Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Richard Grayson must admit he sometimes forgets how strange a vigilante life can truly be. Sometimes he feels like he's seen it all. Sometimes he forgets how much more there is to life. But rarely is he surprised. Not anymore.

"This can not be for real."

Despite everything, Dick yearned for stability. Not the usual stability that meant nothing ever changed; he wasn't that hopeful. Merely, the sort of stability that meant waking up every day knowing his family is alive, that his friends are well and healthy, and that the world is not going under. It was not a stability that was granted often, and when it was shaken, Dick could admit that it impacted him in ways that fell short of the expectations set for him.

Dick yearned for stability, despite the universe's constant attempts to prove him otherwise.

Which is perhaps why it threw him off so much to see a gigantic Batman imposter cleave the Penguin's hand right off.

An imposter, surely. It had to be. One of those deranged fanboys who looked up to Batman for all the wrong reasons. It had to be. After all, Gotham is never lacking desperate men with no training and too much sense of justice. Those who ran through the streets with a gun in hand and a Halloween bat-mask, thinking that maybe they, too, could make a difference. Dick did not hate them, unlike some of his siblings. He pitied them. 

But it usually was just that, a mask and a gun. What these men needed was to be talked down, to be directly offered the services they themselves were too cowardly to reach out for. And it was that cowardness that made them no different from the goons working under Gotham's dirtiest scum.

Copycats do not understand what the Batman means, what being a vigilante means at all. They are people driven by desperation, not justice, actively hurting the community by projecting their hurt with bullets.

Fortunately enough for the city, such cases weren't common anymore, not like when Nightwing was still Robin. Yet each time sightings were reported, groans of annoyance always echoed through the comms. If a copycat was involved, the situation usually necessitated de-escalation, a skill that required as much finesse as defusing a bomb to prevent casualties.

Nightwing had been notified of a copycat sighting in the center of The Narrows. Well, they all had been informed, courtesy of Oracle, who saw it funny to welcome Nightwing back to Gotham by passing him a task nobody liked doing. He got some pats on the shoulder, a few laughs and jokes that he played along with, and one "good luck" from his mentor.

The situation had been much worse than initially calculated. And these were the Oracles' calculations; they were supposed to be infallible.

What he had understood was that there was some copycat taking down a local cartel. That in itself was worrying and mildly annoying to deal with. But there was more. From the dozen different police reports and social media posts published in the last hour, the copycat was consistently described as a tall, masculine silhouette with bat ears and a cape. According to the reports, he wasn't just taking them down; he was brutalizing them.

The streets were empty, as if its citizens for once knew better than to linger. Amongst the first things that Nightwing noted upon arrival was the stench of blood and gunpowder.

Most streetlights were broken as well, although it was unclear whether this was intentional or not. Oh, that, and the numerous bodies sprawled all over.

"I might have been too late." He stated into the comms. Grappling down from the roof, Nightwing cautiously approached the nearest corpse. "Yeah, no. This is a massacre."

"Report properly, Nightwing," Oracle responded, her voice showing no inkling of emotion.

On this side of The Narrows, setting up cameras or even connecting to local security feeds was a waste of time and resources.

No matter how well hidden, cameras would get discovered and taken apart for a quick buck. It was more impressive than irritating to see how resourceful Gothamites could be. But that meant Oracle now depended on Nightwing's observations to assess the situation. Everything else had been plucked from Gothamites' social media and local news. 

"Well, where to start," Nightwing whistled, crouching down to inspect the body. A middle-aged man, in unremarkable clothes, a gun still clutched in a broken hand.

His face was beaten to a broken wall of flesh.

"It's... It's- huh," he had to chuckle, quickly adjusting the comm. "Are you sure it's a copycat I'm searching for?"

"Why do you ask?"

"This is meticulous," Nightwing said, his expression withdrawing from any humor, "this is the work of a bat."

"You're kidding."

"Not this time." Quickly, Nightwing stood up, inspecting the next body, then another.

The men were all sprawled across the street, illuminated only by the few working streetlights left, which blinked every couple of seconds.

The more Nightwing inspected, the less he liked what he saw. He went back to the first body, pressing his fingers against the man's neck. "Holy miracle Batman! These people are alive!"

"The ambulances are already on their way. Talk to me, what are you seeing? What are you hearing?" The frown on her face was audible in the tone of her voice. Not knowing just irked her, and Nightwing's descriptions would irritate anyone.

