Richard Grayson was dead.

Or at least, that was what the man had told him. Not that Dick could really understand much of what the man said, the words spoken too quickly for him to process. He knew better than to ask for clarification though.

His eye was still swollen from his last attempt at asking a question. The man did not like it when he spoke, so Dick stayed silent.

The man was mean, but Dick saw no real way of escaping him. His ribs still ached from the first time he had tried to run. If he had had more medical knowledge, Dick would have known that they were broken. But he was only eight, so the diagnosis escaped his knowledge, leaving him simply in pain and terrified.

Unable to speak without severe retribution and terrified of making one wrong move, Dick simply followed the man's every direction, although more often than not that too led to pain when he could not decipher what the man was trying to say.

There was no safe path to take, no place to hide from the constant terror.

If anything, there was simply more pain around every corner.

Dick was trapped, claimed by an organization that he had no knowledge of.

All he knew was that the people in the owl masks were even more terrifying than the man who never left his side.

"Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time...

Ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime...

They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed...

Speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send the Talon for your head."

The words echoed in his head, becoming a mantra repeated over and over again until they lost all true meaning, holding only the remnant feelings of fear. Not that he really knew what the words meant anyway. They had simply been repeated so many times that they had been burned into his mind, like a hot iron pressing into his very soul.

Did he have a soul anymore?

Honestly, he was unsure.

He was Talon.

That was all.

Blood splattered across his mask, but Talon was numb to concern. He had long since grown numb to most things. It was easier that way. It was easier to block out the sounds of his target's screams if he simply let himself drift into nothing, if he became nothing.

Because really, that was all he was. That was all he could be.

Nothing.

Just a pawn; a tool to be honed and sharpened until it gleamed with deadly brilliance, uniform amongst scores of others.

Still, Talon did his best to kill quickly, to reduce the suffering of his targets as much as possible. Even if they had to die, at least he could make it somewhat easy on them. Owlman had made him watch far too many times as he brutally slaughtered his targets, each one worse than the last until Talon no longer vomited at the sight of spilled guts and torn out eyes; until he was numb to it all.

He stepped back from his victim, face blank under his mask. It had been an easy kill, the man old and overweight to such an extent that he was completely unable to flee. All it had taken was a quick strike through the head. With it being Gotham City, no one would even question the circumstances in which the body was found. After all, this kind of thing was normal. Normal enough that an entire society of Gotham's richest could get away with having their own personalized fleet of time-frozen assassins.

Not that Talon really cared though. No, his only purpose was to kill, and he had completed his mission for the night. Turning on his heal, Talon swiftly exited the building through a back window, disappearing into the night as if he had never really been there at all.

And, according to all evidence, he had not been. Because, after all, the Court of Owls was but a myth, and thus the Talon was nothing but an urban legend. He was nothing. Just a whisper on the wind, a breath of air, a shadowed harbinger of death.

Owlman was angry when he returned to the headquarters, not that Talon was surprised. Owlman was always angry about something. He stayed silent as the man ranted and raved, delivering the occasional kick to Talon's still form. Talon knew better than to attempt to fight back. Tools were not supposed to fight back. They were simply meant to do their jobs and then wait for further instruction. So, that's what Talon did, lips pressed into a thin line to avoid making any sound as Owlman shouted at him, words an incomprehensible jumble.

It was not long before the man grew tired of yelling at the impassive target, growling in frustration before grabbing Talon's arm and pulling him angrily toward one of Talon's least favorite areas in the headquarters, second only to the main meeting room where the masked people normally held office.

The tubes were terrifying, suspended in rows along the walls, green fluid bubbling ominously within, encasing the bodies of other Talons. At the beginning, Owlman had let him stay awake between missions, something about needing him to grow, or at least that was what Talon had thought he had said. Now, however, he was expected to stay in the tubes, frozen in time until the Court next needed him.

Talon hated the tubes, hated the green liquid which felt cold enough to burn his skin, hated how vulnerable he felt each time Owlman forced him to strip down in order to enter the tube. His armor had become his protection, the mask hiding his face from the ever-watching eyes. To have that taken away, well, Talon hated it.

Still, he did what he knew was expected of him, removing his armor piece by piece under Owlman's wrathful stare, until he was left bare aside from his undergarments. What came next, Talon hated even more than the tube, even though it too was part of this nightmare ritual. Owlman stepped closer, hands skimming over Talon's exposed flesh.

