybe it was more than just 'deduction'.
And who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth? Especially if that horse had special ops training.
"Fine," he said, craning his neck to check their surroundings. "First step is finding the man of the house. He didn't make an appearance at his own party."
Kate nodded. "So he'd be somewhere else in the manor, if he's here at all. Come on."
It was her turn to grab him by the arm and tug him like a rag doll. Jason was surprised by her strength, but he was more than eager to follow her lead.
Together, they crept down hallways, snooped through spare rooms, and mentally catalogued every suspicious object they saw. The ornamental daggers in the parlor. The wing shaped broach in Samantha Vanaver's room. Something that looked like a bloodstain in the west hallway. And most incriminating of all?
A sleek white mask with two unseeing holes for the eyes, that swept down into the point of a beak. A barn owl's face.
It had been left on the nightstand in Abraham and Elizabeth's bedroom. When Jason saw it, he got an unexplainable chill down his spine.
"What is it?" Kate whispered.
Jason didn't dare touch it, only led them out carefully. "Proof."
"How do you figure?"
"Scary bird mask? Screams either cult leader or serial killer."
"Touché."
As they started to step back out into the hallway, Jason and Kate both froze at the sound of voices.
"Go ahead, she won't even react!"
There was a cackle of high laugher. "Oh my &*# you're right!"
Jason edged his head around the doorframe to get a better look. The voices were younger—it sounded like a gaggle of high school students. More likely than not, a few bored society brats who'd been dragged to this party by their parents.
One glance confirmed his suspicions. Five teenagers were crowded around one girl. The sixth member of the group stood out starkly—all the others were dressed in suits and gowns, with glittery satin masks over their eyes. This girl, however, wore only a black sheath dress. It made her look more like a shadow than anything else.
Jason picked out the group's leader instantly. Between her body language, and her confident voice and smile, the platinum blonde in the silver dress was clearly the head of the pack. Even though she was by no means the oldest. She held a flute of champagne in one delicate hand (though there wasn't a chance in #$%% this girl was legal) and gave it a lofty swirl.
"You think that's good?" she crowed. "Watch."
With a flick of her wrist, she splashed the contents of her glass into the other girl's face.
And the girl in black didn't even flinch. Only closed her eyes and let the drink trickle down her face.
"Daddy says she never speaks," the blonde told the others with a smirk. "Doesn't even know how."
"Means she can't tattle," one of the guys said. This voice, Jason recognized. It was that jock from Gotham Academy, Rafe Clark. One of the d-bags who'd bullied Tim since middle school. Which meant the only other boy in the group must be his partner in crime, Ben Vanaver.
Ben's foot tapped nervously against the carpet. His copper-colored mask did little to hide his shifting eyes. "Guys, leave her alone," he said softly.
Blonde girl whipped around. "Excuse me?"
"She's not doing anything to us, Sam. Let's just go back to the kitchen, Dad's still got some booze stashed away, we could—"
"Boring," the Blonde sang. "This is much more fun."
Her hand cracked across the girl's cheek. This time, she staggered a little.
The kids all howled with laughter. One reached out to shove the girl's shoulder. Another aimed a kick at her shins.
Jason growled and moved to lunge out into the hall. Kate stopped him short with a hand on his chest. She shook her head, then nodded back towards the group.
A man was coming up to the teens, his movements purposeful and deliberate. The frown on his face was stone hard. Proof that he'd seen everything, and it royally pissed him off.
"Hey," he barked.
The teens straightened up and whirled towards the sound.
"Benjamin. Samantha," the man said coldly as he pulled to a stop just beside the group. He dwarfed all of them easily, and held himself like an old marble statue. "I'm on my way to find your father. Would you like to accompany me? Perhaps you can explain to him why you and your friends are harassing one of our partner's most prized agents?"
Beneath her mask, Samantha went pallid as a sheet. Benjamin looked like he was on the verge of swallowing his own teeth.
"No, sir," he gasped, eyes wide behind the copper whorls and swirls of satin. "Sorry, sir."
The man tipped his chin up, gaze swinging to the side. "Then I'd suggest you move along, before I remember who it was I saw in this hallway."
And with those words, the man's eyes locked on Jason and Kate's position. Jason felt his blood run cold. That penetrating stare, the pull of his jaw as he clenched his teeth, the way his left eyebrow twitched slightly up…
The teens took off, scattering like a flock of startled birds.
Their newcomer watched them go disinterestedly. Then his tight expression loosened as he turned to the girl. She was busy mopping at the wet stain on her front with her fingers, a frown curling at her mouth.
With a flick of his wrist, the man offered her a handkerchief from his coat pocket.
"Hello, Cassandra," he said, voice gentle and whisper-soft. "Do you recognize me?"
The girl's eyes flitted up, and twitched back and forth as she took in his appearance. For a moment she hesitated, but then, carefully, she gave a clipped nod.
As she accepted the piece of cloth, the man continued. "That's right. My name is Lincoln March. I've been working with Vanaver on his city project. Operation Coup d'état?"
Eyes going just a little wider, she nodded again.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "For what you've endured here. But it's nearing completion. That, I can promise."
March reached out and clasped the girl's—Cassandra's—hand in both of his. Jason watched their fingers carefully, and spotted a flash of white. A slip of paper being passed between the two.
"The details of your final assignment." March lowered his voice, and Jason had to strain to pick up any of the words. "Our mutual friend is depending on you. Follow these instructions to the letter, and the rest will fall into place. Make sure you aren't tracked. Good luck."
Lincoln released Cassandra's hands and whirled around with a smile just in time for another man to stride into the hall. This one wore a sleek black suit with gold stitching, a matching gold tie, and a mask that covered his entire face. This mask, though, Jason recognized—he and Kate had found one just like it on Elizabeth Vanaver's bedside table.
Unlike that creepy face mask, though, this one was inlaid with what looked like gold leaf. It gave more detail and shape to the haunting Barn Owl Gaze the design drew its inspiration from.
At his side was a man draped all in black, with a plague doctor's mask over his head.
"Grandmaster." Lincoln held out both his hands and offered up a winning smile.
"Mr. March," Vanaver replied. His fingers tightened on his cane, and Jason saw his eyes narrow behind his mask. "I wish to congratulate you on your victory. Mayor of Gotham is no small accomplishment."
Mayor? Had the elections already happened? Jason looked to Kate, who nodded in confirmation.
"Thank you, sir. But without the full backing of the Court, it wouldn't have been possible. Now, we can finally move forward."
"Indeed." Vanaver sounded a lot more upbeat at that remark, and turned to his plague-doctor companion. "I don't suppose you've been properly introduced? This is my associate, Mayor Lincoln March. The man who is going to hand us Gotham City."
"And who might this be?" March nodded towards the third man.
"Another associate," the Grandmaster clipped. "One who has, at long last, decided to grace us with his presence. Now. Shall we adjourn to my office? Our lovely guest has been making such progress, and I'm loathe to keep the happy news to myself."
Jason's muscles locked up. 'Lovely guest'?That sounded suspiciously like…
"Barbara," he whispered. "They're talking about Barbara."
"Shh," Kate hissed into his ear.
With a barked order to follow aimed at Cassandra, the Grandmaster led his procession down the hallway. Jason waited thirty whole seconds, until he heard the footsteps fade, then lunged out of their hiding place.
"C'mon," he whispered heavily to his partner. "This is what we came for."
Kate hesitated in the doorway, fingers lingering on the knob. But then she nodded, her frown twisting into something a little more determined.
"Alright, then, Hood," she snapped. "Lead the way."
#######
#######
"No."
The word ripped out of her in a broken whisper.
"Hhk—No!"
Barbara twisted in midair, flinching away from her surroundings. Her shoulders twinged painfully as she dangled, toes just barely brushing the cold stone below. Her side was on fire, still bleeding from the false Talon's attack. But the pain was just a pinprick compared to…to…this.
Soft, warm light surrounded her in a gentle sort of embrace. It illuminated everything around her in a plush, honey-glow. Book spines glittered from their stretching shelves, panels of bubbled glass older than Alfred Pennyworth caught the gleam in splinters of light. A soft series of crackling pops pressed against her ears.
She could see the fireplace just ahead, logs blackened with shots of orange and red radiating through the cracks.
The sound of pages turning—that dry, crinkly sound of old paper—brushed against her senses. It set off a violent shudder, and Barbara clenched her teeth so hard her jaw popped painfully.
She refused to look at the velvet armchair set up by the hearth, choosing instead to focus in on the dancing flames.
'Breathe. Breathe. Breathe,' She chanted inside her head. 'Ground yourself. Focus on what you can see…what you can hear…what you can feel…'
She inhaled softly, surprised that scent carried its way into the pseudo-memory-vision along with everything else. She caught the mustiness of ancient paper and old carpet, the hint of pine from the logs roasting in the fireplace, even the slight, barely-there smell of baking sugar cookies. Alfred's Halloween specialty…
No. Don't go there. Focus on sight, smell, sound—
—except these sights, these smells, these sounds all dragged her back there. Back here. To the night it happened.