Perhaps it was the mystery of it all, the not knowing that kept Nightwing so entranced by this particular case. It was his first patrol in Gotham in a while, and this level of violence was unmatched everywhere else except Bludhaven.

It made him wish he could feel more affected than just a sympathetic grimace and a boiling rage coiling in the pit of his stomach. Not for the fate of these men per se, but for the thought someone was using Batman's image to spread such violence.

It all reminded Nightwing of… well, many past cases. But it was just. A reminder.

Grabbing his escrima sticks, Nightwing followed what seemed to be a fresh trail. He wasn't hearing anything, which was the most concerning. The sighting had been reported less than twenty minutes ago, yet the deed was done.

"Forty-five recently beaten men, all sprawled across-" he glanced at the street sign. "-Hollow Crane Street. They're all alive, I believe. But whoever beat them was, as I said, meticulous."

He paused as he passed the twenty-third man, unsure of what to feel at the sight. The man's eyes had rolled to the back of his head, bleeding from his ears and nose from what Nightwing could recognize as a nasty hit to the side of his head.

Alive, but unconscious, possibly permanently disabled if that flattened forearm was anything to go by, as if something heavy had stomped over it with the intent to keep the man down.

"This is not the Red Hood's work, if you were thinking that."

Red Hood could be meticulous when he put his mind to it, but he was not merciful. Nightwing bit back his comments, finding no place to say them in this situation. Time and place.

Now, Oracle was really frowning at him. He could sense it from the static of the comm. "I was not thinking that." Then, a pause. "He is.. not currently in Crime Alley, for once, but nearby. Shall I?"

"Unnecessary. You know how he feels about... uhh, copycats." Nightwing mumbled, always walking, never a moment's pause. He knew, he just knew, that this wasn't a situation that necessitated Red Hood.

Nor any other aid, really. This case might lead to nothing, nothing worth getting one's feathers ruffled.

While following the blood trail, Nightwing perked up slightly, "he's using his comm? I thought he-"

"Not to any of the main channels. Only for me," Oracle interrupted, although Nightwing could hear the lightness return to her voice. "Oh, by the way, I've been keeping the rest updated on your findings. Just in case."

"Oracle," Nightwing groaned. He wouldn't even ask how she managed to keep track of everyone's patrol routes and necessities while receiving and passing information flawlessly. "You don't think I've encountered stranger in Bludhaven? As the Titans' leader? This is probably just another Tuesday."

Following the trail to the next street, it was as expected; unconscious, beaten men wherever he laid eyes on.

The streetlights no longer blinked; there was no electricity at all. Even the buildings all around were dark, creating a strange, isolating feeling.

The smell of gunpowder, notorious for that distinct, pungent odor reminiscent of rotten eggs, was as thick as mist.

"Okay, now you're jinxing it." Oracle noted. Her answer took a few seconds, so Nightwing figured she was doing something behind the scenes.

Nightwing waved a hand in front of his face, trying to keep his nostrils from burning. With his other hand, he held up one glowing escrima stick for visibility.

"Thirty-three more men. Similarly injured to the ones before," he informed, waving his escrima sticks around, starting to get restless. "This must be the reported shooting. Every single person here is armed, and I think they were defending something. There are abandoned cars and vans."

With a sigh, Nightwing took another pause, feeling the need to adjust the comm to an almost compulsive degree. "Are you sure I'm dealing with a copycat? It feels like I am looking at the aftermath of a very one-sided gang war."

"Yeah, sure. A gang war between Penguin's goons and another, mysterious gang that doesn't kill or steal cargo." Oracle commented, most likely accompanied by an eye roll.

"These are Penguin's men?" Nightwing looked wide-eyed at the beaten men around him.

He made his way to one of the vans, opening the back door and inspecting its contents. Sure enough, it was full of Penguin's favorites, stolen goods, weapons, and that real expensive contraband only sold on Iceberg Lounge.

"Robin decided only now to inform me that he has been keeping an eye out for Penguin's suspicious behavior in The Narrows," Oracle sounded pissed, her voice an icy chill down Nightwing's back. He feared for Robin's future access to Oracle's resources. "There should be a warehouse if you continue on a straight path. Seems Oswald got busted by an external force before we could do anything about it."

Aaand that's his cue to hurry up. Nightwing started running, using the momentum to raise his grappling hook and launch himself back to the roofs. That was everything he needed to know before acting.

"Any new theories on what we're dealing with? I mean," Nightwing chuckled, jumping from roof to roof until he saw the exact sort of building one would describe as a 'criminal warehouse'. "How could a copycat do all this and go unnoticed until now?"

