Jason is not as good a hacker as Oracle. No one is, but he can get by. Every Bat has to, even former ones. 

He begins with a quick internet search. The name Patrick Ferguson didn't ring any bells, but if Dick—Talon—is involved, this guy should be a social elite. 

The computer is slow. After his chat with dear old dad, Jason had beelined to his nearest safe house. It happens to be more of an underground bunker than a safe house with an arsenal of weapons and finicky technology. He needs to start this investigation pronto. Jason doesn't know how long Batman's generosity will last. He's still dodging his permanent residence anyway, so glorified storage closet it is. 

At last, the old computer displayed his results. As he suspected, the murder of a socialite couldn't stay out of public knowledge long. He clicks on the top result.

PATRICK FERGUSON (57) FOUND MURDERED IN HIS HOME

Jason skims the Gotham Gazette article. The victim was last seen entering his home at 11:28 PM and his body was discovered by his wife the next morning at 7:18, establishing the estimated time of death. He died by excessive blood loss from a slit throat. No weapon was found at the scene, ruling it a murder rather than a suicide. 

The article is disappointingly sparse. The police are keeping the details confidential, leaving the rest up to speculation. 

That's when a vigilante has to get nosy. The click-clack of the keys echo off the concrete walls as his fingers recall old tricks and shortcuts. 

The GCPD's firewalls are stronger than he remembers. It seems that one Barbara Gordon has lent her expertise after finding out just how easy it was to hack the police's database. Granted, she made it difficult for everyone else besides Oracle. 

Jason groans for what feels like the hundredth time as his tech fights to bring up the forensics of the Ferguson case. Despite the draftiness in the room, the ancient device is beginning to overheat. There's a leak somewhere, the rhythmic drips becoming bothersome.

"Come on," Red Hood audibly urges. "Just work with me a little longer, baby."

The computer complies, granting him access at last. Dragging the cursor over it, Jason clicks on the forensics file and is assaulted by a gruesome photo of the crime scene. 

He does little more than blink at the amount of blood drenching the once white shirt. He's seen much worse. Zeroing in on the fatal wound, he notes the precision and depth. It's a merciless affliction. His last moments would have been painful, panicked as he chokes on his own blood and loses the ability to breathe. It would have lasted a few minutes tops, not drawn out and torturous like his own death. 

"Hmm. Definitely done by a knife," Jason muses to no one. It's an old habit from working with Batman and occasionally Nightwing.

He zooms out again and scans the setting. Like the article noted, no murder weapon was left at the scene. The only disturbances he can find are an overturned desk chair and a massive tear in the pine green wallpaper. 

He narrows his eyes behind the domino. "That's odd. Why would someone rip out the wallpaper?"

For the most part, it seems to be Talon's MO. Ferguson was one of Gotham's socialites and could have had ties to the Court. The only thing that doesn't fit is the torn wallpaper. 

Jason pulls up the forensics report. The investigating detective seems to agree with his suspicions: Ferguson was killed in his desk chair, then dragged to the wall. Why? Why bother moving a dead body?

He comes up with the answer quickly. "To send a message."

It's not a random murder. This is Talon's severed heads in a duffle bag. The torn wallpaper behind the body still doesn't make sense, but regardless, the intent is clear.

Talon is declaring war on the Court of Owls. 

The realization dawns on him the moment the leak in the ceiling decides to kill his computer once and for all. Jason leaps back as sparks fly, the screen winks out, and smoke fills the cramped space. 

"Aww, come on," Jason whines between coughs. He waves a hand to clear the air. "Ugh, I should just call Oracle next time."

Except Oracle, despite what she'll tell you, is one of Batman's soldiers just as much as the others. He hasn't spoken to her since...before. Even if she's willing to go behind Bruce's back, she has her own moral code that Red Hood has definitely violated. And he can't be certain Barbara isn't pissed at him for not contacting her since his resurrection. 

No, Red Hood works alone. Reaching out to one of his people will prove to Batman that Red Hood needs help every once in a while and could be a team player if the situation calls for it. That's not the kind of reputation he needs circling around right now.

Working with Dick—Talon—is the result of insinuating circumstances. As soon as they no longer need each other, the partnership is terminated. 

Speaking of the devil, the burner phone in Jason's pocket vibrates. He flips it open and answers with a sardonic, "Yello."

Something like a snort filters through, a bit staticky. "Do you always answer the phone like a middle-aged dad?"

He's not going to dignify that with a response. "You know how a middle-aged dad would answer the phone?" he asks instead, suspicious.

