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A month later and Jason now had firm control over the entire East End. He’d ended up taking Brett and his goons under his leadership (since they’d all run at the first gunshot, they hadn’t been around to see Deathstroke hand Jason his ass—they just saw that the Red Hood survived. And if they assumed Jason had won that fight, he wasn’t about to correct them.) Brett’s goons actually made surprisingly good lieutenants, and Brett himself was quite the businessman. Combined with the infrastructure Jason had already established, his gang was now an incredibly profitable criminal enterprise.
Of the goons, Boris was the eldest. A career hench, probably about Bruce’s age, who got his start as a no-name underling for the Falcone’s and had survived nearly two decades of working for the mob and dozens of supervillains since. Generally, a no-nonsense kind of guy, and clearly numbed to the insanity of his life. Truly a professional Jason could respect.
Jason couldn’t respect the other two. Pete was somewhere in his late twenties and another Gotham native. But unlike Boris his head was empty and his survival up until this point was truly a matter of divine intervention. If he wasn’t going on about one of his superhero-identity theories he was angrily glaring at word puzzles and riddles that had him completely stumped. (Apparently, he’d been fired by the Riddler before he got the job with Brett, and he was determined to prove himself capable of keeping up with his old boss).
And Antonio was the youngest, barely an adult, and truthfully lacking all sense of self-preservation considering the stupid shit he’d say out loud about superheroes and their ‘relationships’ and assets. He was a transplant from Blüdhaven, having saved up enough to move his grandmother and siblings from one shithole to another. But no matter how empathetic his situation, nothing could excuse Antonio's crime of finding Deathstroke hot.
They were petty gossips, but got their work done and held the proper respect for their boss.
And this afternoon they were due for a brief meeting with the Red Hood to report on any developments in their respective sectors of the East End.
Still, Jason was surprised to find them setting up a projector in the gang’s main base hours before their scheduled time. Jason himself was only here so early to pick up the leather jacket he’d left the night before (it had his forged library card in the pocket, and he needed that. Now.)
Antonio was seated in one of two folding chairs set up in front of the projection screen, fooling around on his phone while Pete was furiously shaking the projector, unable to get it on until Boris interceded.
“Hey Boss.” Boris greeted casually as he easily set the machine right and plugged it into the wall outlet.
“I probably don’t want to know, but what’s going on here?” Jason asked reluctantly.
Pete happily stepped forward, now wielding the PowerPoint remote proudly. “It has come to everyone’s attention that Tony doesn’t know enough about Gotham, so I put together a presentation to get him up to date.”
“I’m just here to supervise.” Boris sighed, taking the other empty folding chair and flipping it around to sit astride. “Someone has to make sure this idiot doesn’t get that idiot into clone-theory or any of his other shit.”
Pete sniffed haughtily. “Well, Tony can decide for himself.”
Slapping a hand on Boris’ shoulder, Jason took his jacket and left. “Good luck. You’re going to need it.”
“Ok, first things first,” Pete grinned, pointing his little PowerPoint remote with the serious expression of a university lecturer. “The Bat!”
The projection flipped to a famous tabloid shot of Batman crouched beside a gargoyle, with the Batsignal lighting the sky behind it. It was printed on all kinds of tee-shirts and mugs around town.
“No, no, no.” Boris interjected, standing up and snatching the remote from Pete’s hands and shoving the younger man down into the seat he’d vacated.
“Hey!”
“First things first is Gotham. Because Gotham MADE the Bat. When he started, this city was run by the Falcones and he was just some fucker in a ski mask—“
“Boo!“ Pete jeered. “We get it, you’re old! No one cares about the Falcones and Maronis! That’s old news.”
Boris ignored his whining and continued. “The Bat’s a Gothamite raised and forged by Old Gotham. He brought it down and the echoes of that continue to this day. There, I’ll keep it that short. The Bat got his start running alone and taking down the mob. Back then they owned this town, and he was the only one who dared to take them on. Everything and everyone were against him, but he’s the only one still here.” Boris might be a career criminal, but that didn’t mean he didn’t respect the embodiment of the night that had haunted the criminal world for so long. He’d seen the man numerous times—been arrested by him too. He’d seen the Bat in action, a hulking dark figure moving at speeds no one could stop, disarming and subduing swarms of men, and moving on without seeing to break a sweat. “The Bat is principled, methodical, and unstoppable. He faces insurmountable shit, and he’s the one who comes out on the other side, and that’s no accident.”
