Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason Todd was buried on a gray Gotham morning. The city didn’t stop for him; the city never did. Somewhere across town, sirens screamed and gunshots cracked, the heartbeat of Gotham’s streets drowning out the muffled scrape of dirt being shoveled onto a coffin.

Bruce Wayne stood at the head of the grave, jaw locked so tight it could have cracked his teeth. His shadow fell long over the casket, like even the sun knew better than to touch him. Alfred was there. Dick, hollow-eyed. No one else. Gotham didn’t care that Robin had died. Gotham never cared until Batman bled.

When the mourners left, the graveyard fell silent except for the rustle of wind through brittle grass. Hours passed. Then shadows moved.

A woman stood at the edge of the grave, her dark cloak cutting through the fog. Talia al Ghul gazed down at the freshly turned earth, her lips pressed in a line neither cruel nor kind. “Beloved’s son,” she murmured, voice soft enough to be mistaken for prayer. “So much wasted. So much broken.”

The League worked fast, quiet as wraiths. They opened the grave with reverent hands, unearthing what Bruce had chosen to leave behind. The coffin creaked, the lid splitting open like a sigh, and there lay the boy who had died screaming in a warehouse fire.

He was not whole. Bones shattered. Flesh scorched. A face beaten beyond recognition. The Joker had made sure of that.

But the brain… the brain still lingered, clinging to itself in that strange way life does when it refuses to be snuffed out cleanly. Machines whispered, League surgeons muttering in Arabic and Mandarin, their hands quick and precise.

Talia did not look away as they worked. She had already made the choice the moment she stepped into Gotham’s soil. She would not consign him to rot. Not this one.

“Your father will not forgive me,” she told the empty air. “But he let you die. I will not.”

They carried Jason’s body away from the graveyard and into the dark belly of the League’s jet. By the time the coffin was lowered back into the ground, it was filled with nothing but straw and sand to match the weight.

Above, the night closed over Gotham again. The city did not notice one of its dead had been stolen.

Jason Todd was gone.

And something else would rise in his place.

Chapter Text

Jason Todd swung down the alley, the familiar scrape of his boots against wet brick grounding him in a reality that felt almost normal. Almost.

Bruce was ahead, cape catching the light of a lone streetlamp, silent as always, while Dick hovered just behind him, smirking under his cowl. Jason could hear Damian’s little feet scuttling along the roof tiles somewhere above, annoyingly precise, annoyingly alive.

For the first time in years, Jason felt like he belonged. Not whole, he’d never feel whole again, but here, with them, he was part of something resembling family. He hated to admit it, but he liked it.

“Red Hood,” Dick called from the shadows, voice teasing. “Try not to set anything else on fire this time.”

Jason grinned under his mask. “No promises.”

The mission was simple: break up a weapons deal, grab the cash, and leave before anyone got seriously hurt. But in Gotham, simple was never simple.

They hit the warehouse just as the thugs were counting bills, guns carelessly resting on tables. Jason moved first, instinct and muscle taking over, a flurry of kicks, punches, and gunfire.

He noticed something odd, fleeting. A twitch in his arm that didn’t feel like pain. More like… friction under the skin. He flexed his fingers; a small, sharp click echoed from his forearm. He frowned, brushing it off.

Nothing to worry about. Probably just nerves.

By the time the last thug hit the floor, Bruce and Dick were watching him with that familiar mix of concern and exasperation that only family could carry. Jason knew the look. He rolled his eyes behind the mask.

“Not bad,” Bruce said, voice low. “You’re fast, controlled.”

Jason smirked. “Thanks, Dad. I try.”

Dick laughed. “Try being careful, too. You’ve got to remember you’re not invincible.”

Jason didn’t answer. He knew. He knew he wasn’t invincible. He had never been. But tonight, the quiet satisfaction of the team working together, the banter, the small victories, the feeling of not being hunted all the time, it almost made him forget. Almost made him think he could be more than what he was.

Almost.

And yet, beneath the surface, something was wrong. A faint hum under his ribs. A twitch in his fingers. A warmth that wasn’t blood. He flexed again. The click returned.

He shrugged it off. Tonight, it didn’t matter. Not now.

Gotham rain began to fall, cold and relentless, washing over the roof tiles, slicking the streets below. Jason tilted his head back, letting it hit him. For the first time in years, he felt… calm. Almost human.

He didn’t know it would be the last time.

Chapter Text

Jason kept telling himself it was nothing. Just bad nerves. Old scars. Trauma doing what trauma does best — crawling out of the dark when you least wanted it.

But the seams in his arm itched. He wrapped the forearm in bandages just to keep himself from picking at it. Every time he flexed his wrist, he swore he felt the metal stirring under his skin, waiting.

On patrol with Dick, the first real slip happened.

They were running rooftops, chasing down a couple of carjackers. Easy work. Jason landed hard, rolled, came up swinging — and something inside him misfired.