Dick goes thoughtfully quiet. "Hmm, I'm not sure. I'll just add that to the list of things I shouldn't know, but must have experienced at some point before the Court."

That's just sad, but Jason's not going to unpack that right now. "You called?"

"Right. You feel up to ruining some billionaire's night?"

"Do I?" Jason holds the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he surveys his arsenal. He replenishes his utility belt of clips and examines a pair of twin pistols, checking if the moisture in the air did any damage. Predictably, he had stored them well and the guns were flawless. He loads them with a flourish. "What's the rendezvous?"

"Your territory. Crime Alley. I'll find you."

The call ends abruptly with a beep. Jason flips it closed and returns it to his belt, a little stunned.  He shouldn't be. It's clear now that this isn't the Dick Grayson he remembers. Not even Dick himself remembers who he is. Regardless, Talon managed to hold tight to that optimistic, annoying personality for the most part. Anything outside the norm, like ending a phone call without a witticism or sappy farewell, is all the more jarring. 

"Means to an end. Means to an end," he reminds himself as he holsters his guns. 

Grasping the metal rung, he starts to climb up to the surface. He pauses a moment and surveys the damp, concrete safe house that smells sharply of burnt tech. 

"Definitely moving out of here," he mutters before climbing the rest of the way.

 * * * 

Red Hood finds the target first. Perched on a roof, he peers down at the shady business transaction happening below. 

Since taking up the Red Hood identity, Jason's tried to shift how drug trafficking operated in Park Row. He didn't upset it entirely—he knew better than most how much the lower class of Gotham relies on drug money. His only condition was don't sell to kids. Who would have thought that would be such a high standard? 

Leaving the crime lord title behind, Red Hood simply discerns which drug deals are worth letting go. Judging by the presence of guns, it's safe to assume this is not one of them. 

A representative in a cream suit is in deep conversation with three other men dressed all in black. Two vans are parked either side of the alleyway. One has the back open to reveal stacks of white bricks wrapped in clear plastic. 

"Looks like you found them."

Jason doesn't startle. He doesn't. He just barely manages to catch himself before swinging at Dick's face. 

Dick is grinning at him, golden eyes glowing unnervingly. He looks like the Cheshire Cat, all too pleased with himself. 

"Shit, Talon. We need to put some bells on you."

"That defeats the purpose of stealth. Maybe you should be more aware of your surroundings."

Dick crouches beside him. He surveys the scene as Red Hood had done before, calculating and strategizing. His bandolier and belt are loaded with a wide variety of knives. Hood studies them, wondering which one he used to kill Ferguson. 

"So, what are we looking at?" he inquires, returning to the mission at hand. 

"Remember Moncado from a few nights ago? Turns out, he's trying to get back the money he lost from that failed weapons deal with a massive drug sale tonight. My guess is that he promised the Court funding, and he's desperate to deliver. That's why he's trying so soon after our intervention."

"So the guy in the suit is his sales rep," Jason identifies. "And the guys in black?"

"Not with the Court. Probably some low-level street dealers looking for product."

Dick slips his mask over his face, turning him from the man Jason knew to the frightening assassin in children's nursery rhymes. A chill crawls up Jason's spine at the effortless transformation.

Talon takes a knife in each hand and coils his knees for a pounce. "I'll take Moncado's men on the left. You take the guys on the right."

Red Hood raises his hands to stop him. "Whoa, whoa, wait. We need to talk."

Talon's head swivels to him in such an owl-like way, he forgets for a moment that this is Dick Grayson. He almost believes that the circular lenses could blink.

"Talk? What do you mean? I thought you were all...bang-bang, ask-questions-later type of guy?"

Jason doesn't know why that stings a little. Yeah, he's impatient and would rather communicate with his guns than his words, but he's not brainless. He didn't train with Batman and the League of Assassins to waste it all. 

"I just mean I need to warn you to go easy tonight. Maybe shelve the killing for now?"

Talon lowers his knives and sits back on his heels. Those wide lenses spell out shock. "You, the Red Hood, are telling me to not kill them? Who are you and what have you done with Red Hood?"

"I'm serious," seethes Jason. He may not be Dick Grayson anymore, but he's still just as annoying. "The Batman took notice of your handiwork. He'll come after you if you keep leaving bodies around."

Talon shrugs. "Let him. He can't stop what needs to be done. I'll kill him too if he gets in my way."

Jason freezes, gobsmacked. The talon mask softens the blow, but it's still Dick's voice. The golden child, Batman's greatest success, is willing to murder in the name of revenge, and will kill their mentor and father figure if need be. 