He wanted to flinch back, wanted to attack like all his senses were telling him to do, but he knew better. Pain always followed breaking the ritual. And so, he stood still, frozen in place as Owlman inspected him. With a grunt, the man placed his hand on the small of Talon's back, pushing him toward the tube.

Gritting his teeth, Talon let him, stepping into the tube filled with the bubbling green liquid, holding his breath as he lay down and was submerged instantly. Owlman towered over him, lips twisted upward into a sinister smirk as he pulled the lid down and over Talon's tube, trapping him inside the container.

What came next was almost as bad as the inspection. Still, Talon did his best to let it happen, opening his mouth and letting the viscous liquid fill his lungs, pain spreading through his body until, finally, darkness enveloped him. He could only hope that maybe this time the darkness would be final, that maybe he could rest.

It was a futile hope.

Talon never knew how long he was frozen for each time. It could be a week, a month, maybe even a year, and he would still feel equally disorientated, pain radiating through his skull as the liquid drained away and he opened his eyes to the blinding light of the room. No matter how long it had been, Owlman was always there, standing over him with that same sinister smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, almost as is nothing had really changed at all in the time that he was asleep.

What came next was always the same, the movements practiced and fluid like a well-oiled machine. Like more than a dozen times before, Owlman pulled him from the tube and held him steady as his hands once again perused Talon's body. Talon did his best to stand still and bear it.

As his mind cleared and he regained control of his limbs, Owlman moved back, standing with crossed arms as Talon slipped back into his suit. The routine continued from there, Talon following Owlman from the room, feet stepping in a memorized order, a pattern scoured into his brain.

And, like the countless times before, Owlman gave him his instructions and watched as Talon slipped through the exit and began the trip toward his target. The pattern was almost calming to Talon, the routine unbroken and stable, perhaps the only stable thing that he could hold claim to.

Except, as he leapt across rooftops and slipped behind shadows, Talon began to realize that something felt off.

Or perhaps a better way to describe it would be that something felt. Normally everything was numb, even when he lost limbs in a fight or was killed entirely. He had grown so used to it that it was in essence normal. And, while Talon had not willingly chosen that numbness, he most certainly preferred it to the burning pain in his throat and the tightness that had enveloped his chest since his re-awakening.

It was throwing him off completely; throwing him off to such an extent that even his vision was starting to blur, and his movements were growing increasingly more clumsy. He was a Talon. From the little he could understand, that meant he was not supposed to be clumsy. Yet there he was, nearly slipping off a rooftop and falling to his death. Not that falling would actually kill him, but still.

To make matters worse, the near plummet from the roof had alerted the target to his presence and now he was being shot at.

Everything was wrong, and with that wrongness came the feelings which he had long since learned to suppress. He was being shot at. He was being shot at. He was supposed to murder someone. It was weird to feel horrified at that notion. After all, he had murdered a lot of people. It only took a few for him to learn that counting only made it hurt more. The first time he died, he decided that struggling really was pointless. It was better to just accept the numbness, to just follow orders and not protest. Protesting just led to even more pain.

Talon gritted his teeth, fighting down the cough that rose in his throat, springing into action. He needed to take down his target. Bad things would happen if he did not. He could not let whatever was happening interfere with his mission. Owlman would be furious if he failed. Talon knew better than to make Owlman furious.

He ignored the bullets flying toward him as he lunged forward, body slamming into the glass of the target's window. It shattered, and Talon rolled into a summersault before coming up onto his feet, the blades in his gloves extending. Bullets hit him, but Talon barely even noticed. Whatever harm they dealt him would heal. After all, he was practically immortal. There would be no dying for him. There would be no rest. Moving quickly, Talon took down the guards, claws slicing through their throats like a knife through butter, before he moved on to the cowering figure in the back of the room. His target.

Talon stepped forward, blinking slowly behind his mask. He felt hot. Too hot. Why was his vision blurred? It did not make sense. He stumbled, and the target took that opportunity to attempt to run. She did not get very far. Even with something wrong with him, Talon was still faster than the average person. His hand entered her chest in one quick motion, fist clenching around her heart until it stopped beating. It was a harsher death than what he would normally have given, but Talon was already running short on time. Owlman would be furious if he took longer than estimated.

And, even though Talon generally did not know how much time he had to complete his tasks, he somehow always ended up being late back according to Owlman. The later he was, the more punishment he would receive.