Instead of his pistol snapping into his grip, his wrist jerked and the blade slid halfway out. Metal gleamed under the moonlight.

He shoved it back, hard, heart hammering, praying Dick hadn’t seen.

But Dick’s voice was sharp. “Jay. Stop.”

Jason froze.

Dick’s boots hit the gravel beside him. He squinted, tilting his head, like he was trying to peer past Jason’s mask. “What the hell was that?”

Jason forced a grin. “Reflex. Bad angle. You know me — graceful as ever.”

Dick didn’t laugh.

For a long second, Jason thought Dick might press it. But then a siren wailed in the distance and Nightwing sighed, shaking his head. “We’ll talk later.”

Jason let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Back in the Cave, things only got worse.

Alfred was fussing with Damian’s bruised shoulder when Bruce’s eyes cut across the room — cold, heavy, unreadable. Jason felt it like a spotlight. He looked down, adjusting his gloves, but it didn’t help.

“Your form slipped,” Bruce said flatly.

Jason bristled. “Thanks, Coach.”

“I’m serious.”

Jason shrugged. “I’m fine.”

But his hand was still trembling, and he knew Bruce had noticed.

That night, alone in his safehouse, Jason sat with the lights off and his arm bare.

He pressed his thumb against the seam. The blade snapped out instantly this time, slick and silent, like it wanted to be used.

Jason’s reflection stared back at him in the window — a glowing red line of steel stretching from his wrist, catching the neon of Gotham’s skyline.

“Jesus Christ…” His voice cracked. He dropped to his knees, gripping his arm like he could force it back into being flesh.

But it wasn’t flesh. Not anymore.

And in the silence, in the low hum of hidden machinery, Jason swore he heard something whisper back.

—Protect him. Protect the blood. Obey.

Jason clutched his head, snarling. “Shut up.”

The voice faded. But the blade stayed.

For the first time in years, Jason felt like he was losing himself and this time, not even Bruce could save him.

Chapter Text

Jason didn’t bleed anymore.

He noticed it a week after the warehouse raid. A blade nicked his arm, nothing major, just some punk with good timing, and instead of the sharp sting of skin splitting, he felt a dull vibration. The cut closed too fast, too clean. When he wiped at it later, the blood looked darker than it should, almost metallic under the light.

He told himself he was imagining things. He’d been through enough Lazarus Pit bullshit, enough trauma, enough late-night patrols running on empty; maybe his brain was just lying to him again. Wouldn’t be the first time.

But the unease lingered.

----

It got worse on patrol with Damian. They were supposed to be chasing down some arms runners in Chinatown. Small job. Easy.

Jason had them cornered in a loading dock when his hand suddenly seized. Not the usual muscle cramp, it was rigid, mechanical, like his fingers were trying to move without him. He doubled over, clenching his fist tight, forcing the motion back under his control.

“Are you injured?” Damian’s voice cut sharply beside him. He was glaring up at Jason with that mixture of suspicion and genuine concern he always carried.

Jason shook his head, laughing it off. “Just old bones, kid.”

Damian didn’t look convinced.

And Jason? He didn’t feel convinced, either. Because as he caught his breath, he felt something shift under his wrist. A plate. A seam he hadn’t noticed before.

And when he threw his gun into his holster, his forearm hissed. He swore he heard something click, like a latch unlocking.

----

That night, back in his safehouse, Jason stripped his jacket off and sat in front of the mirror.

He pressed his fingers to the skin just above his elbow. He could feel it now — ridges under the flesh, faint lines he’d never noticed. He dug his nails in, scratching until the skin reddened. It hurt, but beneath the pain was another sensation entirely: pressure, like there was something waiting just beneath the surface.

And when his hand slipped, when his thumb pressed too hard against one seam —

Clink.

A panel slid open.

Jason froze.

From inside his forearm, something shifted, unfolded with surgical precision. A blade. Sleek, silver, wickedly sharp. It hummed faintly, glowing red along its edge.

Jason’s heart stopped.

“No,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “No, no, no—”

The blade retracted with another hiss, folding back into his arm like it had never been there. Skin sealed over it again, seamless, smooth.

Jason sat in the silence of his apartment, rain hammering the glass, his hands shaking.

For the first time in years, he was afraid, not of Gotham, not of death, but of himself.

----

That’s when the nightmares came back.

Not about the crowbar, not about the Pit. Something else. Voices that weren’t his. A woman’s voice, whispering commands. Protect him. Protect the blood. Over and over, static eating through the words.

Jason woke up drenched in sweat, clutching his arm like it was burning.

He didn’t know it yet, but the machine buried inside him was starting to remember.

Chapter Text

The night was alive with Gotham’s usual chaos, sirens wailing, engines screaming, neon signs flickering in the mist.

Jason and the Bat-Family were on the roof of an abandoned industrial block, watching a small-time arms dealer move crates below. Damian perched on the edge, sharp-eyed. Bruce stood back, cowl shadowing his face. Dick flanked Jason, every bit the calm counterbalance.

