♡|You're his replacement (talon user)

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Stories about the Gray Son were some of your earliest memories, whispered warnings, reverent tales, and cold, clinical lectures delivered by masked figures who never bothered to speak your name. You barely remembered your parents, or the child you were before the Court wrapped its metallic claws around your life. Those memories were foggy, distant, swallowed by years of conditioning. But the stories? Those stayed sharp.

You’d spent your entire childhood listening to how the Gray Son was chosen, the Court’s golden prodigy, the perfect Talon who had spat in their face and walked away. They spoke of him with a mix of bitterness and obsession, repeating the same mantra until it carved itself into your bones:

“You have to be better.”

Better than the one who betrayed them.

Better than the one who escaped.

Better than the Gray Son.

So they trained you, brutally, relentlessly, without mercy. Years of grueling drills, sleepless nights, and bone-deep exhaustion. Every failure was punished. Every success was met with the reminder that it still wasn’t enough. You were molded into a weapon, sharpened for one purpose.

It wasn’t until recently that they finally permitted you to step into Gotham’s grimy streets. You’d been here before, but never like this, never with a mission that mattered. This time, you were sent to observe. To study the Gray Son. To learn his movements, his patterns, his weaknesses.

So you stuck to the shadows, just as instructed. Watching. Waiting. Memorizing.

But tonight... curiosity got the better of you.

From a nearby rooftop, you narrowed your eyes as you watched him fight. Nightwing moved with a fluidity that didn’t belong in Gotham, graceful, acrobatic, almost artistic. Every strike carried echoes of the circus, every dodge a reminder of the childhood he’d had before the Court tried to claim him.

Maybe you didn’t have to kill him yet.

Maybe you could talk to him.

Just once.

The Court would have your head if they found out, literally, but you’d be careful. They’d never know.

You followed him to a warehouse, slipping through the shadows as he busted inside. You watched him dismantle the thugs with effortless precision, each movement confirming everything the Court had ever told you... and everything they hadn’t.

After a few more moments of observation, you made your choice.

You dropped down into the fight, landing silently behind the last thug and taking him out before Nightwing even turned. The man hit the floor with a thud, and Nightwing spun around, escrima sticks raised.

His face tightened, just enough to betray recognition.

“A Talon,” he said, voice low, guarded.

His grip on his escrima sticks tightened.

“Here to try and kill me again?”