Archive of Our Own ^beta

"This is Arsenal to mission control, I have the target in sight. Shall I launch operation Moon Arrow?"

Jason's eyes were still rolling when Huntress blithely answered, "Yes, please do moon them, Roy. I don't think we've inflicted mental trauma on anyone tonight."

"Field names, Huntress," Jason said curtly. "And no mooning people."

She sighed, the sound staticky over the coms. "Pity. I was about to join in on the fun."

Roy cackled as Jason felt heat creep up around his collar.

"But Huntress!" the redhead chimed, "Don't you think that's too good a last sight for them? I mean, these are smuggling, criminal scumbags, after all."

"Maybe," she conceded, "But what's the point of having it if you don't take pride in it? There are much worse last sights. Nobody can say I'm without mercy." The wicked grin could be heard in her voice. There was nothing soft about that woman.

Jason aimed his grapnel gun and fired, letting it drag him to a better position of the innocuous restaurant that the three where observing. "Your confession list must be mighty long at church, Huntress."

"Just what about being Catholic says I have to be a nun, Red Hood?"

Well. She had him there.

Of all the vigilantes running around in Gotham, Huntress had certainly been the most interesting -- and the one most closely aligned with his own points of view. It honestly baffled him how they'd never crossed paths before.

A few months ago, Jason had been tracking some money and weapons linked to the mafia. While crashing a deal, Huntress had joined in right away and then proceeded to wrestle him into a stalemate so she could cuss him out for trampling on a lead she'd been following for weeks. It had honestly never occurred to him to let the smuggling deal go through so evidence on the buyers could be gathered up as well. Then again, he hadn't been in the right position or know the right people to set up such a big slice of Gotham's Mob.

Huntress, on the other hand, did. Her birthright and her specialty were the same and it turned out the weapons deal he'd been following would fuel a mafia feud going back generations. He'd known the smuggler was often a third party, usually contracted to work for the big mafia families in Gotham. He hadn't known she had a whole case building up with evidence to make life a whole lot more painful for two of those families who were gearing up for a war.

Joining forces had been a no-brainer. They worked well together, both firmly having seats on the black-sheep side of the vigilante table, especially in Gotham. She had a ruthlessness he admired and defiance he respected. She danced to no-one's tune and damn well let everyone know it -- the one time he overheard her tell Batman where to shove it, he'd been frozen in place, a delighted, jaw-dropping grin on his face. He had come so very close asking her to marry him on the spot.

A few weeks after their team-up -- which had accelerated progress on both ends by leaps and bounds -- it turned up that one of the parties involved in the on-coming gang war had started pushing drugs to get money for the guns. Classic strategy: Sell drugs, turn the high profit margin over into buying weaponry, out-gun the other guy and take over his territory. Rinse. Repeat. The nightclubs were being targeted particularly hard and that's where they'd found Arsenal, wiping the floor with a bunch of pushers in the VIP room of a high-end club. Drugs had always been a personal demon for Roy Harper, and he knew how the system worked better than most. He wanted to see this through to the end as well, knowing all too well how the lives ruined by these drugs were just more casualties that went unreported.
A syringe or pill could kill just as readily as a bullet.

With Huntress vouching for Jason, and the vital intel Red Hood had provided to get Black Lightning off murder charges a while ago, Arsenal had agreed to work with the black sheep of Gotham. It hadn't taken long for him to naturally ease into their routine and soon the three worked in concert like they'd been doing it for years. For a guy that'd been hanging with the Perfect Son since they were both in tights, Arsenal proved to be pretty chill, focusing on the work and not the methods.

Together, they had it all covered. Huntress had the in's and out's of the mafia and other high-society, tight-knit organized crime on lockdown; Red Hood knew the street and gangs better than his own pulse; and Arsenal could sniff out any drug connection, knew where to go, who to talk to, what to say.

And with all their specialties combined, they had rained unholy hell upon the darkest elements of Gotham. The pressure they had put on everything had been just enough to make the criminals desperate, but kept the noose tight enough on their resources to hobble any action.

Tonight, they were going to strike the final blow. With the pressure put on them from all fronts, the capo's had rallied to meet with the underboss. Tonight, examples would be made, threats declared, missions handed out... all the good crap they thought they were so good at. Helena had already bugged the place to hell and gone, having tracked down who owned the restaurant a week ago. Jason could only be a bit envious at having access to that kind of intel, but unlike the other birds and bats, she had no compunctions sharing it freely and readily.

"You cannot deny that it'd make a great distraction, though," Roy said. They were all anxious, riding that creeping edge of adrenaline before the plunge into action. The banter helped take the edge off. "How many times do you see an ass as fine as mine?"

