"He'd really try to take my baby and turn them into his weapon," she said, and her voice was steadier now.
"And if we try to stop him?" Nyssa asked.
Talia looked at her sister, and yes, there was fear there. But underneath it was something harder. "Then we become obstacles to be removed. But you know what? He's right about one thing."
"What?"
"This child will be extraordinary." Talia's hand pressed firmer against her stomach. "Bruce's tactical brilliance. His adaptability. His refusal to give up when everything seems impossible." She looked up at Nyssa. "Combined with everything Father taught us. Our training. Our skills. Our understanding of how the world really works."
Nyssa frowned. "Talia, that's exactly what he wants."
"No." Talia's voice grew stronger. "What he wants is a weapon. What I'm going to give this child is choice. Real choice. The kind Bruce had to fight for, but they'll have from the beginning."
She pulled herself up, using the sink for support. "Father thinks Bruce is weak because he chose mercy over efficiency. But Bruce's strength isn't despite his compassion. It's because of it. He fights harder because he cares more."
"You're talking about raising a child who can stand against Ra's al Ghul himself," Nyssa said slowly.
"I'm talking about raising a child who won't have to." Talia's reflection in the mirror looked different now. Harder. More focused. "Because they'll be everything Father claims to want, but with something he'll never understand. A conscience."
She turned to face her sister fully. "You said it yourself. This might cost us everything. But think about what we could gain. A child raised with all our advantages but none of our limitations. Someone who could actually bring the balance Father claims to seek."
"And Bruce?"
Talia's expression softened, but only slightly. "Bruce will meet his child when the time is right. When they're old enough to understand both sides of their heritage. When they can choose for themselves what kind of person they want to be."
"You're planning years ahead," Nyssa observed.
"I'm planning a lifetime ahead." Talia's voice carried a certainty that reminded Nyssa uncomfortably of their father. "This child will know they're loved. By me. By Bruce, when he meets them. They'll have every skill we can teach them, but they'll use those skills to protect people, not control them."
She moved to the window, looking out at the mountains that had been her prison as much as her home. "Father wants to create the perfect heir. Fine. I'll give him one. Just not the kind he's expecting."
"Talia, you're talking about deceiving Ra's al Ghul for years. Maybe decades."
"I'm talking about being his daughter." Talia's smile was sharp as winter. "He taught me to plan. To be patient. To strike when my enemy least expects it. He just never imagined I might use those lessons against him."
Nyssa was quiet for a long moment. "And if he discovers what you're really doing?"
"Then I'll deal with it." Talia's hand moved to her stomach again, protective and possessive. "But this child will not become his puppet. They'll be something better. Something neither he nor Bruce could imagine on their own."
"You sound like you're planning a war."
"I'm planning a future." Talia met her sister's eyes. "And yes, if Father wants to make this a war, then I'll give him one. But I'll fight it with his own methods, on his own ground, using everything he taught me."
She straightened, and Nyssa could see their father in her posture, in the calculating gleam in her eyes. But there was something else there too. Something warm and fierce that Ra's had never possessed.
"This child will be the best of both worlds," Talia said quietly. "Bruce's heart and our strength. His principles and our skills. They'll be what Father always claimed he wanted to create, but they'll use that power to actually make the world better."
"That's a lot of pressure to put on an unborn child."
"No," Talia corrected. "It's a lot of love. The kind Father never understood. The kind that makes you stronger, not weaker."
She turned back to the mirror, studying her reflection. Her hand moved to her stomach, where something precious and secret was growing. In the glass, she looked different already. Not just the obvious changes, but something deeper. The woman staring back at her carried steel in her spine and fire in her eyes.
"I'll play his game. I'll let him think he's winning. But every day, every lesson, every moment of this child's life will be preparation for something he can't comprehend."
"What's that?"
"The day they choose love over power. The day they prove that real strength comes from protecting people, not controlling them." Talia's smile was dangerous and beautiful. "The day they meet their father and understand that they don't have to choose between two worlds. They can create a third one."
