dreamsanddisasters | Tiny Talon Dick (Plus is an E N A B L E R)

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Tiny Talon Dick (Plus is an E N A B L E R)

[ 'Stay. Inside,' Father had said. 'This isn't your concern.'

And no matter how much Damian had snarled back that it wasn't fair, that there wasn't any sense in barring him from patrol (it was just a boy, just another threat amongst many, what was so special about this one?), Bruce had left Alfred with strict orders to ensure that Damian stayed on lock-down while he left for the streets of Gotham.

Presumably to find that would-be assassin. The child from the Court of Owls. Although Damian wonders if there's anything about it that could be called a child anymore; wonders what might be behind that mask. Something about the voice, quiet and inflectionless as it'd been, declaring that the Waynes were its targets, had set Batman off, had frozen him solid.

Damian's fought the Court of Owls before. He's taken down one of the adult assassins - shot an arrow through its eye, and when that didn't work? Strung it up and beheaded it. Immortal though they were, the monsters could still die. He doesn't see what's so worrying about a pint-sized version of the same.

Pennyworth is being irritatingly clever for a butler, and unusually effective at keeping him caged. He's not falling for any of Damian's tricks, not this time, and both Redbird and Robin remain out of his access. The Cave is closed to him, and Damian's left to pace the boundaries of his room wearing nothing but a scowl and his satin pajamas (no suit, no daggers, no hooded cape), dinner ignored and left to grow cold as he presses his forehead against the chilly glass. Titus is more than happy to lay out in front of the fire, but as much as Damian hates the winters here, he wants to be out there. Fighting crime, throwing his frustration at whatever villain he can dig his fists into. The night is dark, almost inky, with thick, fat flakes of snow silently falling down; he can't even see the grounds through it, just glaring at his own reflection and the powdery puffs of white when they swirl close out of the pitch black.

Drake was allowed out tonight to attend his precious gala, with Cain accompanying him. Todd wasn't, but he left anyway. Smart enough to take off the second Pennyworth had swapped his focus to corralling Damian into his room before the butler tried the same move on him. Ridiculous. ]

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Give--

[He started to speak. The word sounded cracked and dry, and he hadn't even hit puberty yet. He wanted to yell, Give it back, and it was utterly childish in the way he wanted to vent his own frustration and bury his face in the mask's hidden safety.

He cuts himself off immediately. A flash of panic cuts behind his eyes again, but this time both more immediate as well as far away, one more like remembering than dawning recognition.

The Court didn't like it when he spoke, because he was never very obedient when he spoke. And they always demanded absolute obedience. A tool was supposed to be obedient and silent.

He feels like he's going to be sick. He was-- he was letting too much emotion out, he had to focus, bring it back in, get back to the job. The boy could easily hand the mask over when he's dead. (But that, he doesn't like the sound of that anymore but it's his job and he has to.)

He tries to steel himself again(he can't lock it all away again, not right now on such short notice), and moves to bodily tackle Damian to the ground in response to his stupid game of keep away. He needed to finish this and get away and leave now.]

Maybe if you say please.

[ He smirks, taunting, immediately hooking onto the fact that he's accomplishing something. He's not sure what it is, what he's trying to do, beyond egging on a response from the boy. Signs of life.

(And how wonderful for him that all he has to do is be his own, asshole self to do it.)

Robin barks out a laugh at the attempted tackle, flipping and rolling out of the way. He slings himself up to crouch atop one of the memorial cases, reinforced glass easily supporting his (less than hefty) weight, and, to add insult to injury, one sword is sheathed so he can twirl the mask in hand. ]

I think it will look good on my mantle. Even though these goggles are stupid.

[It's like the kid is egging him on to speak again-- well, practically demanding it, really. But he refuses. He's not gonna slip up again and fall for it. Maybe the boy's just trying to waste time until the Batman arrives.

(But really, he doesn't like the goggles very much either. They're a bit big for him and make it hard to see the peripherals.)