"With how tight that costume is?" Huntress quipped. "Every time you're in front of me."

Jason snorted. "So, not often then. He's always jockying to be behind you."

Roy gasped. Jason could almost picture him putting an offended hand to his chest, as if wounded. "Red! What the hell man, bro code. I trusted you."

Jason just shrugged, smirking, as he watched three men enter the restaurant. The meeting would be starting soon.

"Oh please," Huntress said. "I'd be disappointed if he weren't trying to get a look at my ass. Besides, Arsenal, you gotta learn how to present properly. You show too much. If you showed a little less, it'd be more interesting. Look at Red Hood."

"When I could be looking at you, beautiful?" If Roy's sugary tone had any effect, she didn't let it show. She simply carried on.

"See, he wears the jacket and the jeans and that hides any real detail and that makes it more interesting. The less that's shown, the more interesting it is. These are the basics, c'mon."

Roy snapped his fingers. "Right, like a strip tease! Okay, I get it."

Jason decided to stop it right there. "Are you talking about me in conjunction with stripping? Seriously guys? You're reminding me why I like working alone."

"What?" Though he couldn't see her, he knew she wore a sly grin. "Don't tell me the Red Hood is shy?"

"Shy, hell no." He checked his magazine again, probably the fourth time in the last half hour. "Just depends on who the strip tease is for."

Roy whistled over Huntress's chuckle. "Play your cards right, Huntress, and you may have a great show tonight!"

Jason smirked. "Who said I was stripping for her?"

The stunned silence that answered was broken by Huntress's hearty laughter. The sound of a hand slapping a knee could be heard. "Oh God! You've been waiting to use that, haven't you?"

"For fifteen days, yes."

Roy sighed heavily. "This is payback for telling the waitresses it was your birthday and they all sang, isn't it?"

"It's almost like you're a half-decent detective, Arsenal. I'm so proud."

Before Roy could snap off anything witty to that, Huntress shushed them both with a sharp, "Vehicle, northwest corner."

All levity dropped off as they watched a black, armored SUV with an escort vehicle roll up to the sidewalk beside the restaurant. Low profile enough to seem innocuous, but it practically screamed suspicious to anyone who knew how to look. Most Gothamites preferred to keep their heads down and keep walking. The mafia liked it that way, expected it. It allowed them to stroll the streets in smug shows of power, fearless of being seen.

But maybe it'd be a little more impressive if they weren't strolling around on the streets and having clandestine meetings at four in the morning. Huntress's soft, satisfied chuckle said it all. In it's heyday, the mafia would be meeting around lunch time, in smug defiance of the law and any that opposed them. Now they slunk about in the dead of night, hoping tired cops and worn-out vigilantes wouldn't be near. He could nearly taste her satisfaction as clearly as his own -- the blows they'd dealt were starting to tell and not just on this one mission, but as a result over years of hard, relentless work. Slowly but surely, their efforts were visibly bearing fruit.

They watched as the man they'd been gunning for, underboss for the Inzerillo family, step out of the car and enter the building in a few quick strides. A decent group of bodyguards shadowed him. Though the Cosa Nostra had steadily declined since the Bertinelli massacre, the in-fighting making them easy targets for the establish crime bosses like Falcone and Maroni, the vicious cycle of blood and revenge remained the same. They still scrabbled for power, still pretended to have the influence of the golden days, and still tried to fulfill some twisted sense of obligation long after anyone really cared. They had been fighting the war so long, they forgot why they fought. It just became genetic. A legacy that just filled graves.

Huntress murmured into the coms quietly, running a translation for them. Though they all had the same tap into the bugs she'd planted, Roy couldn't speak Italian, and Jason wasn't familiar with the Sicilian dialect.

"Just putting on airs and blowing smoke," she said eventually. "The boss isn't happy, so he's gonna rip them a new one in the old-fashioned way of comparing their mothers to goats."

Jason could almost hear her eyes rolling. It made him smirk.

"Alright guys, remember," Arsenal said, "Can't move too early. We need to confirm they got the evidence there for the GCPD to come in and pin them."

Right, right, because 'not admissible in court' had ruined many a solid case, purely because vigilantes couldn't put in for a legal warrant. Jason scowled at the idea, the creed of 'playing by the rules' already feeling like a pair of chafing handcuffs. Thankfully, Huntress spoke before he did.

"Arsenal, he's been arrested nine times already. He can make bail. But he can't escape me." Her voice was lethal silk. "It's time he learned that lesson. I'm going to hurt some people. Now you can join me and Hood, and bring the pain on these bastards that have had it coming for years or wait for the cops to mop up the mess. What'll it be?"

