{the deluding talon}
-Products, destined for tumblers, had their joints dislocated in a masterly manner—you would have said they had been boned. Thus gymnasts were made-
Talon grew from a hatchling to a beast. And Dick shrunk from a gregarious boy, to hardly a boy at all. Sometimes it was easy to forget he'd ever existed. Dick was not Talon, and Talon was not Dick, but they shared the same body. Talon was ruthless, and Dick was meek. That was how it went, and there was never a power struggle. Dick had no strength for it. And Talon? Well, he was the one who was in control. And it was better that way.
Years passed slowly, and it was all very agonizing. People died. He was used to it. He had hardened himself to the ways of war, and the more he grew the less it troubled him. He killed, but he never quite grasped it. That he was doing it. He liked to think it was someone else. That's how he'd grown to consider Talon a separate entity. Still, they were the same. And it was all very sad, at the end of the day, when Dick looked into the mirror and saw a human face.
He missed talking to people. He used to love to talk. Now, not so much. He had trouble forming words, as if his tongue had grown stanch, and his teeth had grown to razor-sharp points. He was a nearly mute little thing, too skinny to be healthy, too strong to be human. And yet he was. It was awful. He was awful.
When he was eighteen, a strange thing happened. He'd been shot. In the very heart of winter, when Gotham's roofs were frozen over, power lines dripping long, jagged icicles, and snow drizzling from the heavens. Of course, the man who had shot him had been quickly disposed of, and Talon had a lot of blood on his hands as he skidded across rooftops, imbalanced and frightened. He wasn't supposed to be, but he was. He wasn't healing. He knew it was the cold, but he was growing dizzy from the blood loss.
He stumbled, crashed, and he thought for once he might be caught. He had to kill a few people he hadn't been sent to kill. That sent his mind into a frenzy. He stumbled through snowy alleys, clambering up walls, heaving misty breaths, and he left blood stains everywhere he went. Red patches littered the snow below him, and he bit his lip, crawling across crumbling brick to attach himself to a window ledge. He took a deep breath, his body wracking, and he could feel his grip slipping from the ice layering the ledge. He perched himself, his mask frosting over, obscuring his vision. He knew he was running out of time.
He wedged open the window, unlocking it swiftly, and he slipped inside the apartment. He crashed onto the floor, his body curling up weakly, and he coughed, pressing shaky fingers to his mouth. His lips felt wet. He blinked dizzily, and struggled to his feet, trudging through the living room, listening closely for any sign of movement. He heard none. The apartment was small, and the residents were poor. Talon crept carefully, hearing his own ragged breath. It was loud to him, but perhaps not to anyone else.
He found a bathroom. It was there that he tore off his mask, sweat causing his mop of black hair to stick stubbornly to his forehead. He looked dead, his skin sallow, his eyes sunken, and his purple lips caked with drying blood. He swallowed it, tasting the warmth and the sweet acrid taste, and he shuddered from it. He carefully undid his suit, pulling it down dizzily to expose his wounded side. Scars lined his abdomen, fresh scars and old scars, and they zig-zagged across his pallid flesh, licking up is spin and around his hips, kissing his shoulders and arms, hugging his waist. They were all as clingy as a lover, and as forever as a wife.
He heard a stir behind him. A soft noise, a mumbling child coming close to examine him. Talon turned, his heart pounding, and he is hollow eyes fell upon a little girl. She was slight, with a round face, sharpened eyes, and a long tumbling mess of blonde hair. She looked up at him, her eyes like dark gray ashes, and she frowned in confusion. Talon watched, and he slowly raised a blood soaked finger, pressing it to his lips. Her mouth parted into a slight gape, and she gave him a shaky mimic.
Talon beckoned her into the tiny bathroom, and she came without comment. He shut the door behind her, his thoughts flying fast. Truthfully, he had no taste for ending her life, but there were things that needed to be done. It would be quick. He could slit her throat fast, and then be done with it. But he didn't want to. He was too weak, and she was too small, and it was all very confusing.
She was staring at his wounded side, at the balled up toilet paper he was pressing to the bloody hole. He spoke, his voice crackling and soft. "Help?" he breathed. He was beginning to warm up, and he could feel his skin begin to form over the bullet wound. That wouldn't be good.
The girl's brow furrowed. "Are you…?" She cocked her head as Talon pressed his finger to his lip again, tapping it furiously. She closed her mouth, and he pulled the bloody paper away. She stared wide eyes at the wound, and he winced as he tried to dig into it to retrieve the bullet.
The girl looked almost frightened, but she was trying not to show it. If she was growing nervous, it was behind a curious face. "Tweezers," she said, pointing to the medicine cabinet. "Top shelf."