If Robin was going to keep running, then Talon was going back on he offensive, and sends one of the knives flying towards the target on top of the display case. And now he's aiming all for vital points, not just to disable.

Still, it's kind of hard to look like a serious assassin when you don't realize there's an angry pout on your face.]

[ Damian's retreat isn't random, for all that it seems that he's simply trying to keep the distance between them. Foot by foot, he's edging back towards the open holding cell - an apparently open room at the back with an easily triggered force-field window. He doesn't intend to let the boy return to the Court.

The boy is moving noticeably slower, and the mask is tucked into his utility belt so he can keep one free hand pressed against the wound on his side, though the damnable smirk won't leave his face as he jumps back out of the way of the knife (the blade scraping just shy of his throat).

(Normally, he would just knock him out rather than trying to lure him in, but Damian isn't faking his delayed responses, the heavy breathing or the squint to his eyes that says he's fighting off the haze of blood loss. Stakes raised, tactics change, and he needs to stay out of close combat unless absolutely necessary.) ]

Maybe you should try aiming for something a little easier to hit. Something more your level.

Have you tried the broad side of a barn yet?

[ Such a dick. ]

[This kid his making him angry and he needs to stop. He needed to shut up and Talon needed to stop getting angry.

He doesn't know the terrain, and Robin can still move and talk, but the open wound is starting to take its toll. If he waits it out long enough, he can win by attrition, make the boy bleed out from exertion. It's messy. He'll have to deal with the consequences on both sides of the fence. But he hopes it'll be enough to get the job done.

The taunt is aggravating, but it doesn't stop him from rushing forward with the full force of his own agility and keep taking a swipe at his jugular.]

Maybe you'll bleed enough to match the barn.

[He's spoken again, the words are angry and stilted and it feels awful in the pit of his stomach no matter how much he actually wants to talk, but-- it's a clearly phrased threat. Robin's likely close to losing consciousness and probably knows it, and once he's dead he'll have his mask back, and no one will have any clue he'd even said a word.]

[ He's not fast enough to fully dodge the swipe, a thin line cutting diagonally across his throat. Shallow, though, a scratch rather than a gash thanks to his reflexes, even if blood wells up into red beads that break and trickle down his neck. He stumbles back, but that goddamn smirk is still on his face as his hand strikes out like a viper to grab the other boy and yank, twisting to throw his would-be assassin just a few feet inwards using the momentum of the attack.

Just a few feet, right across the threshold of the cell.

A bloody palm slams against the activation panel, and the force field hums into existence, closing the space off.

Damian's smile is a snarl of victory, even as he sinks down like his strings have been cut. ]

I can't believe you fell for that. And here I thought I was boned-- [ Jason's vocabulary, now Damian's. ] --when it turned out the belt was empty.

[ Thanks, Father, for your thoroughness in ensuring that he was left trapped and defenseless here. ]

[He's not entirely aware what's happening, but Robin is pulling him and for some reason his reflexes are failing him, and he's falling forward and he's off his feet and he's on the ground. Walls around him.

He doesn't wait, doesn't think; he springs back up to his feet, whipping around, driving for the only exit but he's too slow and the force field is already in place when he reaches it.

Caged in. He's not exactly un-used to it. But usually it's not in the hands of the enemy.

The Talon backs away from the threshold (he can recognize that getting past it from this side is pointless). He throws a glance around the cell, looking for any other kind of weakness or opening for him to exploit, but he knows that the Batman wouldn't make that kind of mistake. The man is good and that's exactly the problem.

He's trapped. And still exposed. He wants to go back to the Court but they'll never take him back now. He's not as afraid of dying as he is at the thought that he is now completely alone.

He doesn't really care what the kid is saying anymore, or that he's gloating and smirking and everything else that made him feel angry before. He's stopped, that weird way he has of hesitating that looks like he's waiting when he's not, and with his mask gone it's easy to see the roll of emotion in his eyes-- shock, anger, fear, most of it dwarfed by shame-- that he's trying to hide, and all in all he just looks a little lost, like he can't comprehend the new state of the surroundings.