Jason's smirk turned into a grin and he made a note to buy her a drink some time. It's like they spoke the same language. In the restaurant, though the windows were sufficiently dimmed, it seemed matters were finally getting down to business. A few cars still sat on the sidewalk, the chaperons and bodyguards for the 'men of honor' inside. That made this trickier. Over the course of a few minutes, they each called in reports of more men conveniently lounging about at the corners to every side street an alley. They must be really spooked to have this much muscle guarding every entrance. Of course, they didn't know they'd been compromised long ago. Suckers.

"Hey, Huntress."

"What's up, Hood?"

"Tell me when's a good time for a dramatic entrance." He started to rifle around in the large gym bag he'd brought with him. The rounds went in with a nice, hollow thoomp that had a very nice satisfying finality to it.

"Got something planned and you didn't include me?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, gorgeous. Arsenal?"

"Well, I they've got this really nice not-so-secret entrance, probably from Prohibition shenanigans."

"I get dibs on that one," Huntress said quickly. "I wanna see their faces when the ass-kicking starts. Anyone want pictures?"

"Yeah," Jason said. "I'll put it on my Instagram feed." From the corner of his eye he saw the white trim on Huntress's cape flicker in the darkness, there and gone.

"Red," said Arsenal, "I'm not sure if I'm comforted or creeped out by the fact that you've got an Instagram feed. I'm worried to even know how many followers you have. Okay guys, here's the best play -- Huntress takes care of the group inside while Red Hood and I handle the goons over here. I'll scatter them your way, Red, and you can take them out. We'll surround them, take them out and get drinks after."
Jason considered this for a full ten seconds. "Nah."

"What?"

"I said, nah, it's no good. I mean, I like the first half, and the drinks, but I got a distraction already. It'll draw attention, trust me."

"Does it include your pants staying on?" Huntress asked. "Because if not, I'm getting pictures of that instead." Her voice was hushed. Must be getting into position.

Jason smirked. "Aww, I love it when you sweet talk me, Huntress. My pants are staying where they are but I haven't disappointed a lady yet." He scanned the area, deciding on his targets. "I'm gonna give you cover in a second. Move in on my signal."

"Jay..." Arsenal sounded extremely worried all of the sudden. Down below, some of the bodyguards by the cars were sharing a smoke and chatting. "Jay, please tell me that's a tear gas launcher."

"Field names, Arsenal. And this is a actually an M32 rotary grenade launcher."

Huntress interjected with a quick, "He's making a big speech about wiping out the masked psychopaths, Red Hood. Sounds like your cue."

"WHY do you have a grenade launcher??" Arsenal hissed.

Jason lined up the sights on a car furthest down the alley. "Because fuck criminals. And everyone around them."

The quiet and mostly empty street exploded with heat, light and a deafening concussion as one of the empty, expensive cars erupted into flame. Men didn't even have time to scream. The shrapnel, thought minimal, brought down a handful of mooks. Before anyone could move, another car exploded on the far side of the wide intersection. Another mushroom of flame curled up into the sky. The third round went dead center through the large glass window of the restaurant. There were a few brief screams -- but no explosion.

Jason left the grenade launcher behind as smoke began to pour out of the shell in the resturant. Thick, red smoke, rendering everything within ten feet into fuzzy silhouettes. Men shouted, contradicting orders were barked, and lot of guns were being pointed everywhere. Here in Gotham, most of them were savvy enough to point at the rooftops and the shadows but Jason wasn't there anymore. Neither was Arsenal.
Nothing happened. The cars burned. The smoke spread. The security detail peeked around the remaining cars, none of them wanting to bunch up too much. But the men inside were too afraid to come out. Unable to see anything, not knowing what to do, they all hesitated. Every one. They peered out into the night from behind their guns and listened.

For a single moment, silence took hold. The night froze.

Then, somewhere inside the building, a man started screaming.

Huntress had pounced at just the right moment, cutting through the men inside like a whirlwind of snapping fists and feet, dealing out pain with her bo staff and punishment with her crossbow. They opened fire, of course, but could barely see their fellows across the room thanks to the red smoke. They didn't have a hope in hell of hitting the sleek predator among them. She got in close, got inside their guard and screwed them up bad, breaking bones and drawing blood with a ruthlessness that made him eager to get in on the action.

"Guess what's on the menu tonight!" she roared. Her bo staff struck sparks as she whipped it around by one end, sweeping aside guns and cracking jaws. Vicious glee dripped from every word, a seething love for the fight that champed at the bit for more. Some poor sucker got a boot to the face. Immaculate, cigar-stained teeth went flying. "I always wanted to join a group therapy session!"