Pete jumped back up. “Exactly, which is why—“
Well shit. He’d practically set the kid up for this. Boris took a deep breath before trying to cut off Pete’s nonsense. “Don’t—”
“He’s clearly a supernatural force.”
“Pete, I swear—“
“Boris! Man! You of all people should know! You’ve met him like a bunch!”
“Which is why I’m telling you he’s just a man.” Boris huffed, but went back to his seat. It was easier to just let Pete spin his wheels with his theories once he got going than to argue—it’d be over faster. “Go on, Show us your slides.” Then he leaned over to Antonio. Couldn’t let this kid's head get all twisted by this bull. “It’s all nonsense. Just let him go off, but know it’s all bullshit.”
“Ok, first, the Bat is supernatural.” Pete flipped to a new slide, a shitty tabloid image of the Bat in a graveyard. “Theory one, the correct one: vampire”
Antonio opens his mouth but Pete cut him off quicker. “I know what you’re going to say: ‘the Bat’s been seen in the day light’ ‘he works with the Justice league’ ‘he’s gone in churches’ ‘no one has seen him drinking from people’ BUT! Counterpoint!” He flipped to a new slide with images of various vampire media. Posters for shows and movies Boris didn’t all recognize: Twilight, What We Do in the Shadows, Hellsing, Phantom Blood, and Vampire Diaries. “What do we really know about vampires?” Pete argued, gesturing at the screen. “There are lots of kinds. Maybe they’re actually cool with the sun and churches? Maybe proper sunscreen is all he needs?” He flipped again to another tabloid image of the Bay. “But facts are facts! He chooses to identify himself as a BAT man! And has lived beyond anything a mortal man is capable of! He survives fights with Bane and Killer Croc, and metas and fuckin’ Doomsday! He’s obviously undead. But still like, not zombie obviously. Hot sexy undead—“
Boris groaned but Antonio nodded emphatically, seemingly convinced by the last point. “True. Zaddy."
“Exactly. Something that hot and undead has to be a vampire. Other things,” Pete waved a flippant hand, “The sun and stakes, and whatnot, don’t matter. The key coreof a vampire is undead and immortal, blood-drinking, and sexy. And obviously, the Bat is all three. BUT just to cover all our bases, I’ll address the other prominent theories. Theory two: time traveler. This is the one Boris believes—“
“I do not!” Boris objected firmly to clear the record. “I just said that It was the only halfway reasonable one of your theories.” He clarified. “He IS a mortal man. NOT some sort of teen-romance monster. I only said this was the most reasonable because it still acknowledges that.”
“But you have to admit, you said so yourself, he’s always ahead of the game. Maybe it’s because he has future knowledge.” Pete pressed, but Boris refused to rise to the bait.
“Just keep flipping through your stupid slides, Pete.”
The younger man huffed, disappointed but continued. “Theory three cryptid embodiment of the city.” He grumbled, less enthusiastic. “I also think this is pretty cool, if he’s not a vampire, he’s definitely a Bat-thing, and like Bo said, the Bat’s really born from Gotham, blah blah blah.” Flipping to the next slide though, he instantly perked up. It was a collage of tabloid photos of Robin over the years. “Yes! THE ROBINS ARE CLONES.”
“No.” Boris only needed one swift motion to snatch the remote from Pete’s unsuspecting hands again and flipping through the next section. Various slides with timelines, height speculations based on images of the Robins standing next to the Bat, hair cut comparisons.
He went ahead and skipped through the Nightwing slides too.
The Red Hood wasn’t due to be back for their afternoon meeting a while, but he didn’t trust these two horny numbskulls to not say something that would... cause problems if their Boss overheard. No one had asked about the relationship between the Original Robin and their Boss, but they’d all seen how the Hood had reacted to the gossip about Nightwing and Deathstroke.
And ever since, the Hood had actually been spotted together with Nightwing on a number of occasions. Just sitting on rooftops chatting. The Hood didn’t try to fight him. Nightwing wasn’t trying to arrest him. Sometimes Nightwing would even show up with takeout in hand and they’d sit and eat. Whenever the vigilante came by the warehouse all the goons were kicked out obviously, but the original Robin would always offer friendly smiles and a few quips as they emptied out and they had all noticed the familiar ease with which their boss and hero settled into each other’s orbits.
They were definitely close.
And if there was one thing Boris had learned surviving decades in the Gotham Underworld, it was to know when to not ask questions.
He only stopped when he reached an innocuous photo of Gotham socialites, then handed the remote back to a fuming Pete.