In the end he just sits on the ground, crossing his legs in front of him, placing his hands between them, and staring at the floor. Waiting for a repercussion before he can plan another move.]

[ Damian doesn't let himself drop to the floor, not like he wants to. Instead, he waits, watches as the Talon investigates, before the other boy sits down, quiet.

(Distantly, he can acknowledge that it is -- upsetting, to watch the gamut of emotions run across the child's face. But Damian has other priorities at the moment.)

Secure in the knowledge that the assassin isn't going anywhere, he straightens out, allowing himself a slow hiss at his injury before turning on his heel and walking, stiffly, to the elevator.

He finds Pennyworth, Titus still waiting faithfully beside the fallen butler. He's safe, he breathes, and the fall didn't hurt him except for a few bruises, and Damian laboriously drags him onto the couch, left to wake on his own. Next, he circles back down to the medical bay, briskly stitching up his stab wound, slapping a cotton pad over it, and calling it good. The cut to his neck he can ignore; it stings, but doesn't warrant treatment in his eyes. Then, a call to the members of Batman, Inc., who are still a ways out but rushing back.

(Yes, they are okay. Yes, he has received medical treatment. No, it is not life-threatening (anymore). Father, he captured the assassin unharmed (are you going to praise him? No? Fine.).)

Batman had gone quiet at that last piece of information. Damian can't help but feel -- stung. A little. Here, Bruce had stripped him of defenses, yet Damian had still managed to fend off and trap an agent from the Court of Owls, without seriously injuring the boy (in fact, the assassin is in better shape than he is!), but the man sounded troubled rather than proud.

Concerned...for the other boy. Even more so than he sounded concerned for Damian. He can gather from the conversation that the Talon means something to his father.

Finally, after ending the conversation thoroughly rankled, he sits cross-legged in front of the cell, staring at the other boy in plain irritation. ]

Who are you?

[He's hardly moved a muscle since Robin left, hasn't readjusting his position or even looked up. He's had plenty of time to go over his mistakes (and the number is high), to ruminate on the situation (and the creeping feeling of loneliness comes back and he feels like he could vomit but is grateful he doesn't), to imagine a few scenarios in his head and even how he might be able to get out of here-- he knows whatever the Bats decide to do with him, the Court will get him back, and rectify the damage he's done before he's dismissed for his failure. It's a small consolation.

But there's still a hole burning through his stomach. If he even realized he could, he might've cried.

By the time Robin returns to his confinement, he's taken the time to collect himself again, shoving everything down and locking it away again to make life easier to deal with (he's not even sure why this boy has gotten so under his skin in the first place). It's less effective now, but at least it keeps his composure steeled when he finally looks up, even if his eyes look exhausted.

He's silent; it seems like he might simply return to his mute act (this isn't the first time speaking has gotten him into trouble, though it may be his last). But all he really can do now is talk, and the boy is still expecting an answer.]

Talon. [Simple and professional. Stating the obvious, but not condescending. More like he doesn't really understand the point of the question, but he's obliging anyway.] You already know that.

I meant before Talon. [ A correction, impatient. ] Talon's not a name, just like Robin isn't.

[ He drums his fingers against his knee. It seems they're both waiting. This is his chance to get his questions in before his father returns and -- and does what, Damian doesn't know. They can't keep the Talon, but Damian doesn't know what his father intends at all. He'd just been planning on dismembering the creature and sending it back to the Court in boxes, but that plan's not going to hold up, now.

Unfortunately, he doesn't think the boy has any answers to the only questions Damian wants to ask.

Why do you mean so much to my father? Why does he seem to care for you more? ]

[He's-- shocked. Again. Doesn't understand why anyone would want to hear about that, least of all Robin. The Court told him that it wasn't important anymore. It's sure not the interrogation he's expecting, he expected something more about the Court itself, or the plans for Batman and Robin and the Waynes.