Thunk! A man howled in pain as a crossbow bolt sank into his hand, pinning it to the table. Huntress grinned as her storm of vengeance raged on, flipping a table over for cover as someone got a few shots off at her only to get a bolt in their foot for their trouble.

"C'mon, let's talk about how we feel, right guys?" She lunged, grabbing a man by his expensive silk tie as she knocked a knife out of another's hand. She jerked him around by the convenient noose easily. SLAM! His head on the wall. SLAM! His head on the table. SLAM! His head on her knee. "Well? How's it feel?"

Jason flicked off the enhanced 'cowl vision' as he vaulted off a roof -- more and more he was starting to like working with Huntress. He landed right on top of the largest gathering of dumbasses, dropping all of his 225 pounds plus change right on top of a bastard that shook so bad he could barely hold his gun. The broken ribs, jaw, collarbone and shoulder blades were a mercy. Really.

"Hey boys," Jason said casually. He straightened, guns in hand, unable to keep the gleeful, lethal note out of his voice as he shot two men point blank in the kidneys. "Ya'll like crime?"

He swung an high back kick fast, busting the jaw of a guy to his left, before setting to work thinning the herd. Since they had thoughtfully gathered up in a tight group, he barely had to take a step in either direction for his next target.

He moved fast, shooting the ones furthest from him right away. He stuck to wounding shots, nothing immediately fatal. These guys weren't filth; they just picked the wrong job, were born to the wrong side of the tracks. Everyone needed to eat and Hell, he should know.

Slapping aside a gun, he headbutted a guy into the car they'd huddled behind, shattering a window, then picked the guy up by his arm and flung him at some others. They stumbled or scattered and Jason's boot hooked under the ankle of one of them. The man was already falling when Jason's fist drove him into the ground like hammering in a railroad spike. The adrenaline in his veins made everything brighter, clearer, every motion sharper, every reaction faster. His pupils dilated as he took quick stock of his victims; if they could see the bloodthirsty grin on his face, they'd be running. God he loved this. He loved making sure they got what they deserved.

Jason darted forward, getting in too close for their guns to be effective. Seriously, hadn't anyone learned the 21-foot rule yet? He snapped bones and his bullets blew out joints almost simultaneously. One thug actually knew how to defend himself, which meant he blocked Jason's knee but it didn't do anything to the bullet in his foot. Or the following pistol butt slamming into his mouth. Jason dived into a forward roll, sweeping his foot out to knock two men over, their bullets flying into the air uselessly. As he spun round -- one shot expertly taking out a guy aiming for his back-- he vaulted to his feet and a quick backflip right out of his Robin days put him on top of a car trunk. He ran over the top, firing to keep their heads down.

A shotgun appeared out of nowhere, dead ahead, and reflexes took over. He dropped to a slide on the car hood, wrapped his leg around the shotgun as it roared, blowing out the windshield. The vice grip he had on the gun, now pinned behind his knee, didn't waver. Arcing his back up into a bow, he got enough leverage to twist his hips sharply to the side. The bodyguard, by no means a lightweight, simply hadn't prepared himself for the full might of Jason's hips and thighs pushing him around like a late bloomer in the locker room.

The guard staggered, eyes wild as he fought to not drop gracelessly to the cement, allowing Jason's other foot to lash out with perfect form. His steel-toed boot connected with the jaw with a loud crunch audible over gunfire; the bodyguard's head snapped back, his eyes rolled toward the sky and he dropped bonelessly. Leaving Jason with a very nice shotgun--

Which, dammit, he had to leave behind and roll for cover as a fresh hail of bullets smacked into the car. Dammit. He really had to make that shotgun sling to go over his back. It's not like he didn't have the time, he just didn't want to mess with a good aesthetic...

"Uh, Red." Only Arsenal could sound so cheerfully helpful while in a pitched battle. "You may not have noticed, but you're surrounded."

Jason scoffed, as he used the brief reprieve to reload fresh magazines. "I'm never surrounded, Arsenal." Once again, that wicked grin stretched across his lips. God help him, but he couldn't help loving this. "I'm in a target rich environment."

As Roy laughed, Jason vaulted over the hood of the car, planting both feet into the face of a man edging around the car. In rapid succession, he fired eight shots, disabling eight guns; each one now held a smoking piece of lead in their recievers or where the triggers used to be. A few even had the fingers still attached. Then he threw one of his guns into the air, reached into his belt, and tossed a handful of 'poppers' as he liked to call them, before reaching out to let his gun smack comfortably in his hand again. (Batman could keep his fetish for bat-labeling every bat-thing he bat-manufactured.)