He coughed, breath coming in a wheezing gasp as he turned from the woman's body, exiting through the broken window and disappearing like a shadow into the night. By the time he returned to the headquarters, Talon could barely even stand at all, swaying unsteadily on his feet as he awaited whatever punishment Owlman would dish out.

Like normal, Owlman was less than pleased. He started in on his indecipherable yelling almost as soon as he entered the room, although to Talon his voice seemed off, as if it sounded from far away. It was only when Owlman came to stand directly in front of him and shook him that Talon realized he had somehow managed to completely zone out. Except now not only did Owlman sound off, but Talon had a new problem to deal with. Nausea was building in his stomach like a rising flood, bubbling up into his throat and threatening to explode outward.

Talon took a step back, only to have Owlman grab his arm and yank him back into place. He gritted his teeth, trying to force down the vomit. He failed, knees buckling under him as he sagged to the ground and puked bile onto Owlman's boots.

Everything felt fuzzy after he was done, his head spinning, sweat beading on his forehead as he started to slump forward. Owlman caught him before he faceplanted into the putrid mess on the older man's shoes, voice somehow sounding even more angry, even if still distant. Talon blinked up at him, vision struggling to focus. When it did not clear, Talon simply gave up, letting his eyes drift closed and his body slump completely.

He was too out of it to hear whatever else Owlman had to yell at him about, although he did pick up on one word, repeated over and over again; malfunctioning. Broken.

He was too out of it to recall much of the following events. He knew he had been moved, dragged, from the room. He knew that he had been bound. He knew that his suit had been removed. But what he did not know was much more important. He did not know that a council had been summoned. He did not know that the Court scientists had tested him and found sickness that should be impossible for any functioning Talon. He did not know that the council had come to a decision.

But he did know perhaps the most important thin

By the time he regained more consciousness, it had already been decided. He was already chained to the ground in the main meeting hall, masked faces staring down at him as Owlman stood over him, sword drawn. It happened in an instant, a mere blink of the eye. Still, Talon felt the sword slice into his neck, felt the immeasurable pain of each muscle and ligament being severed.

And then it was over, and his head toppled to the ground.

Talon was dead.

The disappointment that he felt upon waking was immeasurable.

Beheading was supposed to be fatal, unless a Talon was returned to their tube to heal. He should not have been able to just straight up regrow his own head.

And yet, as he reached up shaking fingers and felt his face, it was extremely clear that his head had indeed returned to his shoulders. But the returned head was not the only issue in the strange situation that he found himself in, although perhaps the returned head did make it worse.

Something smelled awful, the putrid stench flooding his nostrils and making him wish all the more that his head had stayed away once removed. It was dark too; dark and oddly wet.

When he tried to move, Talon realized that he was in fact trapped, pinned under something too heavy to easily push back. The smell grew worse when he tried to move, forcing him to hold his breath as he attempted to wriggle free, using his small frame to his advantage as he pushed upward. Or maybe it was down. For all he knew, he could be burrowing further into the rancid darkness to be lost forever.

If he could not die, maybe being lost forever would not be so bad.

After all, it was pretty clear that the Court no longer wanted him. Owlman had said he had malfunctioned. He was broken. Defective. He wished he could die.

Still, he continued to struggle against the nearly suffocating weight of whatever it was that surrounded him; it was impossible to tell what in the darkness. His hand pressed against a surface, pushing against it only to have it give way, plunging his hand into something wet and clumpy. When he pulled his hand back, the substance followed, spilling out over him and making him gag at the foul odor.

He struggled to get away, only to press against more surfaces and have them rupture, the smell growing worse and worse until, nauseated beyond belief and having vomited more than a few times, Talon gave up on struggling for the time being, simply curling up and hoping that some outside force would grant him aid.

Time passed, as Talon lay there, eyes closed and breathing slow, waiting for something, anything, to happen. Lost in the darkness, he really had no way of telling how long it had been before a small trickle of light filtered down onto him and then everything was shifting, moving, as if whatever he was trapped in had been picked up.

Everything turned upside down, and light burned into Talon's eyes as he fell. He landed with a loud crashing sound, a gasp of pain slipping from his lips when black bags began to rain down around him. Scrambling to get out of the way, Talon barely had time to register the fact that he was in the back of a large truck, surrounded by piles of garbage bags and trash.

The falling bags came to a stop almost as soon as they started, leaving Talon panting and out of breath, holding onto the side of the truck as tightly as possible. Now that the sound of the falling bags was gone, he could hear people shouting, concerned voices filling the air. A hand touched his shoulder, and Talon spun around, eyes wide as he stared at the burly looking man peering into the truck bed at him.