A tinny, canned version of Brittney Spears's Circus shot through the air, and Barbara's eyes darted towards the source against her better judgement. She swallowed hard, and felt the lump catch in her throat.
Barbara saw a hand reach for the side table next to the armchair, nails painted black. They were the leftovers of a Halloween costume, (Lady Dracula, if memory served) and one nail clicked across the screen as the hand's owner accepted the call, and lifted the phone to her ear.
"Count Dracula's mansion," her own voice said smugly, "You track in mud, we suck your blood. How can I be of service?"
There was a pause, as she seemed to listen to the person on the other end. Then, let out a bubbly laugh. "Duh, Wingnut."
Barbara finally dared a glance at the girl in the chair. Saw her legs curled beneath her, toes wiggling absently as she smirked, eyes cast off towards the side. Glittering red curls caught the firelight, and curled down one shoulder, over the collar of a baby blue button-down shirt that was definitely too big for her.
"Hmm. And here I thought it was Halloween—not national worrywarts' day." A soft giggle as she tapped the spine of her book, absently. To Kill A Mockingbird—one of Alfred's recommendations. She sobered slightly, then, and said, "Yeah, Dick. I'm okay."
With a soothing hum, the girl closed her eyes as she listened to the other end. Barbara's heart jackhammered in her chest as her gaze darted towards the closed door. Took in the plush carpets and stretching bookshelves and antique vases and paintings. This used to be her favorite room in the whole house—her go-to getaway. And now—
"Me? Reading by a warm…toasty fire."
Her younger self's voice was warm, with just the slightest edge of a taunt. Barbara could practically hear Dick's scoff of indignance on the other end.
"No, really!" Teenaged Babs pulled her knees up to her chest and grinned. "Night off for good behavior…ha! You can't see, Grayson, but I'm totally sticking my tongue out at you!"
Enough. This was enough.
"I know you can hear me, you sons of &!^$#&$," the real Barbara snarled low to the ceiling. She pulled down on her chains, and her body writhed in midair. "Whatever your play is—whatever you think you're gonna get from this—!"
"Definitely feeling the aster," her younger self continued with a sigh, as she nestled deeper into her seat. Her fingers crept to the collar of her button-down, and she picked lazily at one of the white buttons. "I'm wearing your shirt, by the way. Hope you don't mind."
"Let me out!" Barbara roared. "Understand, *$$holes!? Let me the #$%% out!"
"You'll have to come get it," Younger Barbara crooned, biting her lip as she raised one eyebrow, barked out a laugh. Then the girl's face melted into something impossibly fond, and warmer than the fire in the hearth.
"I love you too, Wingnut."
There was a short pause, then Younger Babs set the phone back down on the table. Flipped back open to her page, while struggling to hide her puppy-dog smile behind the top of her book. Her toes began their gentle tap at the edge of the chair cushion, and Barbara heard the girl let out a soft puff of a sigh.
"Now! Slade? Strange? Strange! Stop this now!"
The waiting—that was the worst part. That she knew what was coming, the thing she'd seen every night in her nightmares and flashbacks for years…and now all she could do was wait for it. There was no way to stop it—
"Hey," she rasped. Cleared her throat, and shouted, "HEY!"
The girl didn't listen.
"Please, can you hear me?" Barbara pleaded. "You have to run, put down the book, climb out the window, I don't &*$%^#& care, but get out of this room, please—"
Hot tears soaked her cheeks as her heart buzzed behind her ribs. She couldn't draw a full breath—the air lodged in her throat as her chest spasmed. The room seemed to spin. Blood roared like thunder in her eardrums and Barbara opened her mouth in a breath of a scream.
"Please," she heaved. "Puh—please—"
A soft knock cut her breath off entirely.
The girl's head shot up, interest diverted. But Barbara bit down on her lip so hard she could feel the blood well up around her teeth.
Rap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
"No," she gasped. "No, don't answer that, don't—"
Younger Barbara unfolded from the chair, skirt swishing around her legs as she padded over to the door. With a soft huff and a smile, she called out a breathy "I'm coming!"
The taste of salt and iron filled Barbara's mouth. There was no air in her lungs.
The girl's hand was on the knob…
"Stop," Barbara sobbed.
"Hey, Alfred. I—"
She froze, her whole body going stiff as stone. Immovable and unbelieving. Her head was probably tipped down. Watching the barrel, before she looked back up into the eyes of the monster at the door. The younger Barbara was out of sight now, but she could still see it all playing out so clearly right in front of her. Gun, pressed against her abdomen—right into the fleshy part of her stomach, just below and just to the right of her belly button. Hard and unyielding. The phantom feeling of it would wake Barbara in the middle of the night for three years after the fact.
She could just picture looking up, seeing those eyes. Seeing—&*#, seeing that smile—
BLAM
Her watering eyes squeezed shut as she let out a screaming sob. Drawn out, drowning out the laughter. Drowning out the broken cries of pain, the sound of the heavy thump against the floorboards, the whimpers, the gasps, the—
…nothing.
There was suddenly nothing beneath the sound of her shattered scream.
Barbara's eyes twitched beneath her lids, and then she dared to open them. Her breath came in short gasps, dread tingling violently down her spine as she expected to see the worst, expected to see…
But there was nothing there. Nothing but her empty cell, cold and dank and bleak as she remembered it.
Her head tipped against her shoulder; blood pounding warlike against her eardrums. She breathed like she'd been held underwater for hours, and her chest ached from the relief of it. Barbara wet her lips and let her eyes dart around the room, distrustful of the sudden reprieve.
"S-ss-Slade," she huffed. "What's—"
Her chains shivered, and Barbara heard the clinging slither of metal just an instant before the line went slack. She dropped like a stone, gasping as she hit the concrete. Her wounded side screamed in agony, her bones ached from the rough landing.
She'd barely righted herself when a panel of the wall slid away. This time, though, it was on the other end of her cell. Instead of leading out into the Maze, this doorway revealed a larger room. It was just as starkly white as the labyrinth, but…
There.
She spotted a girl huddled in the corner of the room, curled in on herself for comfort. Or maybe warmth; the air in here was absolutely frigid. The cold clung to Barbara's sweat-soaked skin like probing fingers, and she shivered violently as she pulled herself up to stand. The chains around her wrists slid off to clang against the ground.
"Christina," Barbara rasped. Took a step forward into the room. "I'm here, sweetie, are you oka—"
The girl looked up, and Barbara stopped short.
"Oh," she breathed, chest hollow.
They watched each other for a moment, taking the other in carefully. Cautiously. Barbara's eyes traced the girl's pale skin. It was paler than ever before…and stitched through with inky threads just below the surface. They swirled spider-like beneath her eyes, which glowed like new harvest moons—wide and cagey, and utterly brimming with terror.
Christina shook like a leaf in an autumn thunderstorm, shuddering as she curled deeper into the corner.
The cold, Barbara realized with a pang, was to keep the little girl docile. It was hurting her.
Because those &*$^*%#$ had Talonized her.
"Hello, Miss Kean."
The sound of Vanaver's sickeningly suave tone had Barbara's fists clenching painfully at her sides. She squeezed and squeezed until they shook, until she felt her nails bite into the soft skin on her palms. The pain was grounding, at least. Just enough to free up her tongue.
"Grandmaster," she snarled.
"Ah." The &*$^*%# sounded downright smug. "I see we're making slow progress. Up until now, I've only ever been 'Vanaver' to you, isn't that right?"
Barbara snapped, "Cut to the chase."
"Very well. What you're seeing here is a fine example of what happens when you cross the Court."
Her fists shook harder. "She was innocent! And I haven't done—" she growled.
"Not you. Your metahuman comrades were starting to sniff around the circus, my dear. Sticking their noses in places they oughtn't to have stuck them."
Barbara's heart swelled momentarily.
"But all for naught." Vanaver chuckled humorlessly. "I'm afraid our friends in the circus tent were not as…loyal as we'd hoped. And so, seeing as how they've double-crossed us once again, we took the little urchin in kind. This generation's chosen candidate."
"No," Barbara breathed, as Christina let out a pained mewl.
"Destined to become a ruthless warrior under our watchful eyes. To do our bidding, carry out our sentences upon this city, and leave no survivor in her wake. She'll have no choice—in fact, she'll never enjoy the luxury of choice ever again."
Her eyes traced over the veins, over the fingernail marks on Christina's arms, from where she must have scratched herself, trying to tear out the poison beneath her skin—
"Such a terrible fate for a mere child, no?"
Christina was nine. Nine years old. The same age as Dick had been when he'd first donned the Robin costume. When he'd first stepped down the path that brought them all here—child soldiers doing the bidding of an uncaring master of the night. Conscripted. Trapped. Held up on pedestals and pushed to the breaking point. And when they were broken? Tossed aside, left to fend for themselves without—
Don't.
No. That wasn't going to be Christina's life.
Don't fall for this.
Something sparked in Barbara's chest. Bright and familiar.
It was the same thing she'd always felt with family, night after night, diving into firefights to shield a partner from gunfire. When she'd stitched up a wound, set a broken bone, wiped away tears of pain or fear. Held a sibling's broken body, sobbed over their sightless eyes. The same instinct that drove her to place herself between Dick, or Jay, Timmy, Steph, or Dami, and whatever roaring danger that reared its ugly head.