“Asshole.” The younger huffed. “You’re just scared of the truth.”
“Wait wait!” Antonio interjected, finally seeming more engaged. “That’s Bruce, right?” He pointed eagerly at the famous billionaire in the front row of socialites at a Charity Ball.
“Yes!” It only took the one engaged question to make Pete forget his pouting. “Batman is the Dark Knight of Gotham, but Brucie Wayne is like, our White Knight. He’s a king. A Legend.”
“An Icon.” Antonio nodded eagerly. “I follow him on Twitter.”
Boris rolled his eyes as the two tittered about Gotham’s OG Resident Himbo Philanthropist’s twitter. Kids these days didn’t remember the gossip columns from when Brucie was young—really no one did. But Boris remembered back when the trashy tabloids at the counters constantly headlined with pictures of sullen and beaten Bruce Wayne getting escorted from his fancy school by his butler. Back then the headlines about the last Wayne were admonishing the disgrace to the Wayne legacy. A violent and somber child, constantly getting in fights, never completing his school work, a dour presence anywhere he went.
The more sympathetic rags lamented how tragic this wayward orphan’s fate was—how no amount of money could make up for the trauma he’d suffered and the grief he carried
And then Bruce had gone off to study abroad, and he’d come back a whole new man.
Suddenly he was the suave party-boy. Then the headlines were filled with stories of his drunken escapades and faux pauxs as well as his philanthropic donations in equal measure. He became Gotham’s iconic empty-headed, but well-intentioned, socialite.
Until he adopted.
Then he was the himbo father of a wild circus child.
Richard Grayson, known as Dick to his family and friends, was also often called Richie Rich by the tabloids as the future heir to the Wayne fortune.
One picture that went particularly viral was a still image of Dick, mid-air in a takeoff to leap over a second-floor banister, and Bruce, eyes wide in shock and parental panic as he lunged for his child, a dropped wine glass in its own mid-air journey towards the floor as he reached out with both hands. Really you need to watch the full video of the event—the moment Dick’s eyes light up with the terrible, perfect, idea to leap the banister, the split-second shifts on Bruce’s face from placid smile, to confusion, realization, then panic as he dropped his wine glass and dove for his child. It really was a superhuman feat how he managed to catch the kid midair before Dick could fully clear the banister, looping an arm around his waist and slinging the nine-year old over his shoulder with unbelievable ease.
No one remembers the angry kid, starting fights. Now the memories of that only lived in the time Bruce punched Lex Luther at a public gala (details disputed, but everyone knows it was because Luther had made an insulting comment about his sons).
The occasional journalist would still wax poetic about how Brucie’s extravagance was still just a cover to mask his true self—the sad little orphan boy. But not many bothered with that. It’s much more fun to talk about the pop culture icon’s latest tweet, or fashion choices, or sporting accident.
The current talk of the town was a viral video of Dick Grayson (he’d been visiting Gotham much more frequently as of late) and Bruce at some fancy yacht event, where Richie snagged the sunglasses directly off of Brucie’s face for himself, then the billionare father calmly pulled out an identical pair from seemingly nowhere.
“Honestly, name a more iconic duo.” Antonio smirked as the younger two huddled together around his phone watching the video.
“Batman and Robin, duh.” Pete smirked back.
“True.” Suddenly Antonio jumped all the way out of his seat. “Wait, I should take this section! I’m a Dick expert, in more ways than one.”
Boris looked longingly out the warehouse window, wishing the two-story drop would be enough to end his suffering.
“No, sit down. Dick has only been in Haven for a couple of years, you don’t get to claim expert status.” Pete shot back, clutching the PowerPoint remote closely as if Antonio might snatch it away.
“I’ve done my research.” Antonio countered, “He’s my celebrity crush.”
“I thought Nightwing was—“
“Superhero crushes are separate. And supervillain crushes are separate from that too.”
“Kids,” Boris cut in. “Remember: no discussing you-know-who.” No one had said The Terminator’s name since the fight. No one cared to find out how their boss might react.
“The boss isn’t even here—“
“And No Discussing Nightwings Assets. I mean it.”
“You’re no fun,” Antonio complained. “But fine. We’ll just talk about Dick’s Assets. Like Fuck the Police and all, but, Officer Grayson can Fuck Me anytime.”
“Antonio, I am begging you to stop.”
“Have you ever heard the theory about Dick being—”
Antonio laughed out loud. “You mean the butts-match theory? Bullshit! I’ve seen all that shit on Reddit, and it’s nonsense. Dick’s has way more jiggle to it. Nightwing—it’s rock solid.”