Her reflection wavered slightly in the ancient mirror, and for a heartbeat she could almost see him. A boy with dark hair and serious eyes, someone who would carry both their names but belong entirely to himself. Someone who would learn to fight because he chose to protect others, not because he was commanded to kill.
The name whispered through her mind like destiny calling. It felt right in a way that made her chest tight with sudden emotion. A name that honored both bloodlines while claiming neither. A name for someone who would rewrite the rules entirely.
Nyssa sat beside her sister on the cold tile, but the silence had changed. It felt determined now instead of defeated.
"So what do we do?" Nyssa asked.
"We get stronger. We get smarter. We learn everything Father has to teach, and then we use it better than he ever could." Talia's voice carried absolute conviction. "And when the time comes, when this child is ready, we give them something Father never had."
"What's that?"
"A real choice about who they want to become."
Talia pressed her hand against her stomach again, and the gesture felt like making a sacred vow. This child would be raised in shadows, yes, but they would learn to seek the light. They would master every deadly art but understand when mercy was stronger than violence. They would inherit Bruce's brilliant mind and her father's iron will, yet forge something entirely new.
The mirror showed her a mother's fierce love and an assassin's cold planning in perfect balance. When the time came, when the child was old enough to understand what they carried, they would meet their father as an equal. Not as a weapon or a legacy, but as a person who had chosen their own path.
Somewhere in Gotham, Bruce was probably reviewing case files with Dick at his side, the two of them working late into the night as partners and family. Alfred would eventually chase them both to bed with gentle scolding about proper sleep schedules. Someday, if fate allowed it, that small family might grow. A child born from impossible love between impossible people, raised in secret to become something the world had never imagined.
Damian, she thought, and the name settled in her heart like coming home. Son of the Batman. Grandson of the Demon.
But first and always, her beloved child.
—
The Same Night as the Arkham Breakout - 2:47 AM
Deep beneath Gotham's oldest foundations, thirteen figures gathered in a circle that had remained unbroken for over two centuries. The chamber existed in a space that maps forgot and blueprints denied, illuminated only by candles whose flames had burned here since before the Wayne family first set foot in Gotham.
Above them, the city burned with chaos. Sirens wailed through streets where the Joker's laughter echoed off broken glass. But here, in this forgotten place beneath the city's heart, an older power stirred.
The thirteen white owl masks gleamed in the candlelight. Behind each mask sat wealth that had shaped nations, influence that moved markets, power that had orchestrated the rise and fall of kings. When they spoke, their words carried the weight of absolute authority.
"The night burns," said the figure at the circle's head. "Our city bleeds chaos. And in that chaos, we see opportunity."
The woman to his right leaned forward. "The Arkham breakout serves our purposes perfectly. While the Batman hunts escaped madmen through our streets, he remains blind to the true predators that rule this city."
"Seven years," another voice intoned. "Seven years we have watched. Seven years we have waited. Seven years we have allowed the Batman to believe himself Gotham's guardian."
The silence that greeted this was arctic. When the leader spoke again, his voice carried a chill that made the ancient stones themselves seem to recoil.
"The arrangement was predicated on Batman operating within acceptable parameters. Alone. Contained. Manageable." His mask turned toward each member in sequence. "That arrangement died the moment he took the boy."
Every mask in the circle focused on the empty chair at the chamber's center. The thirteenth seat, reserved for their most terrible servant.
"Robin," another member spat. "An apprentice. A legacy. The beginning of something we cannot permit to take root in our city."
The leader stood and began pacing around the circle's perimeter. "For over two centuries, the Court of Owls has maintained the natural order in Gotham City. We have guided growth, managed crisis, eliminated threats to the established hierarchy. We are the true guardians of this city."
He gestured toward the chamber's walls, where centuries of owl carvings watched with hollow, eternal eyes. Each symbol represented a life taken, a threat eliminated, a challenge to their authority answered with surgical precision.
"Batman threatened that balance initially, but he also served our interests. A lone hunter, operating by night, striking fear into the criminal underclass while leaving the real power structures untouched. He became useful."