Talon quickly snatched them, wincing as he dug into the half-healed wound, tearing through his flesh to get to the bullet. That seemed to get to the girl, she grew shaky, her eyes growing wide and glistening. When the bullet finally gave, he tossed it into the sink, collapsing onto the floor and heaving. The girl was a problem. The fact that he'd left a trail of blood was a problem. But he didn't have the strength to kill her. He barely had the strength to look up when she drizzled water over his lips. They parted, sucking desperately for hydration.
"What are you?" the girl asked, unfazed as his blood soaked finger grazed her cheek. "You're no White Rabbit. So what are you?"
That puzzled him. He watched her dazedly, and as she continued to talk, he realized one thing. She thought she was dreaming. That was why she wasn't panicking. Children don't deal with things like grown ups, he found himself thinking. They don't leap to conclusions. She saw that I needed help. So she helped. Kindness had nearly become a foreign concept.
"Or are you like the walrus?" the girl asked, sounding puzzled. He stared at her blankly, and she frowned, watching him warily. "You know. "The time has come," the walrus said, "to talk of many things. Of shoes, and ships, and sailing wax…""
Dick knew this. He struggled to sit up, and he took a deep, rasping breath. "O-of cabbages and kings…?" he offered weakly. She smiled, looking delighted that he knew the poem. What an odd child. She held the bloody tissue to his side, and she nodded.
"And why the sea is boiling hot," she said. "And whether pigs have wings."
The walrus and the carpenter, Dick knew, had lured oysters from their bed and treated them with kindness before devouring them. And I'm just the same, he thought numbly, reaching for a knife at his belt. He was reminded of another poem, then, one about him.
"Beware the court of owls," he blurted, bolting up straight. The girl looked startled, and her mouth dropped open. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his fingers closing around the knife. "B-beware the court of owls, that watches all the time…" She looked at him as if she had just awoken from a deep slumber. She dropped the bloody tissue, and she looked around wildly. "Ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime…"
She pressed her back against the door, her eyes on the knife. He gave her credit, she did not scream. His knife hovered against her neck, over her throat, and she still had the courage to speak to him. This time her words were rushed, and she said them mechanically. There was venom behind them though. Because she knew.
"They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed," whispered the girl, shaking so terribly that she cut herself on his knife. A bead of blood trailed down her throat. "Speak not a whispered word of them, or they'll send the talon for your head."
He was fully healed by now. He stood, and he towered over the poor girl, who had begun to cry. This is wrong, he thought. This is so wrong. He inhaled deeply, and the bathroom smelled like blood. He pressed a bloody hand to her flaxen hair, watching red streak across the fine strands.
"Your parents," he said hoarsely. "Where are they?"
She said nothing. She squeezed her eyes shut, and she shrugged weakly, her lips trembling as she tried to contain a sob. And Dick took pity on her. Because it was wrong. And he didn't want to be the Walrus, or the Carpenter, who devoured a poor little girl whole. It was wrong. He was wrong.
He withdrew his knife, and clamped his hand over her mouth before she could scream. She stared, wide eyed and shocked. "Listen to me carefully," he whispered to her. "You don't know who I am. You never saw my face. You didn't help me, you tried to stop me, but you banged your head. You don't know what happened. Do you hear me? This is your life, and they will make me kill you if you don't say exactly this. You know nothing. I was here, but you don't know who I am. Understand?"
She nodded vigorously, tears flowing freely from her eyes. And he sighed, slamming her head back against the wall. He watched her eyes roll upward, and he let her slump to the floor. He cleaned the bathroom as well as he could before he left. The girl would be concussed, surely, but that was the extent of her injuries. Better yet, no one would believe a concussed little girl babbling nursery rhymes.
When he returned, they put him to sleep. He had no idea if they knew about the girl or not. He checked on her the next time they woke him up, and found her alive and well. That meant the world to him, and more. Because he had betrayed the Court, and they had no idea. He loved that feeling. Knowing he'd spared a life, and he'd gotten away from it.
It gave him a new resolve. Even the Talon part of him thirsted for the chance to be free. With his power, he could make wonders happen. And at heart, he was just a boy who wanted to make people happy. Growing up a performer had done that to him. He lived to please, but it wasn't the Court of Owls who needed pleasing. They were still the ones who owned him, though.
For a few years he went without incident. The girl was not forgotten, but rather shoved to the back of his mind. She made no matter, so long as she lived. If she died… well, that made no matter either. So long as it wasn't by his hand. I can't kill myself, Dick thought glumly after a particularly nasty mission. He tried anyway.
When he was twenty one, he was forced to go undercover. That was a first. He wondered why one of the Court's members didn't go. After all, he didn't fit into society very well anymore. He didn't know how to speak to people. But it seemed the Court of Owls had grown awfully interested in Bruce Wayne. That was a disturbing thought. But if it came down to it, Talon would kill the man, as he'd killed the rest.