The small round discs exploded exactly where he intended, spitting out a few ounces of ceramic ball bearings bouncing into concrete, metal and flesh alike. Now it felt like a war zone he could relax in. Two quick, powerful strides over another car top closed the distance, then he vaulted into the air again, guns blazing. They fell like weeds under his onslaught. He landed in front of a guy eight inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier. Jason's gun slammed viciously into his solar plexus, bending the man over double. A head lock was easier from there, bending the man over backwards over Jason's knee. A pistol whip shattered the collarbone with a nice crunch, which he paired with slamming the idiot's head into a brick wall.

One man popped out of cover, aiming his AK-47 at Jason in point blank range. A sweeping kick knocked the weapon out of his hands, a backhand with one handgun broke his jaw, and Jason's knee pistoning into his chin put him out like a light.

They started coming at him from both sides now and he dipped and dodged, making himself a hard target for untrained, non-conditioned combatants to get a bead on. He ducked behind some cover, grabbing up the AK-47, then popped up and whipped it at one shooter's face. By the time the man's hand had flown to his broken nose, Jason had closed the distance, wrapping his arm around the man and slinging him off balance so he smacked solidly against Jason's broad back.

Normally, Jason hated the kinds of people that would use a human shield. These guys though? They had it coming. Bonus points for it being the Mob -- not even the most cold-blooded bastards among them could shoot family.

What followed could only be described as a rather brutal, but oddly hilarious rumba. Jason side-stepped, dipped, ducked, dodged and spun, every squeeze of the trigger deliberate and precise. He conserved his ammo, firing when he needed. His motions almost had a rhythm, strangely graceful and powerful all at once. And the thug he'd grabbed yelped, cried and screamed as bullets whizzed by his nose as Jason slung him around by a wrist, collar, jacket, or whatever handhold happened to be handy. The two moved in an absurd tandem with Jason firmly in the lead as he took out the enemies on all sides.

Once they were down, he knocked out his captive and let him drop to the sidewalk, blissfully unconscious and now sporting urine-soaked pants. Jason chuckled as he reloaded.

Too easy.

Suddenly instincts screamed at him and he ducked just as a knife sliced through the place where his neck used to be. He stepped backwards, twitching his body slightly to avoid the wild swings. "Oh no! Knives! My greatest weakness!"

Bang! Bang! "Oops, guess I lied."

Screaming Italian alerted him and he dodged low and to the right, just as two gangsters had actually gotten organized and were focusing fire on him. They marched down the sidewalk side-by-side, alternating fire, coming right through the cloud of red smoke still billowing out of the broken restaurant windows. Jason almost felt proud of them. They had mustered up some competence just for him.

They were making steady progress, keeping him pinned down, and he was regretfully thinking he might have to use a grenade when one of the large glass windows suddenly shattered. An unconscious man went flying through the air in a shower of sparkling shards, clobbering the duo hard.

Jason grinned. "Thanks, gorgeous."

Huntress snarled slightly as the sounds of something getting hit by a wooden chair repeatedly came over her coms. "Any time, handsome."

Jason hopped over the car and two stomps later, made sure they wouldn't be causing any more trouble. He was just about to go looking for more trouble when movement caught his eye. He recognized the form, though, the stride too deliberate to be a fleeing gangster. Besides, who'd be running with a bow through the cloud of smoke directly toward him?

Arsenal came sprinting out of the smoke, a fistful of arrows in one hand and his bow in the other, with red mist trailing from his back. It clung to him like a lover, smoking off his bow, wisping off the arrows. It looked both graceful and eerie. The archer cleared the smoke and immediately launched into a cartwheel. But instead of finishing like normally, facing forward, he planted both feet firmly facing back the way he came and jumped. Powerful muscles corded in his thighs, wound like a coiled spring, before launching him into the air, facing the way he'd come. As he rose into the air, his legs spread into a perfect V and he took aim right between his knees.

Jason couldn't help it. He laughed in delight. No way. No way he's gonna--

The bow spoke with a soft thump and a streak of red took down a mook that'd been hot on Roy's heels, a auto-shotty in his hands. Roy continued in his backflip, stuck the landing perfectly and fired three more arrows under a second -- Jason counted.

Three more heavy gunners went down. More shapes were plunging through the smoke cloud and Jason slid over the hood of a trashed car, intending to help.

Except Roy didn't need any help. Whatever he'd done over on the other side, didn't seem like anyone had taken their guns with them. As Jason watched -- while calmly dispatching a few stray mooks trying to get away -- Arsenal produced a shuriken. Then a flick of his wrist made it several shuriken. Another flick of the wrist, and they were spinning through the air, cutting into knees, shins, and hips, dropping half the targets. One of them managed to keep going, a nailed bat already swinging for the bleachers.