"Until now," the woman said.
"Until now," the leader agreed, stopping behind the empty chair. "This night's events have demonstrated that Batman is no longer the controllable asset we believed him to be."
Another member spoke up. "The international conspiracy we spent years nurturing. Pierce's federal network. The Falcone organization's useful cover operations. All dismantled in a single week by one man and his child sidekick."
"Worse," added another, "his success breeds hope. Every victory convinces the masses that change is possible. That ordinary citizens can rise above their circumstances and challenge the natural order."
The leader nodded gravely. "And now he has taken an apprentice. Teaching his methods to a new generation. Creating the foundation for something that could outlast any individual."
He moved to the chamber's center, where an ornate brass bell sat upon a pedestal carved with symbols that predated written history. The metal was black with age, inscribed with owl sigils that seemed to move in the flickering candlelight.
"The time for patience has ended," he declared. "Batman and his apprentice represent an existential threat to everything we have built. They must be eliminated. Both of them."
His hand closed around the bell's ancient handle. "But not tonight. Tonight, we prepare. Tonight, we plan. Tonight, we set in motion events that will culminate in their destruction when the moment is right."
When he rang the bell, the sound that emerged defied natural law. It started as a whisper, barely audible, then built into something that seemed to resonate through the very bones of the city above. The tone was wrong somehow, carrying harmonics that human ears weren't meant to process.
The bell's echo lasted far longer than physics should have allowed, reverberating through hidden passages and forgotten spaces beneath Gotham. And in that echo, something ancient answered.
Footsteps. Multiple sets, moving in perfect synchronization through passages that only the Court's most terrible servants knew how to navigate. The sound grew closer, each step precisely timed, perfectly placed. There was something inhuman about the rhythm.
When the first figure emerged from the shadows at the chamber's edge, several Court members instinctively recoiled. The Talon that stepped into the candlelight was death given form and purpose.
He stood nearly seven feet tall, moving with predatory grace. The Talon wore form-fitting black leather that clung to his muscled frame like a second skin. Bronze gauntlets extended into razor-sharp talons that caught the candlelight. His boots were reinforced with bronze plating, designed for absolute silence.
But it was the mask that truly unsettled. Pure white porcelain formed an owl's face, the surface smooth and featureless except for two large, circular eye holes. Within those dark voids, amber lenses glowed with unnatural light. No beak, no carved features - just that blank, terrible face watching with inhuman patience. When he tilted his head, the gesture was disturbingly owl-like.
But he was not alone.
From other passages they came, emerging from the darkness like manifestations of the city's most terrible legends. Seven Talons in total, standing in perfect formation around the chamber's perimeter. Each one had once been something else. Now they were something beyond human classification: weapons crafted from living flesh and mechanical precision.
At their center stood the first, the one whose very presence commanded attention even from his fellow instruments of death. This was the Prime Talon, the oldest and most terrible of their order. His mask bore additional markings, sigils of rank that spoke of centuries in service to the Court.
When he moved, the others responded like a single organism. This was their alpha, their leader, their perfect exemplar of what the Court could create.
"Talons," the Court leader said formally. "The Court of Owls calls upon your service."
The Prime Talon's head tilted slightly in acknowledgment, but none of them spoke. Talons never spoke unless directly questioned. Words were for the living. They had transcended such limitations, becoming pure instruments of the Court's will.
Behind their terrible masks, enhanced minds calculated angles and opportunities, analyzed potential targets and tactical approaches. They had studied Batman for seven years, cataloging his methods, mapping his patrol routes, identifying his vulnerabilities.
"Batman," the Court leader continued, "has become a symbol of hope that threatens the natural order we have spent centuries establishing. His partnership with the boy represents the beginning of something that could outlast any individual."
The Prime Talon remained motionless, but something in his posture suggested readiness. Behind his mask, enhanced eyes that could see in complete darkness analyzed the information being provided.
