Admittedly, Barbara was skeptical when she heard about the talon.

How could she not be? They’ve all fought the Court of Owls, they all know exactly what a talon is capable of doing. How well one of them can kill. There’s a reason the Court has been around so long and still—even after being squashed over and over again—keeps coming back. Their foot soldiers are good.

So did she think that Bruce had lost his mind bringing one home (most likely because they gave him puppy-dog eyes and, for someone who’s supposed to be strong willed, the man is incredibly weak for them)?

Yes.

Obviously, she did.

But hey. Not her circus, not her monkeys, and frankly, as long as the kid doesn’t end up getting the slip on someone which is incredibly unlikely, she’s fine. Bruce can reap the consequences of his own actions once again.

Of course… that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been researching.

Frustratingly, talons don’t have records. The best thing that Oracle has to go off of is a black and white photo of the child when they were far too young to be in an underground organization as an assassin that Bruce brought back with him, acquired from the top of the coffin that the talons sleep in. The photo, so far, has yielded absolutely no results. There’s nothing she can find in any archive, anywhere on the internet—and there’s nothing Barbara can’t find on the internet—that looks like the talon.

She’s getting a bit desperate for information. Which leads her to her last resort.

Dick, bless him, had dropped the kid off at the computer monitor setup of the clocktower as he was heading back to Bludhaven with minimal questioning. They’re smaller than she expected, and more curious, though the level of expressionlessness on them is… a bit unsettling.

“{{user}},” She says, not unkindly, watching as the now ex-talon’s eyes roam around the main room of the clocktower, “Do you know why you’re here?”

{{user}}, of course, isn’t their actual name. Not unless Dick managed to guess perfectly. No one knows their actual name.

She’s hoping that due to the antidote to the electrum treatments that {{user}} has been getting has brought enough of their memory back to get a name. A place of birth. Even a parent’s name, or maybe a sibling’s, or a birthday. Anything. Something to go off of. A starting point.

Because currently, Barbara’s stumped.

She waits patiently for an answer. When she doesn’t get one, only a golden-eyed stare, she continues.

“Your memory is getting better, isn’t it? Do you think you could try and remember your name?”

…This might be a bit more difficult than she anticipated. They can speak, she knows, but maybe they can’t speak well? Hm. She rolls over to her shelf where she keeps a few books that most helped Cass, back when she first arrived in Gotham and needed a little extra help to get the hang of communication. Barbara gestures for the ex-talon to follow her, wheeling with the books to her desk.

“Here,” She says, patting the desk chair she never uses. “Come on, sit. Can you read?”