The kind of instinct that had her saying—
"I'll do it."
The words rang in the air. Barbara took a deep, shuddering breath. Then said them again.
"I will. I'll do it."
"I beg your pardon?" Vanaver's voice was dry, unamused.
"Your Talon!" Barbara barked. "Exactly what you wanted from the start—I'll do it!"
You. Idiot.
"Just reverse this—whatever you did to her. Leave my family alone. And I…I'll stay." Her shoulders sagged, and she let out a breath, every coherent thought in her mind screaming at her to stop, take it back, don't give into— "I'll stop fighting this. I'll break for you, Vanaver, isn't that what you want?"
The words rang in the air, and Barbara's nerves shivered.
"You'll break for me, will you?"
"Yes," she whispered, tears brimming.
For a moment, there was silence. Barbara could hear Christina's shivering breaths, and watched the little girl, a feeling like a yawning sinkhole scraping into her chest. This was, in part, her fault. She shouldn't have let herself get so emotional—to the point of passing out entirely. More than that, she shouldn't have let herself get pricked by Strange's needle in the first place—no hallucinations, no high, no crash. She left Christina alone and vulnerable, and look what those monsters had done to her…
"Mm, no, my dear…I'm afraid you've misread this situation," Vanaver clipped, shocking Barbara out of the haze in her mind just long enough to feel a shiver of fear dart up the back of her neck. "You see, no one ever willingly breaks—that contradicts the very meaning, you see."
"Fine." Barbara bit down on the inside of her cheek. "I'll still be your attack dog. What difference does it make?"
"My dear, we already have you. You will be our Talon, regardless of whether or not you consent." Vanaver let out a sharp laugh, a sound like metal scraped over glass.
"Then what's the point?" Barbara cried, tipping her head up to the ceiling. "Why show me this? Why do this to her? Why—"
The Grandmaster cut her off with a clipped tsk. "Has anyone ever told you, Miss Kean, that you're far too inquisitive for your own good? Curiosity killed the bat—"
"But satisfaction brought it back," she retorted, spinning on her heel. She didn't know where he was watching from the shadows, didn't even know where to look. But she hoped he could see the snarl on her face with its promise of vengeance. "Tell me what you want from me and it's yours! Just leave her alone!"
"Ah, that."
There was a mechanical hum—the kind Barbara was intimately familiar with by now—as a panel in the floor at her feet slid aside. All she could do was take a step backward and watch as a pedestal rose slowly, slowly, right in front of her. On its surface was a sleek, bronze instrument. The kind that Barbara was also intimately familiar with.
Its blade was flat-edged and long—probably twelve or thirteen inches. Ornate curves and vines were etched into the flat of the dagger, ending in a sleek, dark handle. The composition was similar to a Dagestan dagger, long and sleek and imposing. Barbara stared down at it with a mixture of numb curiosity and edging dread.
This was a Talon's knife, sharp enough to slice through skin and muscle like it was tissue paper. Durable enough to shatter bone and scramble vital organs. She'd seen firsthand the sort of damage a blade like this could do. #$%%, she'd experienced it.
"What is this?" she said dully, eyes never straying from the weapon's glinting edge.
Barbara had a sneaking suspicion she already knew the answer, and she prayed she was wrong.
"A gift," Vanaver replied, conversationally. As if the gift were a %*^$% fruit basket. "Every Talon needs a blade, my dear. And few are as fine or as fitting as this one."
She noted the owl's eyes etched into the metal just above where blade met handle, and she swallowed hard. "Wh—"
"You see, Miss Kean, you were partly right. This discussion we've been having does involve your surrender..."
It wasn't difficult to catch on. Barbara retreated from the knife as though it could spit venom, backing into the wall behind her.
"No," she snapped.
"As a Talon, you must obey your Grandmaster."
"I'm not your Talon." Barbara's fingernails dug into the stone. Her shoulder blades scraped painfully on the hard surface, and her stomach swooped.
"Not yet," Vanaver conceded. "But all in due time. And this is your first step down that glorious path. So…take that dagger…"
"No."
"…and kill the girl."
Barbara bit down hard and tasted pennies. Her head spun with the words, repeating them over and over and over again until they blurred together in an endless, nonsensical whorl. Christina had looked up, and was staring over at her now with wide eyes. They seemed to glow in the dim light. Accusing her? Daring her? Begging her?
Barbara swallowed her blood and her tongue and sank down the wall. "I'd rather die."
"Honestly, Miss Kean. You of all people know that we have ways of getting what we want one way or another."
"What're you gonna do, kill me?" Barbara cried. Her fingers threaded into her hair. Maybe it wasn't just her who was beginning to spiral into insanity. The Grandmaster was kidding himself; there was no way she'd even touch that knife, let alone— "She's a child!"
"Your point?" He tsked in annoyance. "My dear girl. We won't be spilling any more of your precious blood today, I give you my solemn promise. But we have other means of forcing your hand. So, please, do yourself this favor and comply—spare yourself further pain."
Like he gave a &*#% about sparing her pain…
Barbara grit her teeth, closing her eyes against the sight of Christina's shivering form, and the gleaming knife waiting for her with cold, silent patience.
"Hit me with your best shot, *$$hole," she growled. "I'll never lay a hand on her."
"Mm. Very well. Mr. Strange?"
Barbara's eyes flashed open as a cold feeling sunk into her chest. "Strange—?"
The vision hit her at the speed of light.
#######
#######
Dick's knees cracked against the floor, his shallow pants the only sound in the Cave.
His own fingers clawed at his scalp, trying to peel away the ache, stave off the feeling of old memories clouding the inside of his skull. It was a special kind of torture, and it left him breathless.
Something that John seemed to take particular delight in.
"Can you feel it, cous?" he moaned, tipping his head back. A wild, wicked smile flung at the corners of his lips. "That slow spiral into insanity? That nosedive into the abyss? Your girlfriend's starting to lose her hold on reality—isn't that just precious?"
He was seeing Wayne Manor's foyer, a million years ago. He saw himself standing at the bottom of the stairs picking at his bowtie with a grimace on his small face.
Sixteen-year-old Dick Grayson had just reached that awkward phase in every boy's life where clothes started to shrink and voices began to drop. His shoulders were just beginning to broaden out, his hair had grown in longer, and most importantly (at least at the time) he'd finally passed Barbara up in height. (No more short jokes, and no more noogies, especially now that his head was out of her reach.)
This night in particular, Dick remembered all too well.
He could see Bruce walking up to his younger self, plastic box in one hand and a knowingly smug smirk on his face. "Ready to go, chum?"
Teenaged Dick did a very good impression of the then-contemporary internet darling, Grumpy Cat.
Bruce chuckled, and passed the box to his partner. "Here. Figured you'd want to be prepared for tonight."
The box held a neat, but artful arrangement of white flowers and silver ribbon. It sparkled a little in the foyer's dim lights, and Dick gave it another scowl. "Uh…thanks? I think blue's more my colorthough, don't you?"
His old mentor shook his head. "I was thinking you could give it to Barbara? It's called a corsage."
"I know what it is." Dick gave a roll of his eyes, then a grumbled, "Speaking of which. Who're you going with?"
A bright expression lit up Bruce's face like a sunrise, bright and brilliant. His smile was utterly lovestruck as he straightened his tie nervously. "You wouldn't know her."
"Try me, old timer."
"A lovely woman," Bruce sighed, "By the name of Selina Kyle."
An answer which, unsurprisingly, was met with silence. Bruce shot him a thin smirk, raising one eyebrow smugly as Dick struggled to place the name.
"You've got nothing?"
"Shut up."
"Hh." Bruce's smile edged wider as he rolled his own eyes up towards the ceiling. Hands clasped behind his back, he rocked a little on his heels. It was something the old man had only ever done when he was really excited. And that night, Bruce had been downright giddy. "Dick," he added slyly. "I really think you two are going to have fun tonight."
Teenaged Dick snorted. "Heh. That'll happen."
"If you just gave each other a chance—" Bruce mused, drawing the words out carefully.
"Sorry, Boss Man, but I don't really think—"
He'd swallowed those words when Alfred had stepped in to announce their other partner. And when she'd made her descent down the stairs, shimmering dress catching the light of the chandeliers, he'd swallowed his tongue. And when he'd seen her face—?
Well, sixteen-year-old Dick Grayson had just reached that awkward phase in every boy's life. When you looked at a girl you'd hated as long as you'd known her, and saw past the grudges and the ego. Noticed for the first time how cute her freckles really were, how beautiful her eyes were when they shifted from side to side… (And maybe a few other things, too. But, hey, he'd been sixteen, after all…)
What he hadn't been able to do was form a coherent sentence for the rest of the night.
Barbara nibbled the inside of her cheek when she finally touched down, keeping both arms fixed firmly across her chest. (She, too, was doing an excellent imitation of Grumpy Cat) In a voice almost as tired and ornery as Dick's had been, she grumbled,
"I look stupid, don't I?"
Teenaged Dick opened his mouth. A squeak came out instead of whatever else his pubescent brain might've supplied.
