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The woman stumbles into the GCPD headquarters at two in the morning. Her hair is a mess. Her clothes are ripping at seams and covered in grime. Shaky hands claw at the walls for balance, leaving faint red marks as she goes. Blood stains her fingertips red, nails broken—one completely gone. She’s barefoot, feet dragging as she shuffles into the building, barely holding herself up on unstable legs. The fabric of her tattered skirt stops just above her knees, and the hints of red-purple bruises dot the skin of her thighs and wrap around her biceps like phantom hands.
She’s breathing fast and hard, and her eyes—vibrant blue a mere sliver around her pupils—are wide open and a thousand miles away. She’s mumbling something under her breath, words hardly more than a whisper as she leaves a trail of footsteps painted in blood and dirt in the linoleum floor of the police station—the remnants of whatever horrors she’d encountered on the streets of Gotham.
An officer approaches her, hands out as a precaution in case the unsteady woman loses the strength to stay on two feet. “Ma’am? What happened? Are you okay?”
There’s a loose ring of officers forming nearby, waiting with an anxious sort of confusion.
The woman only shakes her head—a half-hearted motion as distant as the look in her eyes. She’s still mumbling, bruised and bitten lips forming around indistinct sounds.
The officer in front of woman leans closer, bending her head down to try and catch the woman’s gaze and hopefully make sense of the inaudible words. “Do you remember what happened? Did someone hurt you?”
The blood and bruises marking the woman’s skin make the answer to the latter question obvious, but the woman doesn’t seem very aware of her surroundings. Whatever had happened had left a serious mark on her, and if the unknown assailant is still out on the streets, the officer needs some information so she can give the bastard a well-deserved serving of justice.
The woman nods. The indecipherable sounds she’s muttering sound repetitive, like she’s caught in a loop, stuck in the time where the owner of those phantom hands still had her in their grasp.
“Ma’am, I can’t hear what you’re saying,” the officer says gently. “Can you speak a little louder?”
The woman’s unseeing gaze refocuses for a split second, catching the officer’s eyes. Her words are still faint, weak, but finally audible. “Hood,” she breathes. “Red Hood.”
The officer frowns. “Red Hood did this to you?”
The brief moment of lucidity fades, and the woman goes back to seeing nothing, mumbling the same name again and again and again.
Red Hood.
oOo
Word gets around quick, and the rumor floods through Gotham like a tsunami.
GCPD Reports || Woman assaulted; Red Hood to blame. 2:18 A.M.
Gotham Daily || Red Hood wanted for assault of 27-year-old woman. 2:22 A.M.
AntiHero Watch || Red Hood accused of assault by GCPD. 2:26 A.M.
Some are quick to believe it, running with the accusation because it confirms everything they already know about the hooded figure that roams the streets of Gotham—that he’s an unstable, dangerous criminal that deserves to be brought before the court of law. Others are indifferent, trusting that everything will go back to normal regardless: the cops will play their role as enforcers of morality and justice, the vigilantes will do the actual work, and someone may or may not face consequences and jail time in the process.
And then there’s the quiet minority in Crime Alley—a skeptical bunch who know better, who know Red Hood better. They know there’s more to the story. They also know that there’s a powerful, vengeful group of people watching from the rooftops in Gotham who will clear Hood’s name before dawn breaks.
Especially if Oracle has anything to say about it.
Tucked away in the Clocktower, Barbara’s scanning the article just as the comm link goes active. “Oracle—did you see the news?”
“I’m assuming you’re talking about the garbage that GCPD put out,” she tells Dick. The ridiculous tale that the online gossip pages are spinning disgusts her. Seriously—Red Hood, who has not yet wavered from his no-kill promise, who only goes after serious criminals and straight-up evil individuals of Gotham’s underground crime scene, suspected of assaulting an innocent woman? “They haven’t officially accused him from what I’ve seen,” she says. “His name is just linked to the incident report.” She huffs, opening another article with a tacky clickbait title. “Hasn’t stopped these idiots from spreading lies, though.”
There’s a sardonic chuckle over the line. “Yeah, well, what’s new?”