He felt constricted in a suit. Like he was wearing an itchy costume. He had no right to wear something so normal. He stood rigidly, trying to find his footing in a room with so many people. This wasn't what he had been trained for. It had to be a test. So he reluctantly began to speak, smilingly minutely at other partygoers, watching Bruce Wayne very carefully as he moved.
"Boring, huh?" a sweet, teasing voice said.
Dick's head snapped to the side, but he saw no one. And then, feeling foolish, he looked down. It was a girl— woman, he scolded himself. She was tiny, and the wheelchair didn't help it. She was muscular, but very skinny, and she looked like she might have been very awkward once before she grew into her limbs. But she was pretty. Very pretty. Dick tried not to notice these things, but it was painfully hard when he recalled that he'd never gotten the chance to speak with a pretty girl like this before. He almost felt normal.
"Y-yes," Dick said. He blinked, and he winced. "I mean, yeah. Yeah, it's… boring."
She quirked an eyebrow, and she gave a soft laugh. Her red hair bounced around her head as she tilted it, her blue eyes big and curious. There was a lot of life in them. And Dick was jealous. He couldn't remember what that kind of life felt like. He turned away from her, feeling suddenly bitter, and he looked ahead toward Bruce Wayne again.
The woman followed his gaze. "Ah," she said, resting her chin in her palm. "The great host himself. How do you know him?"
Talon had been told what to say, but Dick was forgetting. "Um," he said faintly. She smiled, and he looked away. "The Wayne Foundation. I was a scholarship… child." It sounded so stupid, he knew he'd messed up the back story. The girl stared at him, and he looked down, feeling embarrassed and confused. He was fumbling with basic oratory functions, and he couldn't think properly with so many people. He didn't want to fraternize, because he didn't know who he might have to kill in the near future. He prayed it wasn't the redheaded woman, it would just be too cruel.
"You're not used to parties," she observed. He shook his head slowly. "They can be… a lot to swallow. But hang in there, I'm sure it'll be over soon."
That's what I'm scared of. He couldn't say anything more, so he merely nodded. The woman seemed to take that as a sign that he didn't want to talk anymore, because she nodded back and said her farewells. Dick wanted to stop her, urge her to keep talking. It could be about anything, really, just so long as she spoke to him like he was a normal person.
"Oh," a blonde woman gasped, standing in a group of other women watching Bruce Wayne. Dick crept behind them, uncertain about their intentions. He knew why he was staring. Why were they? "It's just so awful about his son, I can barely stand it!"
"Well it wasn't really his son," another woman said, giving the blonde one a sour look. "And besides, it's not like the boy's dead."
"He might as well be," sighed a woman with graying hair. "The poor child, even if he ever does wake up…"
"Excuse me," Dick said quietly, tapping the elder woman on the shoulder. They all turned to face him instead, and he stumbled back, flushing red. "I-I was just wondering what you meant. About Bruce Wayne's son?"
The blonde one looked at him strangely, as if he'd suddenly became the monster he sometimes dreamt he was. He could almost feel the talons sliding from his nailbeds. "Don't you watch the news?" the woman asked, blinking at him. She gave him a once over, and her lips curled. "Handsome."
His mouth opened, and then closed. He had no proper response to that, and it wasn't because he was fumbling with his words. He might have been called handsome when he was very young, but he knew there was a grave difference. "I… haven't been able to catch it." He bit his lip nervously. "I'm busy. A lot. I'm very busy."
He blinked as a few women began to giggle, and he took a step back. Maybe this had been a bad idea. The older woman looked at him, smiling warmly. It was the strangest sight in the world. "Poor Jason Todd is in a coma," said the woman sadly. She shook her head, and Dick watched her, hoping he could pretend like he knew what she meant by that. "The poor boy may never wake up— and if he does, his leg—"
"Well they have prosthetics for that, don't they?" a mousy looking woman asked. "Lord knows Bruce can afford the best of the best."
"But will that be enough?" The elderly woman shook he head. "No, that boy is so heavily scarred, I wouldn't be surprised if they took an arm soon. He's so torn up, he's practically been used as a chew toy."
"A fire's chew toy," the blonde said bitterly. "If the few reports we've gotten on his condition are anything to go by, the kid's got burns bigger than all of New Jersey."
"That…" Dick made his eyes widen as if in shock. "That's awful." Something occurred to him, and he struggled to get it out. "If… if his… son… is so hurt… why throw this party?"
"Charity galas," sighed the mousy one. "These types of things don't get cancelled because a little boy played with fire."
"Nice," the blonde said, glaring at the mousy woman. "The poor boy was a hostage, and you still manage to blame him."