Pete nodded thoughtfully in agreement. “Great point.”
Boris rubbed his temples. This definitely felt like dangerous territory. “Boys—”
“Plus, the time line just doesn’t make sense.” Pete continued, hurriedly flipping back to the slides Boris had attempted to skip and stopping on a poorly made photoshop compositing different pictures of the first Robin at different stages in life to speculate on his height. “Robin’s been Robining since he was real small,” he pointed to an early picture, which most people agreed was around age 9 or 10. “But obviously, Richie was Bruce’s kid by then, so that doesn’t work out. There’s no way a baby could be sneaking out of the house and being a vigilante with a vampire without his guardian noticing for ten years.”
Antonio nodded. “Exactly, that’s why everyone knows the Robins have to be the Bats kids. The parental neglect would have to be off the charts for them not to notice their kid’s running around the rooftops at night.”
“Which is WHY it makes so much SENSE that the Bat just produces a new clone using his DNA,” Pete flipped to a new slide with pictures of the two previous Robins and the current one, each in their variants of the costume. They were each probably around 14 in their respective photos, but varied in their skin tone and even more considerably in their height and build. “By mixing his genes with a new genetic samples—”
“Pete—”
“And they HAVE to be clones, because the Bat’s a vampire and can’t procreate naturally—"
“I’m shutting this down.”
“Come on Bo!” Pete whined, reaching desperately for his remote. “I didn’t even get to Robins 2 or 3! Tony at least needs to know what he’s going up against out there!”
With a sigh Boris still kept the remote out of reach, but rushed through a summary for Antonio’s sake. “Robin 1 flew the nest, a few months later Robin 2 stepped up. He was a kid of the Gotham streets, the way Batman was a kid of Old Gotham. He knew the streets and the people, and always put them first. He was—” The older goon paused, catching himself before he could spiral too far down into some sort of eulogy. He’d only encountered the second Robin once, because he’d been serving a sentence for much of his tenure, but he’d left a big impression. A young teen, confident and energetic and oh so emotionally invested in the people he helped. And then one day, he was just gone. “He was a good kid.” Boris said simply. All of Gotham had felt the kid’s loss. “No one knows the details, but he disappeared. Presumably dead. Things got real bad in Gotham for a few months. The Bat was grieving and he took it out on the city. Then the third Robin showed up and things have... stabilized.”
A moment of silence sat over the room. Even the two young idiots weren’t so tone-deaf as to not understand the weight of the loss of the second Robin.
“So the third Robin,” Antonio eventually started. “What do I need to know?”
“What about him?”
The group jumped as the boss reentered, a duffle back over his shoulder. In their first week working for the Hood they all would have expected it to be full of heads. But by now, they knew that more often than not it was full of a haul from the library.
“Hey Boss, we were just getting Tony up to speed on what to expect if he runs into Robin.” Pete explained before pausing, a lightbulb clearly lighting in his own mind. “Wait boss! You’re pretty fresh back in town right? I know you said you’re from ‘round here, but you’ve been gone right? Have you met this Robin?”
After a moment, the automated voice replied simply. “No.”
“Well that’s for the best.” Boris huffed. “Nothing worse than getting arrested by a preteen lecturing you about not using an encrypted server. This one has the skills and confidence of the first two, but if the first was a quippy acrobat, and the second a witty street kid, this one’s a fucking nerd.” The older goon was too engrossed in irritating memory of being tied up with a group of other hunches as the kid lectured their boss of the week to notice how stock still his current boss had been.
“Shit, are we using encrypted servers?” Pete asked in a panic.
“Of course.” Boris snapped back. “I’m just saying, if either of you two run into this kid,” he pointed emphatically at Pete and Antonio, “he’s going to make you feel even dumber than you already are.”
With a huff Antonio rolled his eyes. “Sure, I’ll do my best not to get roasted by the twelve-year old. Can we take the conversation back to Dick Grayson’s ass?”
The previously silent Red Hood suddenly brought a brutal ax kick down on projector, decimating the poor machine, even as Pete flipped to a paparazzi photo of Dick Grayson pulling up to the gates of Wayne Manor in unfairly tight leather pants.
“Presentation’s over.”
And with that the trio scattered to collect their reports to transition to actual criminal business. (All the while making the mental note:
Do not discuss in front of the Boss:
Deathstroke
Nightwing/Nightwing’s relationships
Dick Grayson’s Ass