And Bruce's smirk grew ten sizes.
"Not at all," he assured his other ward, offering her his arm graciously. "Are you ready, then?"
Her painted lips turned up in a smile as she accepted Bruce's arm. Through her teeth, she gritted, "I'll make you suffer for this, B-man."
"I'm sure you will. Dick? Pick your jaw up off the floor, son, and let's get going."
Dick, with the help of Alfred's gentle nudging, was busying himself with the corsage. He slipped it over Barbara's wrist gently, afraid of touching her (yet at the same time, very much wanting to do so) and met her eyes shyly.
She was watching his hands work, and when he'd finished, her gaze flicked up to meet his.
"Thanks?" she said, cocking an eyebrow at the look on his face. Then she swallowed, maybe even a little nervously, and added, "It's beautiful."
Dick said something extremely charming and intelligent, but it came out sounding more like, "Gyuh…"
Bruce was quick to put them both out of their misery as he shuffled Barbara out the door. Then turned to shoot him a very wry, very knowing grin.
"What?" Dick demanded, going as red as a tomato. The blush reached all the way up to his ears.
"Oh," Bruce said with a shrug, "Nothing."
Dick's vision tunneled, and when he blinked away the painful surge of white in his retinas, he was back on the Cave floor, shaking like Titus during a thunderstorm. John's low laughter scraped across his nerves, making him glance up.
"Too precious," his cousin decided. "What was it that time? Embarrassing stuff, huh? Did you show up to class in your underwear? Whatever it was, you were red as a sfeclă! Ha!"
Dick dragged a hand over his sweat-dampened face, quivering. "Glad," he gasped, "That you're enjoying this so much."
"Oh, cousin, you have no idea," John growled with a smile. "What time is it? Late afternoon? Evening? By now, Babsy'll be having the last of her little memory-trips. Grandmaster requested the best for last, and I'm sure this next show won't disappoint."
Strained as his mind was at the moment, it didn't take too long for the dots to connect. He felt the floor spin beneath him—but not because another hallucination was coming on. John must've seen the look on his face; he probably looked as pale as a sheet. Because his cousin's grin took a more savage note as he tipped his chin down and said,
"That's right. The big one."
Dick's breathing hitched as he choked on air.
"You relive our familie's death how many times a day? Ever since you were a little boy, you've watched it play over and over and over again, haven't you?" John nodded, knowing he was right. It had gotten better in the past few years, with siblings to care for and a city to protect. All of which made for good distractions. But, every so often (emphasis on often) the old nightmare would resurface.
They both knew, however, that 'the big one' was something else entirely.
"But you've got one little nugget bouncing around in there," John sang, "that you never let yourself revisit eh? Too scary. Too painful. All of it, your fault."
"Johnny, shut up," he wheezed.
"Nuh-uh-uh." John clicked his tongue, just as Dick began to watch the edges of his vision blur, feel a wrenching swoop in his gut. "Just hang in for the ride, Dickie. I have a feeling this is going to be very enlightening."
#######
#######
Barbara was forced to relive it, over and over.
Hands wound into her hair, dragging her limp body. Fire in her middle—blinding pain that put anything else she'd ever experienced at that point to crying shame. Blood on the floor, slick and pooling. Crackling firelight illuminating those glinting teeth as they hovered above her in a stretching smile.
Hands. Teeth. Fingers. And…
A scream bubbled from her throat as she wrenched herself away from the sight. Knees cracked against the ground, palms scrabbled for purchase on the smooth tile. Her nails scraped the stone as her hands curled into fists. Barbara arched her back, head hanging low, and she let loose the sounds of agony trapped in her head.
The very same ones echoing from Past-Barbara as the vision played out around her.
"S-st—stop," she heaved. "St-t-op!"
For a moment, the scene was washed away, and her ears were met with deafening silence. She was back in the room with the girl and the knife.
"Well?" Vanaver was unmoved as ever, and his voice was stone cold. "Have you had a change of heart?"
Barbara gave herself a moment to recover as she rolled onto her back, chest heaving for air—there didn't seem to be enough of that to quell the hummingbird flutter in her chest. She supposed she was well past breathing exercises, now…
Let me help.
"No," Barbara gasped, the sound of it just a hair beneath a whisper.
This will end us both!
Untrue. No one had ever died from a panic attack.
But your mind is about to snap like a dry twig, you absolute moron!
That's just what they want!
"I'd rather die," Barbara reaffirmed, tipping her chin up towards the ceiling. It was an answer meant for more than just the voice inside her head, and the Grandmaster wasn't slow on the uptake.
"So be it."
The next round left her sobbing, curled in on herself. Phantom sensations prickled across her skin; the memory of grasping hands and probing fingers. Unwelcome touches and…and…
Then there was the laughter. It drowned out everything else. It felt like someone was drilling screws into her ears, peeling off her skin. Barbara's hands flew up to her head. Grasping at her ears, trying to stop it, stop that voice from crooning out sweet nothings and veiled threats—
"Oh, I'm not going to kill you, baby girl. No, no..."
Barbara's jaw came unhinged with her scream.
Again, and again, and again, they had this dance. And each time, Barbara's defiance wavered. Her resolve flagged and frayed. Every time they made her watch it, hear it, feel it, she took a little longer to recover. It took more than a few moments and attempts to tell Vanaver to go and %* himself. And, eventually, that too disappeared, until the only sign Barbara could give was a noncommittal shake of the head.
"This," the Grandmaster mused, after Barbara's thirty-somethingth flashback, "Is fruitless. Pointless. I will give you one more chance, Miss Kean, to take up the knife and obey my direct order. If you still persist in defying me, then this exercise shall no longer have meaning."
Barbara was panting on the floor, sweat clinging to her brow.
"I will send in Talon Rose to dispatch the child. And then we'll have you escorted back to your cell. There, you'll be able to view this pleasant little scene on repeat for however long it takes your mind to snap. So. Once again, I shall ask. What is your decision?"
Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, stinging as they slicked over her temples. She dared one last glance at Christina, lips parting to give Vanaver one last invitation to shove his order where the sun wouldn't shine.
But then, of its own volition—her jaw clamped shut.
Enough.
We're done playing.
Barbara's eyes widened sharply as every muscle in her body went numb. She'd been hit with tranquilizers, been dosed with anesthesia, and gone on several panic-trips via Scarecrow Gas before—but none of that compared to the total loss of control Barbara felt over herself as her body pulled itself upright.
What?
She was getting to her feet, dusting off her knees before straightening.
And her mouth betrayed her with the words Barbara tried so hard to avoid—
"You win, Grandmaster."
'What the #$%% is going on!?' she screamed in her mind. She hadn't said that! She hadn't moved a muscle! And yet, her muscles were moving, and her mouth was speaking, and she—
"I've suffered enough." Barbara heard the dry words in her own voice, was aware that her mouth was moving, although she wasn't the one doing it. It was a surreal feeling that left her at a loss, absolutely reeling.
'Stop! What's happening to me?' she shouted, but no sound came out of her mouth. The words only bounced around in the echo chamber of her mind. And so, no one heard her except—
Like I said.
No more games, Barb.
I'm taking the reins before you drive us both into a ditch, metaphorically speaking.
Barbara's body took a step forward. Then another. And another.
With every movement, Barbara marveled at the sensation of her muscles contracting and shifting, supporting her weight and accommodating her movements, seemingly of their own accord. Her curiosity quickly soured, when she reached the pedestal, and felt her hand lift up.
Her fingers curled around the dagger's hilt. And she hefted it, gave it an experimental swing.
"No tricks, Miss Kean," Vanaver warned.
"What would be the point in that?" Not-Barbara replied hollowly. Her chin tipped up towards the ceiling. One eyebrow lifted skeptically. "You say that if I kill the girl, the pain stops. Is that correct?"
There was a pregnant pause. Even the Grandmaster himself seemed at a loss for words.
But his hesitation was brief, and he said, "Yes. Spill her blood, and your torture ends. You will be exempt until the Gray Son is in our possession."
"Lovely." Barbara twirled the knife in her fingers, adjusting to the weight of it, testing its balance.
'What are you doing!?' Barbara screamed inside of her head. 'What the #$%% are you doing!? We can't do this!'
We can.
We absolutely can.
'You said…earlier…you said you were me! But if you're me, then please! We can't!"
Mm, yes.
The Boss Man's moral compass is still chaining you down, isn't it?
But, think about it this way, Babs—
"The girl," Not-Barbara said, sliding one finger along the edge of the dagger. Lightly, extremely so, because even her soft caress was enough to split her own skin. "She's a Talon, now, yes?"
"That is correct," Vanaver affirmed.
"And she will be revived after I do the deed?"
"That remains to be seen. The serum does not always…take."
Good enough for me.
Are you satisfied?
'NO!'
Too bad.
Not-Barbara scraped the tip of the dagger down the pedestal's side, letting the sound of it startle their prey. Christina jumped, looked up, and heaved a soft gasp as Barbara started to step forward.
She took her time, footsteps slow and deliberate. The knife spun in her hand. The real Barbara was experienced when it came to weaponry like this; the dagger had the same weight and almost as much length as one of her escrima sticks. In a way, the familiarity was almost reassuring. But that didn't stop her own voice screaming in her mind, begging herself to stop, don't, please.