The Court leader walked to where a small silver cage sat on a pedestal near the chamber's edge. Inside, a single bat hung upside down, its dark wings folded around its small body. The creature was merely sleeping, unaware that it had become a prop in something far more sinister.
"For over two centuries," the leader said, lifting the cage, "the Court of Owls has ruled this city from the shadows. We have weathered economic collapse, world wars, social upheaval, and countless attempts by would-be reformers to challenge our authority."
He carried the cage to the chamber's center, where the seven Talons waited with inhuman patience. The bat stirred at the movement but remained docile.
"We have eliminated kings and presidents, toppled empires and built new ones." His voice grew stronger. "We are the architects of order, the guardians of hierarchy, the invisible hand that guides civilization."
The leader opened the cage door with deliberate ceremony. The bat stirred, confused by sudden freedom but uncertain about this strange environment. Candlelight and shadows, stone walls that rose too high, the overwhelming scent of something predatory and ancient.
"Batman represents the most serious threat we have faced in living memory," the leader continued, watching as the bat began to move within its confines. "Not because of his individual capabilities, but because of what he symbolizes. Hope. The possibility that ordinary citizens can rise above their circumstances and challenge the natural order."
The bat finally took flight, its dark wings beating frantically as it searched for escape from the confusing stone chamber. But there was nowhere to go. The ceiling was too low, the walls too close. It was trapped.
"That hope," the leader said with growing intensity, "is a cancer that threatens everything we have built. Every victory Batman achieves encourages others to believe they can make a difference. Every criminal he stops convinces the masses that justice is achievable."
The Prime Talon moved with fluid precision. One clawed hand snatched the bat from the air with casual ease. The creature struggled briefly, its small heart hammering against ribs too fragile to contain such terror.
But there was no escaping that grip. The Talon's fingers closed around the bat's small form with surgical precision. Not enough pressure to damage. Just enough to communicate absolute control.
"And now," another Court member intoned, "he has taken an apprentice. Teaching his methods to a child. Creating the foundation for something that could outlast any individual."
"When the time comes," the leader declared, "both must die. But their deaths must serve our purposes. Batman becomes a cautionary tale about the dangers of vigilantism. The boy becomes a tragedy that reminds the city why children should not play at being heroes."
The Prime Talon's grip tightened imperceptibly. The bat's struggles grew more frantic, more desperate.
"You have studied them for seven years," the leader said to the assembled Talons. "You know their methods, their weaknesses, their patrol routes. When we give the word, all that patient observation will bear fruit."
The Prime Talon's head turned toward his leader, lenses focusing with mechanical precision. Behind that mask, enhanced intellect processed the mission parameters.
"The Batman will fall," the leader intoned. "And his boy wonder will fall beside him. But not tonight. Tonight, we watch. Tonight, we wait. Tonight, we prepare for the hunt to come."
"So speaks the Court of Owls," the thirteen members said in unison.
With a swift, surgical motion, the Prime Talon's claws closed. The crushing grip was precise, calculated. The bat's struggles ceased instantly, its small life extinguished with casual efficiency.
When he opened his hand, dark wings hung limp between his bronze talons. Blood pooled in his palm before dripping to the stone floor in steady, methodical drops. The crushed body fell with a wet sound that echoed through the chamber's silence. The other Talons watched without reaction, their amber lenses reflecting the candlelight like the eyes of carrion birds.
Then, as silently as they had appeared, the seven instruments of death melted back into the shadows. Their time would come. Their moment would arrive. But patience was a virtue the Court had perfected over centuries.
Above them, Batman and Robin worked through the chaos, believing themselves the city's protectors. They had no idea that in the darkness below, something ancient had marked them for death.
The Court members began to disperse through hidden passages, returning to their legitimate lives. By morning, they would be the concerned citizens calling for order, the philanthropists offering aid to the city's recovery. Their white masks would be locked away, but their work would continue.
The chamber fell silent. The candles burned lower, casting dancing shadows on stone walls that had witnessed centuries of blood.
In the growing darkness, only the wet stain on the floor remained. A promise written in blood.
The Court of Owls had spoken.