Work Text:
It is literally fucking freezing.
The wind somehow cuts through Jason’s leather jacket immediately as he rides through the early morning streets of Gotham’s shitty neighbourhoods. He’d layered on threadbare wool undershirt and pants and then two sweatshirts and he still can’t feel his extremities. It’s no competition against the -2 degrees forecast for 7 am and it only stops to snowing while he’s halfway to the autoshop.
It’s not the first time this week that Jason has cursed his decision to invest in the motorcycle purring beneath him instead of a good winter coat. The rent at his shitty apartment is outrageously expensive for utilities that barely function, and it saps most of the money he’s making at the autoshop. Adding to the cold nights where the heater barely splutters out a gasp are the even colder and dewy mornings Jason has to get up to open the autoshop. He’d only have to have waited two months to have saved up the two hundred or so bucks for the coat.
But he can’t really regret his decision. It takes about 10 minutes to get to work rather than the half hour walk he struggled through before. And the bike is a beauty. It’s a Kawasaki, (even though all the guys at the shop raved about Yamaha), and it’s second hand, so it’s one of the older models. It’s still four stroke and has two cylinders and while it’s not the most subtle vehicle on the road it’s powerful. The balancing of the shaft alone in the engine is a work of art, Jason can only just feel the slight thrum through the bike as he rides.
It’s also red (it matches his helmet).
He pulls the bike into the alley behind the autoshop. The main entrance is through the roller door at the front, where clients drive their vehicles in to get serviced, but the employee entry is at the back of the shop, up a couple of stairs and snakes round the main service area. There are a couple chairs in the narrow hall way to simulate a sort of break room, but it’s never really used.
The most nerve-racking part of Jason’s day is the few moments he has to leave his bike in the alley and open up the shop from the inside, then safely store the bike from the front. There’s no way he can lift his bike into the back. While the shop caters from low-income to middle-class clients, the location is close enough to some of the more crime-riddled streets to worry. Not too far was where the Batmobile’s tires were stolen in two minutes flat.
Jason would know. He did it.
He shucks off his helmet and neck cowl in the hallway, glad to be out of the wind, and pauses. There’s murmuring through the brick wall. Like any good Gothamite, Jason immediately assumes the worst. It could just be some homeless folks sheltering from the cold (goodness knows the roller door would go down like curtains at any attempt to break in), but it always pays to suspect the worst, like one of the numerous Gotham gangs. Jason reaches the door at the end of the hallway when he hears a loud shout.
“How did you escape?”
He’s cold enough and pissed off enough that Jason wants to see who’s going to ruin his day. The door opens facing toward the roller door, so unless there’s someone immediately in front of it (and there’s not, Jason can see through the grimy window) he can open the door and peek around the corner into the main service area without being seen. He’s glad he works in a place where they keep everything well-oiled because the door makes no sound.
“Fine. Knee-cap him,” the voice commands.
Jason freezes at the immediate loud bang followed by a gurgled groan and chains clanking.
His heart leaps into his throat. He’s got the door open, has stepped out slightly to turn the corner, but he’s immediately stopped. His mind clicks through several possibilities in seconds. He knows some of the guys he works with are in Ma Gunn’s gang, it’s the name of the freakin’ autoshop. None of them have approached him about it, not having grown up in her school for boys like most of them did, but he’s seen some furtive glances being thrown his way. So, he knows that Gunn’s gang is one of the smaller ones and wouldn’t risk angering anyone like Penguin or Two-Face, but he can’t rule it out. Otherwise, some criminals have broken in and are using the shop as a meeting place with at least one of them with a gun and if he gets seen he’s dead dead dead.
It sounds like someone’s being tortured (they’re holding up remarkably well, some sort of sick part of Jason’s mind observes). Jason hesitates a moment more before he has to find out.
His blood rushes and he feels the adrenaline flood his veins. He’s breathing quickly (but silently, Jason is so careful to be silent), and he slowly moves around the corner.
The voice rings out again. “So, how did you escape?”
Jason finally gets a view of the room. His mouth dries up and his heart pounds.
There’s a man hanged by chains in the centre of the room.
He’s still kicking.
Jason counts all six men, armed and in various states of injury, staring at the assassin in the centre.
Jason knows that’s all that man can be. His bandolier, knives and skin-tight suit scream of a purpose to do with stealth and movement and power. There are owl insignias on his neck and his knees. One is shattered, and blood is sluggishly dripping from the hole. There’s much more blood coming from a gash in the man’s gut.
(they’ll send the Talon for your head)
The eyes, even from a distance of twenty feet, are gold and unnatural.
It’s the only pair that notice Jason.
The face, still scrunched up in an expression of agony, takes on an air of self-assurance. The eyes flick down to a tire iron resting on the rolling toolbox two steps away from Jason, then to the biggest and meanest fucker in the room, incidentally the one closest to Jason. The message is clear. All the assassin needs is a distraction.
It’s cold and the weak early morning sunlight cuts across the man’s face. He’s gorgeous.
Jason has heard the nursery rhyme. He’s going to save a Talon.