"Come here, sweetie," Not-Barbara crooned, approaching the corner where the child was huddled.
Christina bolted to her feet. Pressed her back into the corner, fingers grasping at the walls. Barbara watched the rapid rise and fall of the girl's chest, could hear her panting gasps. She tried not to look at her face, but Barbara's eyes, too, had a mind of their own.
The sight of the girl's tears had her begging, once again.
'What do you want? Anything. I'll give you anything. Just don't go through with this, please. Please! Please—"
Oh, don't beg. It's pathetic.
Besides, your mewling is only making this worse.
Not-Barbara came to a halt, and Christina was now only an arm's length away. The dagger lifted, and its tip pressed against the hollow of the child's throat.
Christina's yellow wolf-eyes dipped down then up, then down again.
"Babs," she gasped. "Babs—"
Not-Barbara kept the knife still; she knew the protocol. She'd watched and listened to Talons for weeks, now. "I await your order, Grandmaster."
"Please, Babs," Christina whimpered.
The Grandmaster let out a satisfied hum. "Look at you. So well trained. I assume you know the wordage, by now?"
Not-Barbara smirked. "I do."
"Then my order is given. End it quickly."
The dagger's point disappeared from Christina's neck as Not-Barbara raised it above her opposite shoulder. It was in perfect slashing position, a fact that was not lost on the real Barbara.
'I'm begging you,' she sobbed silently, 'I'm begging you…'
But her pleas fell upon her own deaf ears.
Not-Barbara's posture straightened, shoulders squaring, mouth pulling down into a disinterested line. "Talon Christina," she said hollowly, with the raw intensity of every Talon Barbara had ever heard repeat the words, "The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die."
Tears dripped out of Christina's eyes, sliding down her cheeks. "You promised," she whispered.
Not-Barbara faltered.
With the moment's hesitation, the real Barbara reached out. Found something within herself to regain control for just one moment. To pull back, loosen her hold, drop the knife. The dagger pinged against the floor with a clatter, and Barbara collapsed backward, shoulders thudding and skull cracking on the tile.
She gasped. Felt the fingers of something else pulling at her, trying to take back the steering wheel of her limbs and body.
"Is there a problem, my dear?"
Barbara opened her mouth, but the words were, once again, not her own. "No problem at all, Grandmaster. A spasm, nothing more."
Barbara was pulled to her feet. Bent in half to pick up the blade, and once again stepped towards Christina. Whatever control Barbara had been able to rip back from the voice in her mind was gone, now.
'Why?' she gasped silently, 'Why are you doing this?'
Because.
They advanced on Christina once again, dagger raised.
You might be willing to throw our sanity away with both hands, Barbara.
But I'm in this boat with you, and I am not letting us sink.
They planted a hand on the girl's shoulder, shoving her roughly against the wall. Christina shrieked, mumbling a string of words in another language, probably German, but Not-Barbara didn't even flinch as she raised the blade.
Trust me.
I'm doing this for our own good.
'NO!'
But Barbara was powerless to stop it as the knife slashed Christina's throat.
#######
#######
Dick could only watch with his heart in his throat—just as powerless as he'd been back then.
The vision carried him through the familiar hallways. Red and gold wallpaper streaked past his eyes as he sprinted. And the faces of the small army marching through Wayne Manor blurred and shifted as he passed. Their eyes were wide as Dick shoved them aside. Undeterred by the sheer number of GCPD officers and EMT personnel that stood in his way.
He could see Jason running behind his past-self, a more effective battering ram than Dick could ever hope to be. But that didn't stop Bullock from planting a hand on the Red Hood's shoulder, stopping him short, even as Dick flew past.
"Kid," Bullock wheezed, voice vise-tight with emotion. "Don't go in there."
"That's my sister!" Jason bellowed. "The #$%% I won't! Get the &*%# out of my way before I—"
Past-Dick barreled through the pair of officers stationed at the library door. Their shouts of protests were drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears.
His head whipped back and forth over the room as his chest rose and fell. He took in the green and purple graffiti tagged all over the room. It swirled in his vision like a kaleidoscopic nightmare. Several officers were milling around somberly. There were Bruce and Tim, the former bent over the latter as Tim emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor.
Oh, &*#, the floor.
It was streaked with blood—more blood than Dick had seen in years.
A wide ribbon of it dragged across the wood at his feet, stretching and stretching all the way over to the hearth—
Dick remembered the moment his heart stopped cold.
He remembered forgetting how to breathe.
Even now, watching it all in retrospect, the ringing in his ears still returned. He was aware of Bruce's voice telling him to get out ('Son, you shouldn't have to see this') Jim Gordon shouting at several of the officers, and at him ('Who the #$%% let him in here? Grayson—') a man's hand on his shoulder, trying to spin him away and lead him out.
Dick threw the hand off.
And he was at Barbara's side in a heartbeat.
She was in terrible shape. Unconscious. Bleeding profusely. Joker had stripped her naked and left her body strewn out over the rug, leaving the seeping wound in her belly on full, graphic display.
Dick had thought she looked otherworldly—a ghost on the floor, already gone to the other side. Hair fanned out like flames amongst the wreckage. Eyes blissfully shut. What skin he could see underneath all the flecks and splashes and smears of crimson was paper white and translucent; she'd lost far too much blood.
"Babs?" Dick's gasp was choked. He knelt at her side, hands hovering above her. "Babs."
Bruce draped a shaking, gasping Tim over the couch cushions and turned to watch somberly. The police officers and emergency personnel stood firm, like silent statues around the room. Either too in shock to respond, or too sympathetic to dare.
And his partner. His love. His best friend and closest ally, and…and…
There wasn't even a response, no flutter of eyelids, no answering groan. Dick watched his past self shudder, laying his forehead on hers. His shoulders shook, breath came in heaving gasps. "H-hey. I'm here. I'm here now. So that means you have to be okay, you hear me? I told you I'd never let anything happen. I promised you I wouldn't leave. I'll never leave you. So I'm here. I'm here. I'm here, I—"
Bruce moved to step forward.
Gordon stopped him with a hand on his chest.
"This," he hissed at the dark knight. "This is on you."
Bruce's expression was agonized. "Jim—"
"I trusted you." Gordon heaved a broken breath, and turned away. Dragged a hand over his face as he struggled to compose himself. "And we'll talk about that later, but for now, Bruce, you and your boys'd better get the #$%% out of my crime scene before I charge all three of you with obstruction of justice."
"You wouldn't—"
"Don't," Gordon snapped. "Test me on this, Wayne. Get out."
Bruce and the Commissioner stared the other down. And, to Dick's surprise, Bruce was the one to give. To duck his head, and step around Jim like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.
"Dick," he said, emotion tinging every word as he said, "We need to leave her now, son."
"No," Dick snapped, cupping Barbara's face in his hand. He could feel her shallow breaths puff against his lips before he sat up. She was still alive. Dick traced the pad of his thumb so gently over one of her soft eyelids, just the way she liked him to do when she pretended to be asleep in his arms. He loved the little smile it made on her lips, right before he swooped in to meet them. She liked her hair stroked, too, but he didn't do that now, there was too much blood…and…
She was still alive, but only barely. He never should've let her leave the Watchtower party alone. Never should have left her to that…that creature. He should've been there. If he'd only been there—
"Dick. We can't be here."
Dick heaved a shuddering gasp, and clenched his jaw. "I'm not going anywhere," he breathed, voice shaking, "Until I know she's okay. I promised her."
Gordon's hand rested on his shoulder. "Son, I know what you're feeling right now. Please, believe me. But this is an active crime scene, and—"
"Don't," Dick snarled, "Call me son."
Gordon retreated a few steps at the venom in his tone. But he turned to two of his men—Officers Hendricks and Vasquez. Gave the order. And the two men stepped forward to drag him away.
The second their hands were on him, Dick whirled, landing a hook across Vasquez's jaw. All cops and doctors in the room let out cries of alarm. Gordon's hand drifted towards his holster. Bruce stopped him with a shake of his head. Vasquez crumbled back as Hendricks pulled out her taser. "Don't make me use this, Grayson! Hands on your head"
Dick's eyes welled up with tears as he seethed through clenched teeth. "I promised!"
And with a flash, the scene shifted. Whiteness seared in Dick's vision as he let out a scream, but when color and vision returned, he could see himself somewhere else. Could smell the salty air, and feel the chill evening breeze rolling off the thundering ocean waves. He was standing near a building, now. A warehouse. Lit up from the inside with noise bleeding out through the cracks.
There were two shadows in the dark, tall and imposing. From the lift of their shoulders and the width of their stance, their intentions were no mystery. They moved in tandem as they stalked wolf-like towards the warehouse and its bay doors. Dick could only watch with mounting dread.
This, he remembered all too clearly.
One of the shadows placed their hand on the door, hefting an iron crowbar in the other. His hold on the instrument was firm, but cautious, as if he held a live rattlesnake in between his fingers. With a purposeful, steeling nod, he turned to the other shadow. In a low voice he said,
"I need to know—right now—that you're completely on board."