Fair. Slandering Jason’s alter ego is hardly an uncommon hobby of Gothamites, especially those outside his home district of Park Row.
The comm link clicks as another voice joins. “Has anyone heard from him?” Tim asks. “He’s not replying to any messages. Which isn’t out of the ordinary, but—I don’t know. I’m getting worried.”
“He stopped by the Clocktower about an hour ago,” Barbara says. “Said he was in the area—wanted to say ‘hi’ before heading home.”
Tim hums. “Did he say anything about what he was up to?”
“No,” Barbara says. “Just that it was taken care of—standard patrol work that took him a little out of his usual stomping grounds. I think he was telling the truth, but I have no clue what might have happened after he left.” She closes out of the useless gossip articles, pulling up the security feeds around the Clocktower. “I’ll try to find out. He’s still refusing to wear any sort of tracker, so it’ll take me a minute to trace his path. I’ll keep you updated.”
“Thanks, O.”
She reverts the timestamp in the security camera recordings, resuming the feed at the sight of a red-and-black figure slinking through the shadows across from the Clocktower. She follows his path as he runs across rooftops and swings between alleyways. At one point, mid-swing, he throws up a mocking middle finger towards the GCPD headquarters before disappearing into the next block. Barbara snickers at that and pulls up the next camera’s footage.
Her computer beeps.
A post is going viral online—Red Hood’s name triggering her algorithm and pulling her attention away from the security feeds. Ironically, it’s another recording, the tell-tale grainy footage of a security camera. The title is just as clickbait-y as the gossip blogs, RED HOOD ASSAULTS WOMAN: LEAKED in a garish bold red. She presses play.
It starts with a staticky scene of an inconspicuous street, an alley—shrouded in shadows—branching off to the right. A figure slinks down the street, the red helmet and scarlet bat insignia across his chest a dead giveaway of his identity. He spins a knife between his fingers as he walks, looking casual and not at all like he’s about to attack an innocent out of nowhere.
Then he pauses, cocking his head like he’s listening for something. The knife falls still in his hand.
A second of stillness, and then he’s on the move, stalking into the alley with what can only be described as murderous intent. He disappears into the shadows, the camera not close enough—or clear enough—to capture what happens next.
A minute goes by before there’s movement once more. This time, a new figure emerges—a woman, visibly shaken, clothes torn and dirtied. She stumbles away from the alley, half-running down the street before turning at the corner and vanishing from sight. The image once again falls still. There’s no sign of Red Hood. The recording goes on for a few more minutes, then cuts off.
The comments beneath the video are clearly divided.
johndoe-27: mannn he actually did it??
redhoodfan: no way. there’s gotta be an explanation
johndoe-27: @redhoodfan maybe the explanation is you idolize a fkn crime lord
IAmBatFan: Well. Disappointed but not surprised.
antiantiheroes: Hope that chick got some good hits in… scumbag deserves it
redredred: if he wanted to hurt her, I wonder why he didn’t follow her. maybe he went the other way to cut her off?
gotham-rat: @redredred nah i know that street. that alley’s a dead-end. hood either climbed up the building or he’s still in there.
antiantiheroes: @gotham-rat Interesting… what street?
Barbara frowns. It’s true—the camera angle doesn’t fully capture the sides of the buildings on either side of the alleyway. Jason very well could have climbed up and escaped that way, but it also doesn’t sit well with Barbara that Jason hadn’t followed the woman to check on her. Something else had happened in that alley—someone who had either climbed out of the alley the hard way and led Jason on a chase, or who still has him engaged in a fight in the shadows.
And if Jason’s hurt…
The comments from that video have something twisting in Barbara’s chest. The last thing they need is a mob of angry, righteous Gothamites ambushing a potentially-injured Jason—especially if he’s out of it enough to react in an unfavorable way. For his sake and theirs, Barbara needs to find him.
She activates her comm. “Nightwing. Red Robin. Whoever else is available—I found Hood.”
The response is immediate. “Where?”
“Poplar Street,” she says, pulling up the live security feed for the area. “Alleyway on the left-hand side if you’re coming from the north. Camera caught him going in and the woman leaving, but no sight of Hood since. If he’s still there—find him. His location’s spreading online.”