His muscles tensed with apprehension. It's not harmful information, as far as he can tell, but he doesn't really want to say it. The Court had told him to throw that all away, but he couldn't bear to forget it all, and he'd locked it away instead.]

D--... Richard. Richard Grayson.

[He bows his head in shame, stares at his hands, like he'd already committed another mistake just by saying it even if he'd really wanted to tell someone who he was. Saying it out loud, as if it might become reality-- it made him think of the circus, and the trapeze, and the smell of kettle corn and funnel cake, and his mom and dad who were dead and gone forever and he hadn't even been allowed to go to their funeral, and the lion tamer and the clowns and the strong man who was always very protective whenever they set up for another show, and bright colors and flashing lights and smiling people, and the big elephant that would scoop him up and cradle him in her trunk when he was small enough to fit which he's certain he'd be too big for it now, and the old ringmaster and that horrible night and the dreadful feeling of betrayal and loneliness and pain when they dragged him away forever.

His heart was beating faster and he didn't have any control over it. He missed it so much, and he felt so tense and his mouth was so dry that it physically hurt. But he's surprised how much he doesn't want to let go, and wants to talk about everything even more, even if he doesn't actually say very much at all.]

No one important. [His voice was terse-- he was doing everything he could not to shake and show his weakness. At least it's not a lie; he really doesn't know why the name would be important to anyone but himself.]

[ The name doesn't mean anything to Damian, either. (Not a clue, not an inkling, because nobody tells him anything.)

But maybe there's some worth in not knowing. Some measure of satisfaction he can take. Whatever weight his father is dragging around that's related to this boy, Damian is free from it, unconcerned. He knows the Talon only as the assassin that tried to kill him.

Simple, clean. Honest. More honest than whatever his father's deal is. ]

Damian Wayne. A pleasure to meet you, Richard Grayson. I'd offer to shake your hand if I weren't sure you'd slit my throat first.

[ Dry, tongue-in-cheek, but Damian's also too exhausted to dredge up much real venom. And he doesn't really take personal assassinations as personal attacks.

The League taught him that you proved your rank by staying alive. Damian is alive, the clear winner, and his position is secure. He's actually in a relatively good mood, stabbing aside. ]

You know, Grayson--

[ Conversational. As if it's a completely normal situation. ]

--you should reconsider your employment options. The League of Assassins could use someone with your potential.

[ Canvassing on behalf of his mother? Yes, yes he is. The Talon has skill. And Damian may yet return to the League--

(--'You're going to make her Batman?! When Drake already inherits Wayne Enterprises? What about me?')

--though he doubts he will ever be able to kill as easily as he did before. ]

[The casual way Robin is talking to him just put him more on edge after he's already upset himself. It's not really being nice but-- he can't figure out why the kid even bothers talking to him at all, especially when he just tried to murder him. He even told him his name, even though Talon already knew it. Though that may be why Damian was OK with saying it while under he guise of some kind of pleasantry.

The Court didn't really care much for the League of Assassins, though he didn't know much about them himself. That kind of thing was a worry for the people in charge. He may have fought one of their assassins before when they'd crept their way into Gotham, but he can't really remember. A lot of the details of his missions just tended to blur after awhile.]

...That's not up to me. [His voice was small and inflectionless like always. He's not one hundred percent positive how he would respond to the-- suggestion? offer? anyway.]

But The Court won't let me. They wouldn't like it.

[They were protective of what belonged to them, and violently so, even if he was just a loose end to clean up now.]

You're not going back to the Court.

[ Pleasantries dropped, Damian's keeping his sharp, uncompromising stare on the boy, even as he wraps his arms around his knees and rests there on the floor. His voice may be soft, clipped and posh, young as it is, but that stare -- and the steel underlining his words -- says the Robin means it.

The Talon won't be returning. ]

--We're not going to kill you, either. If that's what you're thinking. But you're not going to be abandoned to the Court's undoubtedly tender mercies.

[ This isn't even about Bruce. This is about Damian, and not wanting to let this injustice continue.