And that's not to speak of the level of skill needed to maim to such an extent and not kill.  But Nightwing did not want to talk of it, or even think of it for that matter. This was all… for lack of better terms, annoying.

Nightwing tried to tell himself he was annoyed.

"You sound almost impressed, Nightwing. What level of precision are we talking about here?" A new voice joined in, its tone familiar and drowned in mirth and curiosity. Although it made Nightwing smile, he also let out a dramatic groan, for the dramatics.

"Focus on your own patrol route, Robin. Let me have my fun." Nightwing pretended to be annoyed, balancing on the edge of the roof and landing a backflip to the entrance of the warehouse. Again, empty.

Again, bodies sprawled everywhere, now to the point they stacked over each other, and Nightwing couldn't count them all. 

"I'm not ditching my patrol to aid you," Robin chuckled through the comms, audibly in motion, "can't I be curious about your case? I've been tracking Penguin all week, and now all that work is down the drain thanks to some rando. How do we even know it's a copycat we're dealing with?"

"You know, I've been asking the same thing,"  Nightwing mused, yet again inspecting the injured. Yikes.

The damaged showed that this  was not just incapacitating the enemy, like an angry, solitary Batman once did. This was dismembering, this was flattening limbs and breaking vital bones.

This was everything but killing. Some of the most meticulous work Nightwing had the displeasure of observing. "Previous theory dismissed, Oracle. It can't be just a copycat. This is a bat's work at its worst."

"Are you for real?" Robin asked, sounding excited at the prospect of a new mystery.

"It is a copycat. I've confirmed my sources multiple times," Oracle clicked her tongue, always exasperated when doubted. As if they could do anything without her.

"Have you checked with The League?" Nightwing heard Robin ask, but the conversation took a back burner in his list of priorities as he inspected the place.

It was terribly dark now, and with the lack of conscious people in his vicinity, Nightwing saw it fit to ditch the stealth. Whoever he'd been following had not been particularly subtle, perhaps expecting to be found.

With his escrima sticks cracking with barely contained electricity, Nightwing marched into the dingy building. For the first time in a while, he was unsure what to expect.

Tapping one of the sticks against the wall, Nightwing listened for echoes. He didn't need to wait much longer before he heard gunshots from deeper into the building, the blasting sounds sounding muffled.

"A basement." He deducted, continuing his merry way inside, whistling while at it. Oracle quickly filled him in, and guided by her instructions, Nightwing walked, then ran as the shooting grew in intensity.

In minutes and after zigzagging through bodies, he reached an already half-open vault door. There was shooting, and so, so much screaming.

He descended.

The scene that awaited was nothing less than a massacre. "This can not be for real." Nightwing gritted out, stricken by the sight before him.

The basement, as expected of the Penguin, resembled more closely a club lounge. The crimelord likely got rid of the local gangs a while ago or paid them off, and then used this warehouse as a hiding spot. It was a bad sign that he possibly figured the bats hadn't quite staked their claim on The Narrows yet.

Warehouses were never in good condition; that was always expected. Yet this one had been especially dingy, the sort of abandoned building that led to more problems than it was worth, and was simply better ignored until it crumbled on its own. The basement was different, being the complete opposite — a polished floor, stolen paintings, and luxurious furniture that resembled those at the Iceberg Lounge. There was even air conditioner.

It was all backdrop to the real problem at hand, though, which was the billowing figure, taller than Red Hood or even Superman, tanking gunshots with its cape like they were plastic pellets.

The cape, large and reflecting no light, split by the end in tendrils, which crawled through the ceiling and the sprawled bodies and the columns like itty-bitty grappling hooks. No. No, not grappling hooks per se, Nightwing numbly noted. Like small batclaws.

The figure bore sharp, pointy ears, and the axe— an axe? It was shaped into a distorted version of the bat symbol, cleaving Penguin's hand off.

There was no more shooting by the time Nightwing had arrived. All of Penguin's men were on the floor, bleeding over the carpets and glossy floor.

Nightwing's ears were ringing, and shamefully, he stood frozen, unsure of what to do. Oracle was screaming into his comm, Penguin was screeching worse than a wounded animal, and the hulking figure was grabbing at the recently mutilated villain, shaking him in the air, and demanding something.

Nightwing took a step back, then two forward.

The hulking impostor wore a distorted version of Batman's iconic gray suit. The spikes across his shoulders and back made it clear he was not the friendly type.