There’s a muttered curse over the comm line. “On it.”
“And while you do that,” Barbara says, mostly to herself. “I’m gonna find the truth.”
That alleyway won’t hold its secrets forever.
oOo
The street is quiet when Dick arrives.
It’s a tense sort of stillness, like the entire street is holding its breath. He keeps his footsteps light as he makes his way towards the alleyway, wary of spooking whoever might still be in that alley—Jason, with any luck. Or somebody else decidedly less favorable.
There’s the flickering movement of a curtain from one of the apartments as he passes, as though somebody had been watching. He still feels eyes on him. He wouldn’t be surprised if more of the street’s inhabitants had been woken up by the commotion that had occurred and are now waiting to see if the news articles are telling the truth. He knows they aren’t. As much as Dick disapproves of some of Red Hood’s past actions, he knows Jason would never stoop so low as to do what the police and reporters are accusing him of.
But he also understands why some Gothamites are still reluctant to trust the Hood. Jason has crafted an intimidating reputation for his alter-ego.
A reputation in almost direct contrast to the scene Dick is met with as he rounds the corner of the alleyway.
Shadows cling to the walls, enveloping the narrow space in hazy darkness. Broken beer bottles and burned cigarette nubs litter the ground. Chicken-scratch graffiti marks cover the dumpster on one side of the alley and the brick wall on the other. And at the back, pressed up against the cement exterior of another building, are two unmoving figures. One’s body is sprawled flat on the ground, limbs askew and face an unrecognizable mess of bruises and blood.
The other is a lot more recognizable.
“Jason,” Dick breathes, darting into the shadows that wrap around his brother. He gives the other guy a mere passing glance, confirming the absence of any weapons—and consciousness—before returning his attention back to the source of his worry.
Jason’s slumped against the corner, his head—still covered in his notorious red helmet—falling forward against his chest. He’s breathing, Dick notes with relief, though it sounds shallow and stilted at best. His hands are limp at his sides, knuckles splattered with blood. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s blood. If the reports of that woman’s story and injuries had any truth to them, a few punches are the least the unconscious asshole behind him deserves.
Careful not to jostle any hidden injuries, Dick squeezes Jason’s shoulder. “Little Wing,” he calls. “Hey, c’mon. Wake up. You’re worrying me.”
No response.
His comm link crackles to life instead. “Nightwing, Red Robin—any luck?”
“I’m a minute out,” Tim replies.
Dick taps the device in his ear. “I found him,” he says, gently fiddling with Jason’s helmet for the release latch. “In the alley. Unconscious, but breathing.”
A pause. “I see you. There’s a camera above you, Nightwing,” Oracle says. “Privately owned. I’ve got the footage of what actually happened.”
Dick’s fingers fall away from Jason’s helmet at the subtle warning. He glances behind him at the man still knocked-out on the ground. “Yeah. I think I’ve pieced it together myself.”
Movement under his hand has his attention snapping back. There’s a stuttered groan as Jason shifts, hands clawing at the ground as though unconsciously searching for something to grab onto. His weapons, maybe.
Dick offers his hand instead. “Jay,” he says quietly, not wanting to startle a half-aware Jason Todd. “Easy. It’s just me.”
Jason startles awake anyway. His head snaps up, nearly clipping Dick’s nose with his helmet in the process. His arms scramble for purchase against the ground, heels scraping the cement as he pushes himself up. He gets as far as one knee before something painful catches and he collapses against the wall with a cry, arm wrapping around his chest protectively as he breathes out an emphatic “fuck!”
Dick grabs his shoulders, bracing him against the wall. “Jay—Little Wing. What did I say? Take it easy. You’re good.”
Jason’s breathing hard. He glances up. The white eyes of his helmet don’t give much away, but Dick can almost sense the relief and resignation in their vacant stare. “Dickhead.”
“Hey, buddy.”
Jason groans again, slumping back against the ground. “Wha’ happened?”