The other shadow gave an annoyed chuff as he fumbled with the locking mechanism.
"Dead serious. We do this, and that's it. No takebacks."
The other man's head whipped up, and Dick saw his eyes flash in the pale yellow dock lights. With a voice as hard as steel, he said, "No takebacks. He pays."
The taller shadow nodded. "He pays."
The lock buzzed, and the mechanism on the door clicked. Both men reached down and thrust the bay door up. It clanged and rattled as it opened, and as they stepped into the light, the strangers' forms were only slightly less shadow-like.
Both dressed all in black, with face masks covering everything but their eyes, they made an imposing pair. But the shock of white in the taller man's hair, and the murderous glint in the other's eyes betrayed their true identity easily enough. At least, to Dick.
He watched the duo stalk into the warehouse, a dozen eyes fixated on them. Everything stopped dead in its tracks at the sight of the two unwelcome visitors. Laughter halted. Hands froze. Smiles waned. And all talk ceased. Thugs lounged everywhere, sprawled on couches, gathered around pool tables and poker games. This was shaping up to be a typical crash pad, after all, not just some empty storehouse. Their source had been right on the money.
But, walking through the room now, it was hard to see through the haze of red that colored their vision.
Because there, stretched out on a sofa at the far end of the room was the man they'd come all this way for. The animal they'd been tracking and hunting for the past two months. He'd been hard to pin down, choosing to keep a relatively low profile and stay off the grid after what he'd done. What he'd taken—
Now here he was. Right in front of them.
And the Joker didn't even have the courtesy to look intimidated.
"Hm, don't remember inviting anyone else to this party..." The clown shot them a disinterested frown over the back of the couch, giving a twirl of his hand. "Kill them, boys."
The thugs needed no further prodding. With wicked leers, they burst from their places and lunged for the dark duo, knives flashing and broken beer bottles glinting in the dim overhead lights.
Dick watched what happened next…one step removed from it all. The swing of the crowbar, the grunts and shouts of pain. The leaps and dodges and kicks and blows. The twists and volleys and crackle of bones. The barely-bridled ferocity with which the two men fought was frightening. They held back—but only just enough.
And when all of the Joker's lackeys had been reduced to bleeding, blubbering puddles on the ground, the pair stalked forward as one. The taller man hefted his crowbar, but the other held no weapon. Instead, his clenched, bloodied fists trembled at his sides.
"Who," the Joker drawled, looking slightly more interested, now, "the #$%% are you two? And—just a follow-up—are you by chance seeking employment? I offer great benefits! Dental, of cour—hhkk!"
The taller man's free hand shot out like a striking viper, and before anyone had time to blink, the Joker was on the ground with a boot on his neck. As the crowbar traced down his cheek, the clown let out a slightly nervous cackle.
"Ooohhh, I'd know that firm grip anywhere. Hello, hello, Jason Todd! Long time, good to see you've been chugging those protein shakes like a good boy. Regimens are very important for a good physique, as I would know—hheeee—"
Jason ground his heel into the scumbag's larynx, and a wheeze leaked out like the air in a deflating balloon. "Not in a hee-haw kinda mood tonight. Care to guess why?"
Joker squinted, visibly confused. "Boys, boys, I think you've got me confused with the Riddler. I don't do guessing games."
The other man burst forward with a growl, "Here's a hint, then."
One kick landed in the clown's side. Then three more. Then one last blow before the shorter of the pair stepped back, reached up, and pulled down his face mask. His bared teeth and clenched jaw were fully on display. His face as a whole cleared up the mystery for the Joker, who let out a pleasantly surprised little giggle.
"Nightwing, the Boy Blunder himself! Or should I call you Dick? Oooh, just think of all the innuendos, the possibilities! The list goes on and on and on. Probably just like your—"
"Quit rambling," Jason snapped.
"Hush, hush. I'm trying to call your big bro a hot piece, Hoodie." The clown's smirk turned downright demonic, twisting into something so dark that it had present-day Dick recoiling in revulsion. "But I must say, his little squeeze is quite the looker, too."
"Shut up," Dick growled. At his sides, his fists trembled.
"What was her name again? Ooh, yes." The Joker tipped his head back to let out an ecstatic sigh. "Barbara."
Jason's shoe disappeared from the clown's throat, and at that sudden reprieve, he tried to sit up. But a crowbar slashed through the air and struck his cheekbone.
"We're going to do this nice and easy tonight, Bobo." Jason stepped closer to the gasping clown, who was doing his best to hold all of the blood in his nose. With another stroke of his wrist, the crowbar crashed into Joker's ear. "You're gonna keep quiet—"
Dick reached down and snagged the clown's hand before he had the chance to reach for something inside his coat. He reached instead, and felt his fingers wrap around a cold metal handle. When he drew out his hand, he held a gleaming pistol—
—which he pointed straight at the Joker's head. "And we're going to put you down."
Joker's eyes went wide for a fraction of a second. But then he chuckled heartily, shoulders shaking. "Nn-hn-hn. That's rich. I know Hoodie's got the guts to end me here, but Daddy's Number One? I'll bet you cry every time you step on a spider, Boy Blue. You're not gonna pull that trigger."
Dick pushed the hammer down with a click. "Wanna bet?"
Something flickered across the clown's face. "Interesting idea."
Jaw clenched, Dick's grip tightened on the weapon. Through gritted teeth he said, "This ends here. All of it ends tonight. What you did—"
"Frankly, I've heard better 'It All Ends Here' speeches from a cadaver I spent the night with, once. Remind me to tell you about it sometime." Joker tsked, and leaned back, tucking his arms beneath his head like a pillow as he stretched out on the ground. "No, Blunder Boy, you won't pull that trigger, 'cause it's the same gun I used to shoot your baby girl in the spine. Pop!"
He mimed a finger gun, then cackled loudly. Dick faltered, his face going pale.
"Hoo boy, the sounds she made! I can still hear 'em!" The clown giggled manically as his arm flopped back to the floor. "Not hard to see why you snapped that one up, Dickie. Having her underneath me, making those beautiful little screeches, it almost sounded like she actually wanted it—"
And Jason was on him before Dick had the chance to do something stupid.
The clown's broken screams shattered the air as the crowbar struck again and again and again. Jason shouted raging profanities as he worked, voicing the thoughts in Dick's mind concisely.
But Dick himself only stood there, staring down at the gun with a potent mixture of horror and revulsion. A thousand thoughts were running through his mind. All of his instincts screamed at him to join Jason on the floor. Beat the $#!^ out of the monster so that he'd never open his mouth again.
And he knew in that moment—
It wasn't him.
That wasn't who he was.
The sound of the gun—clattering to the floor, skittering across the concrete as Dick's boot kicked it away—made both Jason and the Joker look up sharply. The sight of his brother, just standing there with no weapon, made Jason's eyes go narrow.
"Nightwing," he snapped. "The #$%% are you doing? He pays, remember?"
"He pays," Dick agreed, voice hollow. "But not like this."
Jason shot to his feet. "Dick—"
"I won't make you a murderer again." Dick's eyes were wide, his glower heated. "And I won't set that example for Robin."
His brother sniffed, indignant, as he leaned in. His breath was hot against Dick's ear as he seethed, "Leave Tim out of it. This is for you."
"This was a mistake." Dick kept his voice low and toneless, never tearing his gaze off the clown. "And it was for you. Some sick revenge fantasy to make up for the fact that you weren't fast enough. Let her go, man. Steph's gone."
Jason reared back. Then snarled. "This is not about her."
"It's not your fault you didn't get there in time," he said, and felt a hollow ache ping in his chest. He thought of Barbara, stretched out and bleeding at his feet. The cold feeling of her skin. "Killing Joker won't bring her back."
"It won't," Jason agreed. His hand snagged Dick's, and he thrust the crowbar into it forcefully. "But it'll make us both feel a #$%% of a lot better."
Dick's thumb traced the cool metal. "Will it?"
"The doctor says she'll never walk again," Jason growled. "So bust open his kneecaps. Listen to the leg bones snap. Then you go for the head. You do it, because she can't. You do it, for her!"
The Joker was wheezing through his shattered teeth. And despite the blood flowing from between his lips, and the one swollen eye, and the broken nose, he managed a sickening grin. He raised one hand, and giggled.
"He's right, you know. Give it a few days, and I'll be back out on the streets. Running wild, wreaking havoc! Maybe I'll climb through Barbie's window for an encore performance. If you're lucky, I'll let you watch—"
Dick lifted the crowbar.
Jason smiled.
Joker laughed—
—then screamed as the rod tore through his kneecap.
Blood and bone painted the concrete, and Dick stepped back, chest heaving.
He looked down at the gasping clown as he reached for his ruined knee. Glanced at Jason and the fire in his eyes. Then, he tossed the crowbar aside.
"No," Jason growled, shaking his head. "What are you doing—?"
"Leaving." Dick turned on his heel and stalked back towards the bay door. "And you're coming with."
#######
#######
They followed Vanaver's posse to a wide room—a library of sorts, with books and maps and desks spread around the perimeter. Jason and Kate had actually searched it earlier, finding nothing.
