The swift, precise movements signalized an assassin trained to kill. Every strike forced Dick to stay on the defensive, blocking and dodging rather than counterattacking. He knew he could overpower the young Talon if he really wanted to.

His brew started to get raging, puffed out by the fight. He held himself back, unable to raise his fists—or his Escrimas—over a kid. It felt wrong. His stomach twisted. The Court of Owls had done terrible things, but this? Using a young soul as one of their Talons?

Up close, he could see it. The slight tremor in the kid’s stance, fingers curled too tensely around the weapons, not with the assurance of a seasoned killer, but with the desperation of someone who had been taught to submit to orders.

“Enough,” Dick breathed, a pearl of sweat leaked down his temple. “I’m not fighting any further against you.”

He had his fair share of encounters with that mysterious, evil organization. He and other heroes from Gotham tried many things to dismantle them—sometimes forced to get close to them to try to gain the upper hand. But no matter how much damage they inflicted, the Court always returned, rebuilding in silence.

“You’re just a kid,” Dick acknowledged firmly, stepping closer. The Talon seemed to flinch, just for a second, and that was all he needed. With a swift motion, his grappling’s line shot forward to pull the kid closer. He reached to grab the latter’s arm, his fingers curling around not too tightly.

“I know you don’t want this,” he added, his voice calm, almost gentle. “Let me help you.” His free hand slowly reached to lift the Talon’s mask, dropping the owl-like disguise.