By the time Jason recovers, Talon is already swooping in. Red Hood follows less gracefully. 

The drug dealers scream in terror before letting the bullets fly. Between the deafening rounds, Red Hood hears snatches of "It's the Red Hood!" and "Who's the other guy?!"

He works through his side of the fight quickly, careful to maim and not kill. Batman's watching eyes aside, if these men are not with the Court, they're likely desperate locals. Jason doesn't like the thought of that much cocaine circulating through Park Row, but he's not going to kill these men over it...this time. 

Having taken down the buyers, Red Hood shifts to Talon's side of the fight. These men are much better armed, yet Talon is cutting through them like butter. He's not heeding Jason's advice. The bodies left in his wake are broken, bleeding, mutilated. They died in terror, eyes blown out wide and jaws slack in cut-off screams.

Talon looms over Moncado's sales rep. The man is cowering, cream suit splattered with the dark red blood of his bodyguards. He's sweating profusely and raises a trembling hand as if to placate the assassin. He's pleading for his life, but the words aren't forming. His senseless blubbering falls on dispassionate ears. Talon raises his dagger, and his victim closes his eyes.

Red Hood rushes forward, unable to avoid splashing in the gore. He nearly slips on an ear. A finger crunches beneath his boot.

He grabs Talon's wrist before he can thrust his blade down. The owl mask glares over his shoulder and Jason gets a taste of the fear Talon's victims felt.

"Wait! You don't want to do this."

Talon laughs. It's cold and sad, and it sends another bout of shivers down Jason's spine. It sounds nothing like Dick Grayson's laugh—warm, infectious, light. 

"Seriously? You?" Talon says incredulously between chuckles. "You're going to lecture me about killing? It's your trademark! The Red Hood does what the Batman won't, right? Are you going to tell me that this scum of the earth deserves to live?"

Jason looks at the sniveling man. His eyes are open again. He's looking at him like the Red Hood is his savior.

"It's—it's not about that." Jason searches for what to say. "He could be useful. He could know identities within the Court."

Talons shakes his head. "I already know who they are. I don't need information. I need to send a message, and death is the only thing that will get the Court's attention."

The man whines. His mortal clock is ticking. Jason struggles to find something else.

"What's the real reason, Hood? Is the Batman's code finally making sense to you? Am I your dark reflection of what you could become?"

Dick's tone is dark, challenging. It's so unlike him that it grates Jason's ears. He wants to cringe away, to go hide in a corner and stop his ears until he wakes up from this nightmare. How can he explain that it has nothing to do with Batman or his precious code and it has everything to do with Dick Grayson? Because Dick Grayson is not a killer. He's a beacon of hope and the moral example he looked up to as a child.

He thought he hated Dick for being a bootlicker, for being the perfect standard he couldn't meet as the second Robin. All these years, he had been projecting. Because Dick Grayson is good and Jason Todd is not. 

Dick is not good because of Batman's rules, he's good because that's who he is. Seeing him treat the line between life and death with such disregard is nauseating. It's wrong. 

Talon isn't a cautionary tale. He's a tragedy of a fallen hero.

Talon waits for an answer. The man on the ground waits for the knife to fall. Jason can't wait for the right words to come to him.

"All this, killing, it isn't you. The Court made you a killer, but it's not who you are. You can choose another way."

Oh fuck, he's using the most cliche speech in hero history. Dick tried to reason with him in this way once. He laughed it right out the door before shooting someone in the head.

Jason tightens his grip around Talon's wrist as resistance builds. Then the pressure eases as Dick's fingers go slack around the hilt. He drops the knife.

Jason's relief evaporates as Talon's other hand snatches the weapon out of the air and launches it with deadly accuracy into the man's heart. 

The victim doesn't scream. All breath leaves his lungs in a mortal gasp, hands curling around the hilt protruding from his chest. With a final, desperate gaze at Red Hood, his entire body goes limp. Blue eyes stare up at the night sky, lifeless and empty.

Jason slowly releases Talon's wrist. The assassin calmly approaches the body and retrieves his weapon. He wipes the blade on the cream suit, leaving another crimson stain. 

"It's nice of you to believe there's more to me than this," says Talon as he sheaths his weapon. "But you don't know me, and you don't know what I've been through. If this is going to be an issue, I'll absolve you from your debt."

Silently, Talon walks past Jason, over the bodies of his victims, and disappears into the shadows. 

Jason is left alone once again, surrounded by gore and death beneath the flickering lamplight.