(Damian, who gets sick at the sight of brutalized children. Who considers himself the exception, the protector, and all others as unacceptable casualties in the stupid, horrible games that adults play.)

Despite his own harsh childhood, he was allowed his independence, his often too-strong sense of self and pride and entitlement, but what the Court has done to this boy is an abomination. ]

How old are you?

[The declaration visibly startles him. And he finally looks up with those owlishly big eyes of his once more. Confusion-- curiosity. Lack of understanding.

Despite the rumors among scared drug dealers and petty muggers, he knew that Batman didn't kill people (Robin was another story, but he mostly obeyed). He was much more in the business of taking prisoners. He figured they'd get what they wanted from him and lock him away, and then it'd only be a matter of time before the Court reclaimed what was properly theirs, probably with their new Talon to finish the work, and that would be the end of that.

He can't possibly conceive of what the Bats would want with him if not to turn him loose, kill him or imprison him, nor the very idea that Robin would want to prevent him from returning to his punishment. "Abandoned," as he'd said it, but he didn't know how he felt about that phrasing. Sure, they'd want to keep him away from the Court so he couldn't do their work anymore, but what did they care besides that? If he was dead, he was off the streets and off their hands.]

I, don't-- I'm not sure. [It's the first time his speech has really faltered since he accidentally spoke during the fight, but Robin's demeanor makes him feel rushed to deliver an answer. But it was a really bad answer, and he tried to think of something else, quickly, that sounded more satisfactory. He cast his glance anxiously around the cell, as if something there would provide some insight.]

Eleven? Twelve? They took me in when I was eight. Seven or eight. But I'm not sure how long it's been.

[There. That was a better answer.]

But I have to go back. [Trying to be nonchalant, and desperately trying not to fidget while under scrutiny. But he's already resigned to that notion, made peace with it.] They'll just come get me if I don't.

You're older than me.

[ A casual, if disgruntled, observation. From the boy's small frame and pretty looks, he'd guessed he was something closer to seven, maybe eight. But one, even two years older?

-Tt.-

And, grudgingly: ] For only a few years of training, you're good. Not as good as I am--

[ Grayson was exceedingly lucky that Damian had been caught unprepared. ]

--but good.

[ Damian had been training since he was old enough to walk -- eight years or so. He boasted excellence and mastery across a stunning array of topics thanks to his mother's dedication to molding him into the perfect heir, but it had taken relentless effort, determination, and a desire to survive on his end. Yet this boy was nearly on his level in combat, after only a few short years. ]

You won't. [ Flat denial, just as he denied Talon his mask. No chance. Not going back. ]

If they try, I'll kill them. Decapitation is very effective against them.

[ Simple as that. Damian seems to find his reactions intriguing, doing that wonderfully unnerving thing where he refuses to blink, eyes half-lidded but tracking Dick's movements, his expressions. ]

Unless you want them to?

[ An idle challenge. His chin rests on his knees, the set of his jaw and the thin line of his lips giving little away, turning the tables right around on the other assassin. His voice quiets, but it's no softer, words as pointed and sharp as the blades he carries, and just as intent. ]

[He wasn't really sure how to react to the compliment. The members of the Court were always impressed with his progress, how good he was getting so quickly, how much more effective and efficient he'd gotten but it always seemed like they were still expecting more. And they'd long stopped being things he really felt like being praised for. No one was every completely happy with his performance, so...

So why did this kid care so much?

He's completely at a loss on how to answer the question. He can feel Damian's gaze boring into him, scrutinizing even more, watching him. He moved his legs, switching which one was folded on top, and crossed his arms over his torso. His hand claws at his stomach, desperately trying to relieve the burning emotions in his gut and still obscure the gesture from view with his other arm, and he bows his head again so he doesn't have to watch Damian's stare.

What he wanted had never been part of the question. He'd protested the judgment when he was younger, but that way of thinking had been beaten out of him before he ever dawned the uniform. The Court of Owls decided; the Court of Owls would want him back. So he would have to go back. That's what they wanted, so that's how it was.