But this time, when the three men and the girl stepped into the room, holographic panels blinked into existence all around the room. Graphs and data charts with shifting numbers and levels. Images and information scrolling through a constant loop. Surveillance footage of buildings and streets—all with shifting perspectives, like the camera was jumping and swinging through Gotham City.
There was one panel, though, in the center, that made Jason's breath hitch in his throat.
It showed security feed like a few of the others. But unlike those others, the display was a bleak cell streaked with dark slashes of blood and who knew what else.
A dark shape was huddled in the top corner of the frame. From the downward angle of the camera and the dim light, it was hard to tell what it was.
Jason had a sneaking suspicion, though, that Vanaver was about to enlighten them.
He and Kate found a perch on the room's second level, nestled between piles of dusty old tomes and boxes that had been left up there for storage. They peeped through the crickety wooden railing, and watched the people down below.
"I'll admit," Vanaver said, his voice smooth and self-assured, "to skepticism, at least in the beginning. My pride allows for that."
With a wave of his hand, more panels appeared in the air before them.
And Jason's heart lurched like he'd taken a free-dive off a high-rise.
"The Batman trained her very well. Her spirit was unmatched—I've never seen anyone resist our methods for so long."
For the first time in weeks, Jason saw his sister's face.
In the footage, Barbara was strapped down to a table. The kind used for surgery…or autopsies. Two men circled her like vultures, holding tools with gleaming edges and sharp points.
"We'll try again. The Talon's mantra. Recite it." one of them said.
Her skin was pale and sweat-soaked. Dark lacerations seemed to glow against it, lining her bare ribs and stomach. Barbara's chest rose and fell with short, erratic gasps for air.
"Sorry, doll, I didn't catch that."
One of the men—probably Deathstroke, but it was hard to tell for sure from above without the mask—jabbed a scalpel into Barbara's side. Blood spurted from the wound, and she let out a sharp hiss through clenched teeth.
"I-I said," she growled. "%* you."
Deathstroke leaned in closer. "I will slice you open right now. Make you hold your own guts while you spout off their little motto. Or you can save us all the mess. Your choice."
Barbara managed a smirk, but it was thin and it was pained. "Fine."
She took a deep, labored breath. Then in a badly-cracking voice, she sang, "Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there!"
Deathstroke jabbed the blade in deeper, and Barbara winced violently.
"NNnnhh…heh…" she groaned. Then tipped her head back and laughed. "Buh-duh-buh-buh-buh! I'm lovin' it!"
"What is she doing?" the other man demanded.
"Seriously?" Deathstroke twisted the handle, and Barbara let out a sound that made Jason's heart leap painfully. "Cut it out with the jingles, ginger. Seven words. Say 'em, and you're off the hook."
"Ssseven words? Th-that's all, huh?"
"Now."
Barbara's head flopped listlessly on the table. A manic smile flung at the corners of her mouth. "Okay, Sssla—Slade." Her hands, restrained at her sides with leather cuffs, clenched into fists. With each word she spoke, a shaking finger extended. 'Once I'm ou-outta here… You. Are. Mine'."
The fire in her eyes returned in a flash. All of it aimed at Deathstroke, and Jason thought it was a wonder the man's eyebrows weren't singed off.
Instead, the mercenary spat a curse down at her, and moved. With a drag of his wrist, he carved the scalpel through Barbara's stomach. Slowly. Deliberately. Painfully. Blood welled, organs bulged out into the open air.
Barbara's scream was ear-shattering.
And Jason lurched to the side, vomiting into a cardboard box.
His fingers scrabbled at the dusty papery edges, his throat burning, stomach lurching. Kate draped herself over him, drawing a discarded curtain over them to muffle the sound. They waited in silence. His partner's breath was baited, while Jason's came in soft, pained gasps.
When there was no sound of alarm from below, they dared another peak at the room.
Vanaver twirled his hands, without a care in the world. More screens popped up. All of them showcasing Barbara's graphic torture. Physical. Knives in her flesh. Mental. Blares of alarm and dousing water to startle her from sleep. Emotional. Cutting words about them, about their family, and how they'd left her, didn't want her, didn't care—
Jason wiped at his lips, feeling hollow.
"But, sooner or later, gentlemen," Vanaver gloated, "Everyone breaks."
His finger tapped a button, and the panel in the center illuminated. As if a light had been flipped on.
A woman sat huddled in the corner. Knees pulled up tight into her chest. Her eyes stared blankly down at her raised hands, each finger dripping with black ink. In the lighting, it almost looked like blood.
And a few feet away, there was another figure lying face-down on the floor. A little girl in a white dress. Her blonde curls were fanned around her head. Ink pooled beneath her, where it wasn't spread into streaks and swirls on the white tile.
"Roughly twenty-three minutes ago, Barbara Kean finally submitted to the will of the Court." The satisfaction in Vanaver's voice made Jason's stomach turn somersaults, and made him wonder if he had anything left inside to expel. "With her Talon's blade, she performed her first execution. Taking life, of her own free will and choice."
"No," Jason breathed.
Lincoln March turned away. The girl, Cassandra, stared straight-on, a lost look in her eyes.
Kate's hand was on his shoulder, but Jason bit down on his tongue to keep from yelling out.
All this time, a part of him had hoped his sister was okay. On the run, maybe. Rotting in a cell, at least. Barbara was untouchable. She'd been that way ever since she'd sat in the backseat of the Batmobile with Jason as Bruce drove him off the streets and into a new life. A titaness. Even when she'd been shot and paralyzed, she'd still been unbreakable.
In a way, Jason supposed he'd always idolized her. Trusted her and looked up to her in ways that he never had with Bruce, or even Dick.
But if they—no, when they—got her back…
Would she even still be Barbara?
Those &*$^*#&$ had taken her freedom, her dignity…and now they'd taken something even more precious.
He could see it. In her eyes.
That woman was not the same person who had dried Jason's tears after a rough night. Who had held him close after a nightmare. Who had been the first to embrace him when he'd come back from the dead and lost himself, and…and…
No. There was something missing, now.
Anger surged, familiar as an old friend. It rose and rose, and Jason curled his fingers around the banister to hold onto his composure. He was already three seconds away from flinging himself over the side and tearing out Vanaver's tongue, and making him choke on it—
—when he heard the man in the plague mask laugh.
And that rage inside of Jason curdled and soured into something more visceral. Every instinct inside of him urged him to get out of that room—and fast.
"Would you look at that," the man said, pounding every word out in a slow sing-song drawl. "My little girl all grown up. I knew she had it in her!"
Kate probably heard it in his choked whimper. "You know him?"
All he could manage was a nod.
Knew him? You could say that. Jason supposed you got to know someone pretty &*$# well when they were beating a crowbar into your brains.
As the man lifted the mask, and flung it to the side, his grotesque ruin of a face was left on full display. Tim had described the clown's disfigurement in horrified, careful detail. But nothing his little brother had told him prepared Jason for the real thing.
The face was beginning to rot on his skull. Jason could smell it from there, and for the second time, he almost choked up his own stomach acid.
"But you," the Joker growled, pointing a finger in Vanaver's masked face. "Promised me I'd get to unravel her brains! I can't believe you started without me!"
The cult leader was unperturbed, and his reply was just as dry. "That tends to happen when you're twenty-eight days late to the party. In case I didn't make myself clear, knave, we are already on a very tight schedule. It's time to move onto the next phase."
Joker paused. His finger dipped slightly. But then he threw his shoulders back and let out a howl. "Ah-haha! I like you, Vanny! You know I could wring your little chicken neck in a second—and you don't give a &*$#!"
March, who'd looked on in cold silence, cleared his throat. "All due respect, Grandmaster, but you do know this man, don't you? You know what he is?"
"A vvvvvisionary!" Joker spun, arms thrown out theatrically. Now he bore down on Lincoln, getting in his face, nearly nose-to-nose. "I'm the one who set their plans in motion to begin with, Mister Mayor. I killed Batman. I drove his two oldest kiddies apart, and I created that monster!"
He pointed to a screen, where Barbara was ripping out a Talon's throat.
"Yes," Vanaver conceded with a sigh. "The Joker is many things, Mister March, but he also has his uses. And speaking of which, is everything in place?"
"Hnn-hn-hn," Joker chuckled through his teeth, giving March one last leer before he turned on his heel. "Everything's ship-shape, mon Capitan! All that's left is…"
He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.
Jason couldn't see it, but he was sure Vanaver's eyes were rolling up into his skull. "The matter of your payment. Yes, I remember."
"Then you know who I want," Joker sang.
"And I'll remind you the answer is no," he snapped. "The girl is ours. Choose another."
Kate leaned forward. "Another?" she whispered. Then looked to Jason, as if expecting him to make heads or tails of anything they'd heard.
But he had no answer. He only watched Joker lean forward and whisper something into Vanaver's ear. The cult leader nodded, and stepped back from the other man's stench.
"That should pose no problem. Now—" He waved his hand, and the panels of Barbara's screaming torture disappeared. Replaced by streaming fields of data and flashing bits of information that Jason rushed to commit to memory. Not easy—it was mostly numbers. But if he could just—
"—to deal with the Bats in our belfry."