“There was a woman,” Dick says. “From what I know, she was being attacked and you stepped in.” He pads at his brother’s arms, feeling for any other injuries beneath his clothes. Jason jerks when he prods at a tender spot along his bicep. “You got him, but it looks like he got you pretty good, too.”
Jason hums, head drooping again. “She okay?”
There’s movement behind them as a third figure drops from the rooftop. “Scrapes and bruises,” Tim says, crouching beside them. “She’s okay, Red. Thanks to you.” A pause, then he mutters, “Too bad the rest of Gotham can’t see that.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Dick says, shooting Tim a look. “Where are you hurt?”
Jason huffs. “I dunno. Head. Hands. Chest hurts like a bitch.”
“Let me see.”
Jason shifts, breath hitching as he allows Dick to tug back his jacket, revealing a nasty knife cut stretching across his ribs, blood oozing out and staining the jagged rip in his clothes. Dick pulls out a cloth from his emergency kit, pressing it firmly against the wound, apologizing softly as Jason grunts at the contact. “He get you with your own knife?”
Dick can easily feel the glare piercing him from behind those white eyes. “No. He had his own.”
Tim snorts. Jason’s glare shifts to him.
“Here,” Dick instructs, tugging Jason’s arm towards his chest to apply pressure on his own. “Hold that. It’s not bleeding much. I want to check on your head.”
“My head’s fine.”
“Shush. I’m checking anyway.” Dick taps his comm. “Oracle—take care of the camera?”
“You don’t have to ask.”
Dick finds the release latch on the helmet with practiced ease, carefully pulling it off. Jason squints in the unfiltered darkness. His hair is a sweaty mess. A growing bruise colors his temple. Blood dries beneath his nose. Dick takes the offered penlight from Tim’s hand and shines it in his brother’s unsuspecting eyes.
Jason flinches away, muttering curses under his breath. The penlight goes flying with a swat of his hand.
Dick pins him with a look. “How am I supposed to diagnose a concussion if you won’t let me?”
A lopsided, weary smirk stretches across Jason’s face. “Exactly.”
“Fine,” Dick relents, plucking the penlight from the grime. “We’re taking you back to the manor anyway. We’ll deal with it there.”
He half-expects Jason to protest the idea of joining them at the manor instead of slinking off to one of his many safehouses to nurse his wounds in solitude, but the following seconds are filled with nothing but silence. Dick glances up.
Jason’s gaze is locked on something over Dick’s shoulder, pain and exhaustion giving way to a seething sort of anger. “I didn’t kill him,” he mutters. Dick follows his gaze to the crumpled form of the unknown assailant. His face is a bloody mess, and his clothes are ripped with knife marks and scratches, but his chest still rises with each breath. “I didn’t kill him,” Jason repeats, voice a touch defensive.
A pause. “I wanted to, though.”
Without his helmet, his unmodulated voice is softer—no longer reminiscent of Red Hood’s intimidating persona. Despite the anger, and the not-entirely-unfounded desire for murder, Dick finds it hard to connect his little brother with the image of the no-good criminal that people believe to be capable of the very same heinous act he’d prevented. There’s a righteous fury ablaze in Jason’s eyes, muted only by a weary and wounded sort of exhaustion, and not a bone in Dick’s body doubts that hell would freeze over—a million times—before Jason would stoop so low. He’s not innocent. He’s caused pain and he’s killed. He walks along the gray line of morality. But he’s no villain.
Tim’s right. It’s too bad Gotham can’t see that.
“Alright, Little Wing,” Dick says. “Think you can stand?”
Jason huffs, a slurred affirmative falling from his lips. He takes Dick’s offered hand and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. His movements are stiff, pained, and he hunches over, curling instinctively around his chest. Dick guides one of Jason’s arms over his shoulders.
“That guy really got you good, huh, Red?” Tim teases, though Dick can hear the subtle concern.
Jason grunts. “You should see the other guy,” he retorts wearily.
Dick bites back a grin. Instead, he prompts, “Jay—where’s your bike?”
A pointed nod. “Next block over.”
“Okay. I’m taking you home. Tim,” he glances over his shoulder. “Call this in?”