Did he want to go back?

(He wasn't sure he did. But he could never voice that thought.)]

I-- [He couldn't think. His tone turns accusatory, like a cornered animal trying to lash out:] Why do you care? What's it to you? So you're safe from me trying to kill you?

[Why bother going against the Court, to all that trouble? Talon wasn't anybody to Robin, except a kid with some skills and maybe a potential asset for a different group of murderers. And the price for his employment hardly seemed worth it.]

Edited 2014-09-06 04:49 (UTC)

[ He scoffs, curling his lip into a well-practiced sneer. ]

Newsflash, Grayson. As far as threats go, you're not even in my top ten at the moment. My mother's put a half billion dollar bounty on my head, and assassins more skilled than you have me in their crosshairs.

[ Father is going to be furious at Todd for taking off, and that helps him feel a little better. His mother has certainly upped the ante, punishing him and Father both for Damian choosing to stay on as Robin. He doesn't think it's anything more than yet another test, though - she wants him back. Despite disowning him, she's made that clear.

And he sometimes thinks it would be better if he returns. He and his father don't hate each other, but they don't understand each other, either. He doesn't understand any of them; not even Cain. ]

And I care because I'm Robin. Would-be assassin or no, we don't throw children to the wolves. Especially not after what they've done to you.

[ Damian is markedly blunt, shrugging and finally turning his stare off Dick, a scowl on his face as he clambers to his feet (ginger and stiff, sucking in a harsh breath through his nose and eyes scrunching shut at the vertigo, though he regains his composure quickly).]

And -- [ A pause, and Damian is the one now studiously avoiding eye contact, frowning off to the side. ] --because I was where you are, once. This is your crossroads.

I didn't see any of them break into your house recently.

[It was disgruntled and spiteful sounding, but he knows; they've been watching.

But he doesn't expect the... frankness. The bluntness, yes (he doesn't expect anyone to dance around his own feelings, they never have), but he didn't expect to hear Robin sympathizing, in what seems to be his own, weird way.

It's been forever since anyone's actually referred to him as a child in some way that isn't just disbelief at his size before he slit their throat. And Damian's apparently younger than him. The situation was too surreal for his outward hostility to really last that long.

He curls over himself further, a stiff way of trying to rest-- closes his eyes. Tries to think.

When he clears his mind, when he really tries-- when there's finally another option, when someone who may not be very friendly but is still trying to help offers another path, when there's no faceless masks and beady eyes beating down on him and only giving him the illusion that he has the choice as long as he makes the one they deem acceptable--]

I don't want to go back.

[He's terrified of going back. And this time he doesn't try and hide the pure fear and loneliness from cracking his voice, or the shake of his shoulders as he squeezes tighter at the material over his stomach.]

I wanna go home. [He knows its impossible. But he wishes so badly, just for right now, that he could.]

That's because they weren't foolish enough to try.

[ At least, not while Damian was uninjured, armed, and under some kind of protection. If they'd known about his status tonight, they might have given it a go. But he's handled plenty attempts with ease already. Robin still has no troubles patrolling the street on his own.

He watches the Talon -- Grayson -- curl over, and though the boy's voice is heart-breaking (even to someone who doesn't let themselves be so easily swayed by pleas), he still has to keep the force-field up. Can only offer the comfort of someone who is listening for once, giving full consideration to what Dick is saying.

Even if the assassin may be lying, or faking, pulling some kind of ploy, he's listening and treating it as the truth. ]

Good. Then I can really enjoy taking them down. You're out of their hands from now on.

[ Damian would have enjoyed knocking down the Court agents either way, but it's still relieving to hear the words out of Grayson's mouth. Validation. That his instincts were right, that the boy was more than the others, and that he might want something different. ]

Where is home?

[ As if he is seriously considering ensuring that Dick can end up there somehow. Damian's many things, but he's not a liar, not a manipulator; he can barely cover the expressions on his face, let alone lead someone on.