Arsenal ducked, sidestepped, and planted his knee in the guy's kidneys. The bat was pried from his hand easily and Jason saw the redhead transform into a whirling cyclone of abuse on the mooks charging him. Every weapon turned his would get redirected, reused, and pressed into service against their prior owners. Brass knuckles, saps, punching daggers, stilettos and more were tried on the weapons expert, who always managed to be exactly where every weapon wasn't. Some of the moves looked vaguely familiar. Only when Roy performed a front flip over a thug, reaching out to grab the man's head while twisting at the apex of his flip to come down facing his original position again -- and cracking the man's skull on the pavement at the same time -- did it click.

Nightwing would use that move. People always knew to keep the opponent in front of you but they never expected an attack in the air like that. Clearly the two had trained together before, long enough for the moves to come naturally.

But for the most part, Roy just kicked their asses up and down by using their own weapons against them. A knife thrown at him was knocked out of the air with just enough spin at just the right angle to bury itself in another target entirely. A revolver pointed in his direction -- then exploded. A slim throwing dagger had lodged in barrel, with destructive results if anyone pulled the trigger; that explained what happened to all the guns. Exactly when Roy had thrown the small knife, Jason had no idea, it'd happened too fast.

As Jason took his time to reload and do a quick scan of the street, Arsenal sprang into the air again, spinning clockwise, and loosed an arrow in midair. As he descended, his right foot lashed out, connecting with some poor sucker's neck. Seventy feet away, the arrow struck some lackey that knew when to run, but just didn't run fast enough. He went down, swearing up a storm. Then the arrow crackled with electricity and the swearing stopped.

One determined bastard staggered to his feet. Shock or adrenaline probably didn't make him realize he had a shuriken sticking out of one knee and his left eye wasn't focusing well. Roy just gave him a flat look from behind his polarized shades. "Dude. Don't."

The man breathed hard, wheezing. One hand curled into a fist. Mustering all his breath, he let out an ululating cry and lunged for Arsenal. Roy sighed.

Then the archer punched him so hard, teeth flew. The idiot dropped like a sack of bricks, out cold. It happened so suddenly, such purely simple cause and effect, that Jason burst out laughing. He really should've seen that coming; anyone that could handle a 180lb draw on a bow so easily would pack one hell of a punch.

"Ah shit, I swear, that never gets old!" He cackled, clapping. "Well done, Arsenal, well done. That thing with jamming the barrels? I loved it, all of it. Like the most screwed up ballet, even look the part."

Arsenal grinned, bowing with great flourish, even sweeping off his ballcap for the extra dramatic touch. "Thank you, thank you; wish I could say it's for the praise, but it's not. I do it for the money and obscenely good sex." He shot finger guns at Jason, a shit-eating grin on his face.

Jason snorted, rolling his eyes. "Not even dinner first? No class, Arsenal."

Roy looked wounded. "What happened to breakfast in bed? That counts right?"

Before he could respond, a man's scream split the night. Not a scream of fear, no terror. It had the heavy, gut-punching bellow of raw agony, where every sense and veneer of reason had been ripped away to the raw nerve. Normally, the sound would be chilling all on it's own. But Jason had heard it often enough. From his own mouth, no less. Jason glanced over his shoulder, then peered at Roy. "Sounds like our girl is throwing a party." He straightened, tugging his jacket straight. "Let's go be scary sonsofbitches."

He walked over concrete and unconscious thugs without discrimination, heavy boots thumping ominously with each long, slow stride. Roy trailed him, muttering, "Breakfast in bed is still a thing, right...?"

Jason knew the door was unlocked. All the windows were broken. But he still leaned back and kicked the door open. Just like that. "Honey, I'm home!" Jason shouted.

The restaurant looked like it'd been gutted by a pod of angry swordfish. Greasy men in nice suits and wearing gold chains were tossed about the place like broken dolls, sporting various levels of damage. The furniture hadn't fared much better; barely any of the heavy wooden pieces had gotten through unscathed, riddled with bullets or smashed to pieces. The oak splinters embedded in more than one capo's face put to rest that mystery. Various encoded papers were scattered everywhere, including pictures of several prominent members of the Mob. Clearly targets for assassination or some other attack. It was a prosecutor's gold mine.

Arsenal whistled low, tipping his glasses down to look at the destruction. "Damn. She tore through them like a bag of angry cats."

Another scream pierced the air, definitely from the kitchens. Huntress's voice responded sharply, but the heavy kitchen doors muffled it well. Jason strolled on in, pushed the door open, and stopped. He blinked, taking in the sight, then smirked.