The woman shrugged, and grabbed a champagne from a passing waiter. "I never did like that kid," she admitted, taking a gulp. "I mean, he was so possessive of Bruce…"
"Well he did come off the streets," the elderly one reminded. "He must have been very attached to Bruce."
The mousy one rounded on him. "What do you think?"
"I…" He glanced away, his brow furrowing. "I didn't know him."
The woman gave a soft chuckle. "You're the lucky one, then."
Dick left quietly as the other ones chided her. He never met Bruce Wayne's eye, but he did run into the redhead again. She waved him over introducing him to a quiet boy who had only just arrived. He looked as nervous and uncertain as Dick felt. He was gawky and wide eyed, like a child who was perpetually struck by the wonders of the world. Once again, Dick found himself jealous.
"Tim, this is…" The redhead looked up at him, her brow furrowing. "Wow, I didn't even catch your name, I'm sorry."
"John," Dick said easily— the easiest thing he'd said all night. That's what he'd been told to say. John was such a common name, he wasn't even sure they had known it was his father's. But they had to know, didn't they? "And… yours?"
"Barbara," she said. She smiled, and gave Tim a pat on the shoulder. "Tim's here alone tonight, so I thought I'd introduce him to someone here who is even more awkward than him."
"Wow," he blurted, shocked by how frank she was. "Thanks."
She smiled wider, rolling her chair back. "Sorry, that was mean," she said. "True, though. Anyway, I'll be right back. I need to make sure my dad doesn't drink too much, because I can't drive home, and that would be awkward." She moved away, and Dick watched her go in total wonder. How can anyone be so alive?
The boy, Tim, was watching him intently when Dick turned back to face him. "She likes you," he said, frowning.
That struck him as silly. And sad. "W-what?" he asked, taking a step back. He took a deep breath. He was getting ridiculous. "I'm sorry. What?"
Tim rolled his eyes, and he folded his arms across his chest. "She thinks you're cute," Tim sighed. "Otherwise she wouldn't have calling you back to get your name. You do realize that's why she introduced us, right? I'm not really that awkward."
"Oh." It was too confusing to think about. "That… is not what I expected. At all."
Tim shrugged. "These sort of things aren't expected. Like, ever." He gave him a thin smile. "Just a fair warning, though, her dad's the Commissioner. Might want to think twice before getting involved if you like all your parts."
That was funny. Dick actually gave a short, bitter laugh, and he looked up at the ceiling. "There's a lot of parts of me I wish I could get rid of," he admitted.
Tim looked very confused, and he raised an eyebrow. Dick began to realize how bad this was. What do I say when she comes back? I can't stay, I have to stop this now before it gets any more out of hand. If I don't leave now, they'll find out, and they'll hurt her, and Tim, they'll hurt them both for being near me. Dick took a deep breath, and he turned away.
"I have to go," he said. He saw the boy's eyes go wide, but nothing else as he bolted from the room.
The information he had gotten was adequate enough. Just enough. He knew they were expecting more, but he had not been able to stay there any longer. And he was growing restless inside his own skin. When they put him to sleep, he struggled to stay awake. He wanted to be awake, alive, he wanted to live but it wasn't possible. He was already a dead thing in borrowed skin.
They awoke him for small assignments. Small kills. He went without complaint, and eased back into his simple life of wondering how he had gotten so deep in something he hated so much. But he had no choice. Certainly that was an excuse. He had no choice but to do the bidding of the Court of Owls. But still, he had trouble sometimes accepting that this was truly who he was.
Years crawled away from him. He was lost amongst his own languid days, hopeless to those who controlled him. It was a thankless existence, but he went on and on and on, and he thought that maybe some day he would die, and that would be sweet.
Their masks glowed in the darkness, white and stark— disembodied heads with big hollow eyes boring into his skin, burrowing underneath and controlling him from the inside. He was used to this feeling, used to being someone other than himself. He watched, and they watched, and the pinched white faces moved closer. They had a new target for him. It was nice to know, if only so he knew what it would take to be put back to sleep.
"Bruce Wayne is becoming an obstacle."
Talon lifted his head. He nodded, his tongue feeling heavy and inflexible.
"However, we don't want him gone. Not just yet. He is a curious specimen— and his grief may be a key to turning Gotham to us."
Confusion buzzed in his head like a thousand wasps, and they bit him, forcing him to blink rapidly. Not Bruce Wayne, he told himself. Then who?
"Your target," said the littlest owl gleefully, "is Jason Todd."
Note: Talon was hard to write at this point because I know like close to nothing about the Court of Owls, so anything about them is me just taking my knowledge and bullshitting it. Actually, that's just how I write, nevermind. Anyway, if you know who the little girl is, that's cool. She'll come back later. Spoiler.
Cred to Victor Hugo for being a boss and giving me badass quotes.