He doesn't know what his father's plans are, but if the child wishes to return home, he'll see him home. ]

[Even having someone listen-- someone who actually seems to be on his side, who's actually letting him form his own thoughts and opinions is enough for him. Being locked in a cell isn't so new to him-- and it's comparatively roomier than other places he's been locked in anyway. He's used to it.]

The circus. [He says without hesitation, but he can't completely remember the name. Not at first. But he's still trying to think. It's a bit of a struggle, but after a moment he can dig it up:] Haly's Circus.

[It all still hurts to think about. But he keeps talking about it anyway, because now he finally has the chance, and he never wants to forget.]

My parents and I were the aerialist act. But-- [His voice chokes a little, he's not used to this-- not used to even being allowed to sound upset over something, and he's not sure if he should be holding back or-- no, this is too much, he has to reel himself back in. Calm down.]

--They're dead. They fell from the trapeze during the final act. I left after that.

[He doesn't really know if Damian's trying to trick him by asking, but it hadn't mattered; his parents are dead, so he can't really go home anyway, and it was why leaving the Court of Owls in the first place had never been an option. He doesn't even know where Haly's is right now.]

Haly's Circus?

[ Damian's never heard of it, but then, he's never heard of a lot. He doubts it'll take much more than a quick search on Google. Idly, he straightens out the satin cuffs on his pajamas, smoothing out the wrinkles from all the scuffling around, giving a thoughtful hum of acknowledgment. ]

Aerialists. That explains your reflexes. And I'm-- sorry, about your parents.

[ Grayson is in good company, at least. His father has a penchant for collecting orphans.

His head tilts, attention momentarily tugged away, and the explanation becomes readily apparent a moment later when the roar of the Batmobile echoes through the cave. His lips purse (Damian really is angry with his father, this could have been a disaster), but he spares another glance for the captured child. ]

Father will, undoubtedly, wish to speak with you.

[ Damian will be intercepting him first, though. He knows Richard Grayson means something to him, and he suspects his father will be gentler with him than he would with any other captured assassin, but Damian is going to make it very clear that Bruce is not to terrify the boy either way.

(He also has plenty to say for himself.) ]

I will inform him of your wishes, and look into it myself. [ He pauses, before sighing; the solemn, slightly aggravated look on his face years older than the rest of him. ] He doesn't trust easily, and the Court is still an issue, so you may be with us for some while - but we will get you home.

[He nodded simply to the condolences (no one had ever offered them before, but this seemed like the path of least resistance), but anything else he could say was cut off by the sound of the engine.

For the most part he made an effort to remain quiet after that. Perfectly still and hardly moving while Batman and Damian had their discussion (over what exactly he did not know, other than it being about him and the assassination attempt). When the Batman came to speak with him he was gruff and stoic, the usual from what Talon could tell, but he had expected more anger and hostility-- he had just broken into his home and tried to kill his son. Despite Damian's reassurances, he was still an agent for the opposition. But the man had almost seemed...lenient. Maybe even sympathetic or concerned, in the same rough and guarded way Damian had been.

'I was there the night your parents died.' After that Richard didn't have much more to say for himself. 'I'm sorry,' followed, and he seeme very grim and a little sad, and then 'We'll keep you here for now.' And then he'd left.

He didn't question the judgment. He remained there without protest, keeping to himself, shuffling around the small space now and then when no one was around, but otherwise remained wherever he sat. He answered questions promptly, in as few words as possible, and watched whoever occupied the area with a keen and cautious eye. After a few weeks he started to talk a little more (extraneous details, but he reveled in the chance to share them), but he mostly only offered the extra words when Damian was around. Perhaps because the boy was about his own age, or had been the first to ever listen to him in what felt like an eternity, but talking to him came a bit easier than to anyone else.

He hadn't heard anything about Haly's since his first night, but it seemed so far off he didn't really question it. He tried not to get excited at the possibility.