Tim gives him a mocking salute. “Will do.”
The duo make their way slowly out of the alley and down the street, leaving Red Robin, a filthy alleyway, and an equally filthy monster of a man behind. Tim kicks at the leg of the unconscious man in disgust, then taps his earpiece. “Hey, Oracle—wanna help me clear Jason’s name?”
The smile is audible over the line. “With a side of vengeance? It would be my honor.”
oOo
The video gets leaked at three in the morning.
It takes some time to gain traction, but once someone connects the view of the alley with the footage of the same street that had gone viral only an hour before, it spreads like wildfire. The camera angle is just above head-height, positioned just right to capture both the entrance to the alleyway and the wall across from the camera. In the center of the scene is a vague blur of colors, as though the video had been edited to hide what was happening, but the hazy silhouette of a hulking figure pressed against the wall gives away more than enough for those watching to piece it together. It’s not a pretty scene, even censored.
Then there’s movement on the street, and an angry blur of red and black tears into the alleyway, barreling into the hulking silhouette and sending them both to the floor in a flurry of fists and the sharp glint of silver blades. The wall where the figure once stood remains blurred, now covering a much smaller figure as it shrinks back against the wall.
The larger figure—revealed to be a middle-aged man, face already bloodied in the sudden fight—throws off his unknown attacker and lunges for the shaking individual. He doesn’t get far before black-gloved hands pull the man’s leg out from underneath him. The man hits the ground hard, while the unexpected savior is back on his feet, gesturing frantically for the still-blurred figure to run. They do, fleeing the alley and disappearing out of view of the camera just as the bloodied man staggers back to his feet. His opponent turns around then, fists up and ready, knife glinting dangerously in his grip, and the camera gets its first good look at who it is—at the tell-tale helmet and scarlet bat insignia stretching across his chest.
Red Hood.
The man charges at the masked vigilante—an insane choice, but this is clearly not a man capable of rational thought. Deservedly so, Red Hood is not a man known for offering mercy. The ensuing fight is quick and brutal, punches given just as hard as they’re taken and then some. At one point the man gets in a lucky hit, slashing a nasty cut down Hood’s side with a bloodstained blade. Caught off guard by the pain, Hood stumbles slightly, and the man slams a meaty fist against the side of the vigilante’s head, sending Hood reeling backward against the brick wall. Red Hood is by no means small, but the hulking man is a beast in his own right, and the vigilante has to duck as the man sends a fist into the brick where his head had just been.
Without wasting a second more, Hood crouches low and sweeps a leg out, catching the man off balance and sending him toppling over. The vigilante jumps at the opening, fists a blur as he pummels the man into the ground. The beast moves sluggishly beneath him, making pathetic attempts to defend himself, but Red Hood is unrelenting. Blood splatters the asphalt beneath them. The knife slips from the man’s limp hand.
One last punch, and then Hood leans back, absently grabbing for the man’s own knife. The vigilante grips it with two hands, holding it menacingly above the downed man, sharpened blade glistening with crimson—a deadly omen hovering directly over his heart.
The man lifts two shaky hands in surrender, a last-ditch beg for mercy. There’s a heartbeat’s pause, and then Hood spins the knife around and brings the hilt down hard against the man’s skull. The man goes limp. Unconscious, but alive. He will face the consequences he deserves.
Death would have been merciful.
Red Hood is not merciful.
The vigilante slips off of the man’s unconscious form, staggering to the side where he slides down the wall and slumps back against the corner. Blood stains his knuckles red. His chest heaves with exertion. His clothes are riddled with rips, and his skin is marred with paper-thin scrapes.
And his eyes—a wide, unseeing white—pin the unconscious man in place with anger fueled by a venomous blaze a thousand miles high.
The footage goes dark.
No one’s quite sure where the video had come from, but the message is clear: not only is Red Hood innocent of the crime he’d been accused of, but he’s also the unexpected hero of the story. It won’t fix his image—far from it. His reputation as the murderous crime lord will still persist throughout Gotham, but it’s a start. Soon they’ll see.
Red Hood may not be a hero, but he’s no villain either.