Huntress had the chubby underboss, Antonio something-or-other, bruised, bloodied and bent over with his unbroken arm twisted behind his back. She held his phone in one hand while forcing his head down with her elbow, grilling him for information.

Literally.

His screamed again as his cheek flirted with the hotplate of the ten-foot-long griddle. Even from here, Jason could feel the heat, the air above it distorting slightly. She'd cranked it up to full power and blistering Antonio's face had already started blistering.

"The rest of it!" Helena snarled. "You're good with numbers, you sick bastard; I know you know it. TELL ME!" Her elbow jabbed a little more and his face bobbed closer to the hot metal. He screamed, writing against her expertly applied pin. Sweat dripped down his bald pate and sizzled like a hissing cobra. He spotted the other two in the doorway and Jason nearly laughed at the wild hope that crossed his face.

"Oh god, get this crazy bitch off me! Please! I swear, I'll testify, anything, just don't let her hurt me!"

Huntress twisted his arm a little more, drawing another wretched cry from him. Arsenal tried to move forward -- unsurprising, really, he wasn't the type to put the screws to someone like this so easily -- but Jason's arm stopped him in his tracks.

"Oh, I think we should let the good lady do her work, right Arsenal?"

Roy looked like he'd just suggested they change careers to butterfly farming. "Red, c'mon, this is a bit much--"

"No," Jason said sharply. "It's exactly what he deserves." His arm didn't lower. It might as well have been a steel bar.

Arsenal did not try to get past again. He just sighed and looked down. "Please just make it quick," he muttered. "I'm tired of the blood for tonight."

Antonio groaned as Helena put more pressure on his wrist. "F-five five... three one nine," he gasped.

Helena quickly tapped in the numbers. Even though her prisoner squirmed and cussed her out in gasps of English and Italian, she didn't budge. After a few minutes, she smirked, tapping the top of his head with his phone, holding it for him to see. "Congratulations, Antonio. You've just made a very  generous donation to the Gotham Protectorate charity for abused children and orphans."

Antonio's eyes widened, fear and rage flicking across his features before he tried to struggle against her with renewed strength. "YOU BITCH! YOU STUPID WHORE! I'M GONNA KILL YOU! THAT'S ALL MY MONEY! YOU'RE DEAD, YOU BITCH, YOU'RE DEA--"

SNAP! His wrist cracked cleanly but she didn't let go, grinding the broken ends together. Roy bumped Jason's arm again on instinct, but his arm didn't budge.

"Huntress!" Arsenal's sharp call only gained him a brief glance from her.

"I told you I'd hurt this bastard, Arsenal. Don't act surprised now. Just appreciate the fact this sick creep can't make bail." She held up the stolen phone again, this time displaying a picture of a thin, dirty child -- far too young to be wearing a red lace bra. Far, far too young to be positioned like that. Jason felt the archer stiffen, didn't have to look to know that all the color had drained from his face. Leather creaked as Jason's hands curled into fists.

"And wouldn't you know, all the evidence we need to make sure this filth never sees the light of day again." Huntress smirked, a cold little thing, as she tossed the phone onto the counter. "Say what you will about the pathetic Kite-Man types in this town, but at least they never kept pictures of their private kiddy porn on their phone."

"That's it," Jason growled. He strode forward, gun already in hand with no memory of drawing it. "This fucker dies."

"No!" Huntress slapped the gun aside, just as he pulled the trigger, putting a hole in the hot metal an inch from Antonio's nose. Antonio barely flinched, still trying to gasp around the sharp pain Huntress kept applying to his wrist.

He couldn't believe this. He'd heard that Huntress had no qualms killing scum like this; she certainly hadn't shied away from bringing the pain and aiming for where it hurt. But NOW she had to get cold feet? Jason grit his teeth, unconsciously squaring his shoulders in a way that maked him look even bigger. She remained undaunted. Through clenched teeth, he snarled, "Huntress, you got ten seconds to give me one good reason why I should let this sick scum-sucking piece of garbage live. Nine. Eight. Seven. Si--"

"Because child molesters don't live long in prison."

He stopped counting. Instead he stared at her, mind racing down her thought process. A dark smile started to form.

"And if they do survive," she added, her smirk a darkling twin of his, "Then they wish they hadn't. He's going to a hell just for him. But first..."

She released Antonio, choosing to grip his shoulder instead. "This is for all the kids you've hurt, you bestia di satana!"