He still had trouble responding to his real name when someone addressed him. He was still waiting for them to hand him over to the authorities, or for an agent of the Court to come and drag him away, and he refused to sleep if there was anyone around. It was entirely possible they'd already tried to retrieve him-- he realized he had no idea of knowing if they'd tried to break in upstairs and simply hadn't made it this far, and no one had told him. He didn't feel in much of a position to be asking questions, and he wasn't taught to be inquisitive anyway.

For the most part his behavior seemed to be paying off; the butler seemed a bit less tense when he brought him food (and he'd been fairly unhappy about being assaulted when the Talon had first infiltrated the house, and he couldn't blame him), and most of the Wayne kids were satisfied with the conclusion that he wouldn't jump out and put a knife to their throat if they came within a few feet of the cell (the fact that they had confiscated all of his weaponry was besides the point.)

He was even content with staying in the cell, but some part of him still felt a bit stirr crazy, even if he didn't dare to bring it up. For now, since he was mostly certain that he was alone-- there were too many blind spots from the cell's position for him to be completely certain, but he'd learned to get used to it-- and had settled himself in front of the force-field, idly prodding at the barrier with one hand while the other huggee his knees to his chest.

He didn't have much of an idea for entertainment anymore, but he couldn't help feeling a little bored.]

[ Things have been rocky with his father. At first he wasn't allowed back down in the Cave with their 'guest,' but Damian made quick work of sidestepping that little decree, and Bruce had born the civil disobedience with thinned lips and a tense jaw and a few choice words about security and liabilities.

As if he listened. Damian made it routine to come down and speak to the boy at least once a day, although he'd been forced to hold his tongue on the matters of the circus. He'd had done his research; had learned that the deaths of the Flying Graysons had happened nearly two decades ago, and had wanted to pull Grayson aside and speak to him about it, but Bruce had been unexpectedly firm about keeping his silence.

Then, attacks on Batman, Inc. had escalated, by both Court assassins and his mother's hired hands. They were handling it - had fallen into nearly perfect teamwork in the meantime, unusual for any group that consisted of him, Drake, and Todd on the same roll call, but it still lead to tensions off the field.

(A blowout after he'd slipped up one night, letting his frustration carry him too far against a criminal; Drake so reasonably suggested that maybe Damian would find League life still more suitable than being Robin if this was the 'mockery' he was going to make of the colors. As if he didn't know what Robin meant, as if he hadn't been trying for over a year now--)

Damian may be feeling a little cabin fever as well, having to look at the same stupid faces day in and day out and at night, too. And he knows Grayson, reserved as the boy is, is likely going out of his mind in that cell. And Damian may still be feeling a little vindictive, a little rebellious, because when he comes to talk to the ex-Talon, he doesn't pull up a chair like usual, but presses his palm to the wall panel.

Calmly, confidently, as if this isn't a daring, bold move. The force field drops, wall gone, and Damian stands there, waiting expectantly. He's not dressed up in his suit, but in black pants and a thick black coat fit for winter, and, after a beat, holds out a hand to help the other boy up. ]

Come on, then, Grayson. We haven't got all day.

[He perks to attention when he can hear someone enter the cave, dropping his hand and sitting up straight as he watches. And he relaxes as much as he's been known to relax when he sees that it's Damian, though the boy certainly seems to be in some kind of rush--

He certainly doesn't expect him to open the cell.

The look he gives Damian is almost one of awe. Even though he's confused by the suddenness, has been perfectly fine to sit around obediently, he doesn't waste a single second in latching onto the offered hand like it's a lifeline, bouncing up to his feet like he himself weighed nothing at all and crossing over the threshold less than a second later.]

What's-- going on?

[He allows himself that question at least, asking Damian anything was a lot easier than asking anyone else and he considers the answer might be something necessary to know anyway. This was abrupt, unexpected-- he figured when any official decision had been made about what to do with him, that Batman would come retrieve him himself. And Damian's not even suited up but Richard is still left in the bare essentials of his uniform-- so, what, exactly was the plan even here? Was it an emergency? Were they under attack? He's not sure they should really be letting him out if they're under attack.]

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