Jason adjusted his gloves. Something low in his chest thrummed, not fear, not adrenaline. Something else. He ignored it. He always ignored it.

Then the building shook.

A deafening explosion ripped through the street below. Flames spat into the night, hurling shrapnel in every direction. Jason reacted before thinking, diving across the roof to shield Damian.

The fire hit him first. Heat that should have burned flesh barely touched him, but his synthetic skin screamed in protest. He felt it melt, pulling at him as if alive, peeling back in uneven strips.

The pain came next. Pain unlike any he had ever known. Not agony, but a raw, mechanical wrenching, circuits and fibers screaming as the outer layer of him liquefied in the heat.

And then… the eye.

Jason’s upper face tore away. His left eye, human once, is gone. In its place, a metal orb with a red glow pulsing in the dark. A soft hum from the inside of his skull. Something mechanical. Not him.

Damian shrieked. Dick froze mid-step. Bruce’s hands clenched at his sides, chest tight.

Jason didn’t look at them. He touched his face, metal to fingers. Heat hissed off his cheeks. Black oil seeped where it shouldn’t. And in that instant, the truth hit him harder than the fire ever could.

“I’m… not human.”

Panic tore through him. Not for the first time, he didn’t care about villains or Gotham. He didn’t care about revenge or even the family. He wanted to run. To disappear.

He bolted.

Rain hit him as he scrambled down the alleys, steam rising where his burned synthetic skin met water. His body, betrayed and alive, began activating without him. Panels shifted, blades extended, and grappling hooks launched uncontrollably. Weapons he never asked for now tore through the air around him.

The Bat-Family called after him, but he didn’t listen. He couldn’t. He was more than Jason Todd now, a ghost in a machine, a weapon wearing a boy’s face.

Puddles reflected his horror. Red light glowed in the rain-soaked streets. His own reflection was a stranger: half flesh, half steel, entirely terrifying.

Jason Todd was gone.

The Red Hood that ran in the rain that night was something else entirely.

Chapter Text

The rain didn’t put the fire out. It carried it with him. Every step Jason took sent steam rising from his body, smoke and mist curling in his wake. He didn’t feel wet — he felt raw, stripped, exposed.

His boots hit pavement, hard, fast, uneven. He didn’t know where he was running, only that he had to get away. Away from Bruce’s silence. Away from Dick’s wide eyes. Away from Damian’s scream echoing in his ears.

Not human. Not me. Not Jason.

His breath came out in bursts, too steady, too mechanical. His chest expanded and contracted like a piston, not lungs. He pressed his hands against his ribs as he stumbled into a narrow alley, trying to feel a heartbeat.

There was none. Only a hum. A low vibration that rattled his bones — if he still had bones.

Jason slammed his fist into the brick wall until it cracked. He wanted blood on his knuckles, wanted proof of flesh, proof of being alive. Instead, his hand split open along a seam. Metal hissed, gears whirred, and a barrel slid out from his wrist.

Jason staggered back. “No… no, no, no—”

The weapon discharged before he could stop it. A shell exploded into the rain, shattering a streetlamp, sparks raining down over the alley.

He dropped to his knees, clutching his arm, choking on panic. “Stop it, stop it, stop it—”

But his body didn’t listen.

A blade snapped from his forearm, sleek and sharp. A cable shot from his shoulder, embedding into the opposite wall with a metallic crack. His body bristled with hidden death, weapon after weapon unfurling, each one a betrayal.

Jason sobbed, pulling at his own skin, clawing at the seams where flesh met steel. The rain washed the oil down his arms, black trails seeping across the concrete.

Above, thunder rolled over Gotham.

And somewhere in the shadows, a familiar voice called his name.

“Jason.”

Bruce.

Jason’s head jerked up, red eye glowing in the dark. His mask was gone, his face a horror of melted flesh and machine. He looked at Bruce like an animal cornered, feral and terrified.

“Stay away from me!” Jason’s voice cracked, half-human, half-distorted with static. “Don’t you see? I’m not—” He struck his chest, metal echoing under the blow. “I’m not your son! I’m not even me!”

Bruce took one step forward, cape dragging in the rain. His face was unreadable, but his voice was steady. “You are Jason Todd.”

Jason shook his head violently, the glow of his eye flickering. He could feel commands whispering in the back of his skull again, static scratching like claws. Protect him. Protect the blood.

“No,” Jason growled, pressing his palms against his temples. “Don’t put that on me. Don’t—don’t call me that.”

His body twitched, a dozen weapons half-deployed, rain sizzling against metal edges. He looked less like a man and more like a living arsenal straining against its own skin.

And in the storm, he fled again, grappling hook firing from his shoulder before he even realized it, dragging him into Gotham’s night.

Leaving Bruce alone in the alley, watching his broken son disappear into the rain.