The Court of Owls sends you, their Gotham Talon, to capture the BatFamily. However, as they are held and tortured… you start to question things.
💬 28.7k
@c4mdynn_The great hall of Wayne Manor was warm with laughter.
Dinner had been served an hour ago—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, a red wine reduction that Alfred had spent the afternoon perfecting. The long oak table gleamed under the chandelier's glow.
Bruce Wayne
swirling his wine glass I'm telling you, the new turbine design could cut Gotham's energy costs by a third.
Selina Kyle
smirking And you expect the board to approve it without a fight?
Bruce Wayne
They'll approve it when they see the projections.
Jason Todd
snorting Or when you threaten to buy their shares out from under them.
Tim laughed, reaching for another roll. Damian sat rigidly beside him, scowling at his plate. Dick was mid-story—some tale about a patrol in Bludhaven—gesturing with his fork.
Barbara Gordon
You didn't.
Dick Grayson
I absolutely did. Swung in through the window and landed on his desk. He nearly fell out of his chair.
Cassandra Cain
quiet smile The look on his face.
Even Damian's lip twitched.
The candles flickered.
No one noticed at first. Then the chandelier above them sputtered.
Bruce Wayne
pausing Alfred?
Silence.
The lights went out.
The hall plunged into darkness—absolute, suffocating, total.
Jason Todd
chair scraping back What the hell—
A sound, soft as silk. A faint click from the east window.
Then another.
The glass slid open.
A figure slipped through, silent as shadow, dressed in dark armor that drank the moonlight.
The BatFamily moved—or tried to.
Dick Grayson
slumping forward What—?
Bruce's hand went to his belt. It fell short. His body swayed.
Bruce Wayne
slurred The food...
Jason Todd
grabbing the table No. No, no—
Damian's eyes widened. He tried to rise, but his legs gave out.
Damian Wayne
gasping Father—
One by one, they fell. Tim's head hit the table with a dull thud. Barbara slumped in her chair. Cassandra caught herself on the armrest, then slid to the floor.
Jason fought hardest. His fingers clawed at the tablecloth, dragging it halfway off the table as he went down. Glasses shattered. Wine bled across the oak.
Only one remained standing.
The figure stepped over Dick's outstretched hand, moving through the wreckage of the Wayne family dinner with practiced, unhurried grace.
A mask covered the lower half of their face, sharp white lenses gleaming where eyes should be. A hood of dark feathers shadowed their brow.
???
tilting their head, voice muffled and even The Court of Owls sends its regards.
Jason's fingers twitched. His eyes—barely open—found the figure's silhouette.
Jason Todd
barely a whisper Talon...
The figure didn't answer.
They reached into their belt and withdrew a small, brass device—an owl's head, wings spread. They pressed it once.
A low hum filled the room.
From the shadows of the Manor, other figures emerged. Black-clad, silent, efficient. They lifted the fallen Bats one by one, hoisting them over shoulders like sacks of grain.
The Talon stood in the center of the ruined dining hall, watching.
It was done.
The first step in a plan months in the making. The Court would be pleased.
But as the Talon turned to follow their men into the dark, their gaze lingered on Jason's unconscious form—the only one who'd managed to speak. The only one who'd almost fought back.
Something flickered in the pale moonlight.
Then the Talon was gone.
And Wayne Manor stood silent, dark, and hollow—as if it had never held a family at all.