Vanaver's head pivoted, and the others followed.
Jason and Kate both tensed as the curtain draped over them was ripped away. They were exposed once again to the dusty air, and a pair of darkly dressed figures stood over them. Based on the staring orange eyes and the gleaming bronze beaks, Jason made a very educated guess: Talons.
"Red Hood and Katherine Kane," the Grandmaster said, "You should know that espionage is a crime punishable by death."
The uniformed warriors twirled blades in their clawed hands. The kind that looked like they could easily gut a Jason like a fish.
"And I find you both guilty."
#######
#######
Dick gasped as his vision flashed white.
And when the light faded, he was on his knees in the Batcave, listening to the sound of Johnny's savage cackles. He was still chained to the chair, but the Talon looked freer than he had all day.
"Can I tell you a secret, Dickie?"
Dick got the impression that John was going to tell him no matter what he said. So he curled in on himself, panting for breath against the panic that was thudding in his chest. Every beat of his heart felt like a crowbar to the lungs, and the pounding crept to his ears, until his entire head pulsed painfully.
"I was there, that night," John crooned. His toes kicked lazily at the air. "I watched your inner struggle, and the whole time thought 'man, this is the guy Grandmaster wants so badly? Pathetic.' I guess it is kind of noble, if you think about it, trying to pull Jason away from killing again. But &*#, you reach a point where you just gotta ask yourself—is it even worth the effort? I would have pulled that trigger and watched the clown's brains go splat. Doesn't even matter what he might've done to me. Just to wipe that stupid grin off his face—"
"Has anyone ever told you," Dick gasped, hands pressing into his stomach, "that you talk too much?"
John's smile was shark-like. "Only every day of my…second life."
But that wasn't the end of his cousin's monologue.
"Gotta ask myself, though. Why is that one of your worst memories, hm? Worse than watching our parents fall to their deaths, worse than seeing Magda's neck snap on the impact, worse than seeing my broken arms twist out at weird angles behind my head—that was fun to experience, I can't imagine watching it happen! Why did that somehow matter less to you than beating up a clown in a seedy old warehouse?"
Dick uncurled slowly, feeling his insides go cold.
He felt something within himself screaming, and wondered if it was Barbara, wherever she was. Screaming for help? Screaming in pain? His muscles twitched of their own accord, phantom pains from something he couldn't see or feel.
"I have a theory, though," John mused. "You hate that memory because of what it means. I'd kind of like to think I have you all figured out, by now, Dickie."
Dick whimpered, and pulled himself upright. "Is that right?"
"It is. And because I know you, I know that protecting your little found family means more to you than anything else. You hate that memory because it shows you that you failed. You didn't protect Jason from killing again—how many poor innocent criminals did he kill in a rage after that night? You didn't protect Timmy from your bad influence—only a matter of time before he goes all dark-side too, you know! And you definitely didn't protect Babsy's honor—the guy was dragging her through the mud and you barely even twitched. Now, that's cold, even for you, Dickie—"
"Shut up," Dick groaned. He got to his feet and snagged Johnny's collar in both fists. "Shut up. You don't know what I was—"
"Thinking? Oh, yes I do. You were putting yourself in the headspace to kill somebody, whether you want to admit that to yourself or not. So why not follow through?" John grinned through sharp teeth. "After all, you failed someone else that night. Big time."
Dick's blood ran cold.
"Don't," he snarled.
"I mean," Johnny added, unperturbed. "If you'd only pulled that trigger, he'd still be alive, wouldn't he?"
Dick's fists shook. "Stop."
"Dear old Daddy Warbucks would still be here if it wasn't for you." The words rolled off John's tongue like thunder, and he seemed to revel in every sound. "You let his murderer walk! Have you told the others, yet? Jason knows, but don't worry—he'll never blame you to your face."
"John," Dick choked.
"Does Damian know you killed his tati? Does Timmy know Batman's never coming back because of you?" John tipped back his head and laughed from his gut. The sound ripped against Dick's ear drums and set his teeth on edge.
But then, his cousin gasped.
"Oh. Oh. You never told her, either, did you?"
Dick's hands released John's uniform—
—and wrapped around his throat.
"Hhk!" John's eyes bugged out, but that grin never went away. "D-does she—gghk—she know that…y-you had the ch-chance to pull the—the trigger on that clown…a-and you didn't? D'you ha-ave…any—kkk—idea what Br-Bruce meant to her?"
Dick squeezed harder, jaw clenched tight enough to snap. His arms shook with the strain of choking his cousin out with both hands. What little color was left in the Talon's face drained, but besides that? He seemed unaffected.
"Ha!" he gargled. "You g-got—you've got e-everybody f-f-fooled, don'tcha? The p-perfect, p-p-pure Dick Gr-grayson!"
Dick growled.
"But B-babs is—isn't the only one w-wi—wkkh—with a d-dark—a darkside!"
There it was; black pooled in Johnny's eyes as his blood vessels burst. Some sick, undead version of petechia. Around his throat, Dick's gauntleted hands tightened without mercy. Strained, gasping sounds burst out of his cousin's throat, and his legs thrashed beneath the chair.
And still, that smile persisted.
"Gonna kill me, Dickie?" he asked, in a voice just barely above a wheeze. His lips were purple, his irises rolled up to the ceiling. With one last chuckle, he whispered, just barely—"Thank you."
Then his head flopped forward, as all choked gargles stopped.
Dick was panting, chest heaving, and he slowly let his fingers uncurl from his dead cousin's throat. They ached painfully, shaking a little as he pulled them back. The sound of his own heart pounding in his ears drowned out the scream in his head. Long, and unwavering.
What had he just done?
But then he heard it; the last sound he ever wanted to hear.
Damian's gasp.
Dick whirled, and saw him at the bottom of the stairs, fingers stiffly gripping the railing. His small face had drained of color. His eyes were wider than an owl's.
"Grayson," he choked. Took a step back.
Dick's own eyes flew open wide. "Dami—"
"You killed him." His little brother stared at the Talon's lifeless body. How long had he been standing there? How much of their exchange had he seen? (How much…had he heard?)
"It's not what—" Dick cut himself off, pulling both hands close to his chest. 'It's not what it looks like'? Seriously? It was exactly what it looked like! He'd just—
Damian flew up the stairs, calling for Jason and Stephanie and Tim and Alfred, and anyone who would listen. Please help, the Talon was dead. (The Talon was dead, and Dick had done it. Dick had just done the unforgivable. Dick had—)
He fell to his knees, and looked up at his cousin's glassy eyes staring down at him.
Tears poured down his cheeks.
"Johnny," he breathed. "Johnny, I'm so sorry. I'm so sor—"
But then the Talon blinked.
Dick froze up stiffly, watching with wide eyes as the glassy sheen to Johnny's irises faded like melting frost. His lips returned to their usual gray color as he rolled his head and raised it up. Arching his neck, he let out a satisfied huff at the sound of a small pop.
"Ahhh," he breathed, swallowing experimentally. "How long was I under this go-around, Dickie? Ten minutes? Fifteen?"
Try three.
Dick ran a hand through his hair, his mouth opening and closing desperately.
"Resurrection is such a trip, cous," Johnny sighed. "Though, I guess you'd know."
Ignoring that, Dick turned his attention back to the stairs, where he could already hear the sound of his name, and the drum of pounding feet. The elevator light blinked on, and he could hear the whirring of the cables inside as the car descended into the Cave.
"Oh, yes, that little chestnut." John giggled manically, smiling down at Dick proudly. "Should I play dead a little longer? Really milk it? I've just bulldozed any confidence they had left in you, Gray Son. May as well have a little more fun with it."
Damian was dragging Tim down the stairs by the hand when they stepped into view. Both of them looked frazzled and panicked. The elevator doors dinged open, and Alfred and M'gann both rushed into the room.
"Dick!" Tim cried. "What happened? Damian said you—"
His eyes landed on John—who was still very much alive—and frowned. Alfred was staring at Dick carefully, trying to decipher his expression. M'gann looked about three seconds away from reading his mind like a library book, and Damian…
Damian was staring him down with the kind of look that was usually reserved for kicked puppies, and kittens left out in the rain.
"Your eyes," he said, with a small voice.
They were glowing again, he was sure of it.
Dick opened his mouth to offer up some sort of explanation, some sort of plea.
But he never got the chance. A bang like a firecracker went off three feet from where he knelt, and everyone in the room jumped a foot and a half. A puff of purple smoke floated through the air, and a stiff hand waved it away quickly.
Zatanna stood at the center of their little assembled group, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. She looked like a train wreck; hair mussed, makeup smudged, and her chest heaved like she'd run all the way there from Cormorant.
"Guys," she gasped. "I don't have much time. Get to Cormorant General Hospital, asap. Steph—"
Her form flickered like she had a bad connection.
But her eyes were wide and fear-crazed as she gasped, "She's going to die."
A tremor wracked her body, and Zatanna faded.
Johnny chose that time to perk up and let out a burst of laughter. "Oh, right! Almost forgot I was supposed to be distracting you all while they offed your Batgirl! Did it work?"
And the room devolved into chaos.