Talon flinched away from his touch. A quick glance over the side showed a few more men gathered below, all looking oddly concerned. It was strange. No one needed to be concerned about him. He was a Talon. He could not die. Except he was on longer a Talon.

The man spoke, but Talon was not about to stay and listen. He needed to get back to the Court. Except, no. The Court had killed him. Still, he needed to get away. Needed to go somewhere else. Anywhere else.

So, Talon jumped from the truck and ran, ignoring the shouts sounding behind him. Where was he going? Honestly, Talon had no idea. He just knew that he needed to get away, needed to find somewhere safe to hide.

It quickly became clear to Talon that, while he had been sent into Gotham countless times on missions, he had never truly gotten to know the layout of the city. He was lost. But then again, could one truly be lost with nowhere to go?

People avoided him like the plague, which was confusing at first until he looked at himself in the glass window of a shop and saw that he was covered in what looked like dried blood. He was dressed in white too, something that just made the blood stand out that much more. A red line stretched around his throat, the only sign of his former beheading. When he touched the mark, it hurt. For some reason, everything seemed to hurt.

He felt tired for the first time since he had been originally frozen. It was strange. Still, there was nothing he could do about it now. There was nowhere to go. There was no one to go to.

Tired, in pain, and alone, Talon continued to wander the streets of Gotham, completely and utterly purposeless. Maybe someone would find him and discover a way to finally kill him for good, although that did seem unlikely.

Still, Talon could hope.

And, as day waned into night, Talon began to think that maybe, just maybe, that hope had some footing in reality.

A man approached him from the shadows, some kind of strange bag over his head. It was rather questionable, but Talon really was not the kind do judge, especially not when the man started talking rapidly in a clearly excited tone. Talon simply blinked at him, tilting his head to the side in clear confusion.

With a loud sigh, the man pulled off his mask, a grin spread across his lips as he gestured at Talon. "Come with me." The man directed, and Talon, well, Talon was too tired to really protest.

Following orders was what he did. At least if he followed this man then he would no longer be wandering around with nowhere to go.

They walked for a while in silence, Talon stumbling along behind the man who walked at a deliberately slow pace, clearly intent on not overstraining the injured boy. Talon liked the silence. It was comforting. More comforting than being yelled at, that was for sure. But, all too soon, the silence ended as the man led him down some stairs and knocked on a rather dilapidated looking door.

The door swung open almost instantly as a green and pink haired kid came bounding out and launched themselves at the man. Talon stepped back, eyes narrowing suspiciously. The man did not look like someone he would trust anywhere near a child. And yet, through the doorway he spotted more suspicious looking people and another child, this one with long dark hair, hiding partially behind a man with green hair wearing a purple suit.

Everyone was talking, their voices fast and loud, too conflicting for Talon to even start to decipher. His head hurt just trying to single out one voice to listen to. He rubbed at his temples, closing his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, the purple and pink haired boy was standing in front of him, head tilted to the side curiously. He spoke, but his words were too fast, too confusing for Talon to understand.

Talon shook his head, making the boy frown and look thoughtful for a moment.

Then, slowly and softly, the boy spoke again, clearly concentrating on remembering what to say. "Hi. I'm Veggie. You're like me. And Gray." He gestured back toward the other boy who was still trying to hide.

Talon blinked at him, eyes wide. "You... you... you speak my language." He whispered, voice raspy and timid. It was all too evident that he was not used to talking.

Still, the boy, Veggie, smiled, grin lighting up his face like a radiant beam of sunshine as he reached forward and took Talon's hand. "Come on. We'll get you cleaned up. You kinda really smell. And you look like what happens when Papa makes the sparkly lights go off on the bad guys. But it's okay. You're home now. You're safe."

Talon hesitated. It could not be true. He was supposed to be dead. He was a malfunctioning killer. He did not deserve a home.

He did not deserve safety.

But then a timid hand slipped into his free one, and Talon looked up to see the other boy giving him a shy, tentative, smile.

"It's okay. Veggie's right. It's safe... they killed Sir and made m-me safe. You can be safe too." He whispered, stammering and hesitant, but soft and gentle nonetheless.

And so, Talon let himself be led into the house, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he could trust these boys and the adults who clearly cared for them.

Maybe he would no longer have to kill.

Maybe he really was home.

Maybe he really was safe.