His flesh sizzled sharply as she slammed his face onto the metal that could cook an egg in ten seconds flat. Antiono screamed, the sound hoarse and dark and twisted. It poured out of him like an endless tide, the kicking of his fat legs and twitching of his shoulders like an obscene marionette dance. She didn't let up, holding him down until his face had blackened and peeled. Pieces of flesh strung and stuck to the griddle like melted bubblegum. The pungent smell of roasting flesh spilled into the kitchen along with the smoke rising from the burning remnants of his face. The yellowish blobs of fat reeked particularly badly.

Antonio flirted with unconsciousness as she let go, barely moaning as he slid to the floor. He wouldn't be going anywhere soon, but she zip-tied him to the sink anyway. Coolly, as if she'd just been arranging flowers, Huntress turned and swept past Jason. "Let's go. GCPD will be here soon."

Jason took one last look at the mob boss. It was tempting to put a bullet in him now, send this monster on a one-way express ticket to hell. But he knew the numbers. He knew the reports. Pedophiles never lasted long in prison. The idea of bloodying a shark to be devoured by the others appealed to him for some reason. He always had an appreciation for irony, after all.

He followed Huntress, glancing at Roy. The archer was still pale, every faint freckle standing out clearly. One hand gripped his bow so tightly, the tendons and veins stood out all the way up his arm.

"Hey."

Roy tore his eyes away from Antonio.

"It's summer," Jason said. He kept his voice mild, quiet. "School's out. We just wrapped up a big operation. Mind if we visit the jellybean later today? Watch a movie?"

Roy blinked at him, then some of the angry tension bled out of him. He nodded stiffly. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great. She'd love to see you guys."

Huntress's voice called from the destroyed dining area, "Guys, blue lights are coming. Let's move!"

Jason nodded, clapping Roy on the shoulder before they both hastened for the exit. They got out just as a SWAT van pulled up. For a while, the three watched the men and women in blue and bullet-proof vests sweep the area, the usual conclusion to a lot of hard work. At least thirty men would be going into the ER tonight.

Leaning over a gargoyle, one arm slung over his bent knee, Jason shook his head. His helmet was tucked under one arm, the cool breeze already drying off the sweat in his bangs. "Never let it be said the hospitals of Gotham are never hiring or wanting for work."

Huntress laughed. "Gotham is actually the highest paying city for medical staff, you know." She rubbed thumb and forefinger together. "Incentive to bring in much-needed personnel."

Arsenal took off his hat, running his hand through the tumbled locks of ginger hair. "You two are coming over to my place for dinner later today."

That made Helena raise an eyebrow. "Really?"

He nodded, not looking away from the scene. "After tonight, I-- I think we could all use a dose of Lian, you know? She loves you guys already."

"Even though we've only been working together for a few months?"

Roy shrugged. "I've been on teams that lasted shorter."

Snorting, Jason straightened, looking at the two. "Oh, so we're a team now huh?"

Helena seemed amused, a smile tugging at her lips. "A former-ish crime lord, an orphaned mafia heiress, and the bad boy of the Titans with a checkered past." She shrugged. "I'd say our histories share a pretty similar color palette. And we're trusted enough to to receive little-girl hugs, too." She gave him a look that clearly said this was Serious Business. "You don't do that with just any hyper-violent, costumed, crime-fighting outcasts. You do that with your hyper-violent, costumed, crime-fighting outcasts. And remember that one time I cooked dinner for us? Food is practically the love language of my people."
Roy chuckled, already seeming more at ease as he put his cap back on. "Damn right. The lady has a point, Jay. We're definitely a team now. Batman is gonna crap a brick so hard he'll actually take flight."

Helena and Jason immediately burst out laughing, probably harder than the joke warranted. Oh, such a sweet child... If Roy only knew.

"Well," Jason began, slowly turning this idea over in his head, "We did do pretty damn good work. And I didn't want to punch either of you the whole time." He shrugged. "That's gotta count for something."

"Guess we'll need a name," Helena said.

"How about... Outlaws?" Roy hazarded.

Helena just rolled her eyes. "We're vigilantes. We work outside the law as a rule. A little too on the nose if you ask me."

"Besides, it's not exactly accurate," Jason added. "We're not just outlaws. We're hunters. None of this reactionary bullshit." He waved a hand at the Gotham skyline, the broad gesture encompassing the usual methodology of most crime-fighters. "We take the fight to them. We burn burn their empires, root out their hiding places, and tear it out by the roots. And instead of letting their money get tied up in courts or shuffled around to different pockets, we actually make good use of it. Unlike goddamn Batman. Tossing them in prison isn't enough. We ruin these bastards until there's no coming back."

"So, razing, pillaging and plundering," Huntress mused. "We're more like marauders than anything, aren't we?"

Jason smirked. "That," he said, pulling his helmet on again, "Sounds like a goddamn good franchise. I'm in."