"Where did you learn that name?" The... copycat(?) demanded, pushing Penguin against the wall, hard enough that it forced all the air out of the crimelord's lungs.

"You—! You– Bats what—!" Penguin's beady, panicked eyes were shaking in pure terror. "That's my– what—!"

But despite the pitiful attempts to claw at the copycat's hand, Penguin kept dangling in the air by the grip on his collar like freshly caught prey.

"Oswald! Oswald Cobblepot! That ain't your fucking name!" The copycat continued, his voice a boom, like a shotgun straight to the stomach. "Yet that motherfucker called you—!" With his head, he pointed vaguely at one of the many men sprawled on the floor. That is how both Penguin and the copycat caught sight of Nightwing.

"You!" Penguin squeaked, much like a bird. He pointed his mutilated limb towards Nightwing, beckoning him to come closer.

Penguin was no joke, never had been. With his access to wealth and skill to scurry beneath the light of law, he'd done far too evil to ever dream of redemption. But this. This was pitiful. This was inhumane.

"You! Help me! Help me, you insolent fuck! Da Bat has gone fucking insane!"

"That is not Batman," Nightwing replied with more ease than he felt. "There's a fairily," he raised his hand where the real Batman's height was, "big difference."

"Step back." The copycat growled, although much calmer in contrast to just a few seconds ago.

He was holding the Penguin with one hand, as if he weighed nothing. The other hand kept a tight grip on the bat-axe. Creative, Nightwing could not help but think, but it was not practical within most heroes' moral realm. 

"You chopped off Penguin's hand, big B. I can't not intervene," Nightwing grinned, waving his escrima sticks in a bit of a show.

With a click of his thumb, he upped the electricity current. If this took any more time, Penguin would bleed out. "How about you hand him to me, no pun intended, and you peacefully put the axe away?"

Inwardly, Nightwing held back a wince as both Robin and Oracle shouted into the comms, statements of disbelief and shocked laughter.

"–Chopped off?!" "–what do you mean his hand–?!"

Had he heard about this through the comms — that big boss man Oswald Cobblepot got humiliated to such an extent, instead of seeing it with his own eyes — he would have laughed too. But right now, Nightwing was seething.

It was that feeling of incompetence that had his blood boiling. Of knowing that despite their dominion over the city, they let this mad fucker get away with possibly killing countless people, all while wearing Batman's mask and symbol.

And all because they hadn't secured more vulnerable areas like The Narrows, simply because they had not bothered to adapt their spyware to the environment and its people.

"I'm on my way," Robin rushed his words out, while the sounds of smashing keyboards could be heard from Oracle's side.

"Tell your friends to stand back too," the copycat grunted, raising the arm holding the axe to point with one finger at his own ear. So he noticed the comms, big fucking deal. It made Nightwing want to roll his eyes. The big brute proceeded to saunter towards Nightwing, his steps eerily quiet.

Fuck was he massive. It wasn't just the height; the man was also built like a damn wall. His voice, too, there was something about it that made Nightwing reevaluate, before he shook the thought away to concentrate on the matter at hand.

"Let The Penguin go." Nightwing reiterated. The grip on his escrima sticks tightened as he got into position.

But the copycat just sorta stared at him, not moving a muscle, before standing in position to throw the Penguin at full force, much like one would throw a baseball.

The crimelord's scream was so high-pitched that Nightwing was sure it made his comm momentarily malfunction.

"Fucking hell," he heard Oracle hiss.

Catching him would necessitate putting the escrima sticks away, which Nightwing decidedly didn't want to do. He just let Penguin fly past and crash into the couch behind.

"He called himself Oswald Cobblepott," The copycat continued, raising his axe to point it at the cowering Penguin, "explain."

"What is there to explain?" Nightwind found himself growling, his voice automatically going lower, feeling his heartbeat rise in tandem. "What need explaining is why you're going around, using another hero's identity to spread fear and undo any good will we've been building here! You need to stand back!"

"Who are you supposed to be?" The copycat's eyes narrowed. His tone, unbothered by the accusations, somehow just pissed off Nightwing even more.

Then, in an act of confidence, the big brute separates the heavy axe from its handle, clicking the metallic bat symbol back to his chest.

Disarming himself? Arrogant, really, because Nightwing was not feeling particularly merciful, and the copycat will find out he might need that stupid axe after all. A lunatic was using a symbol of hope carved in his family's blood and going around amputating people.

"Hand over the greasy fuck, put my axe away. That's what you told me to do," The copycat continued, walking in a wide circle, keeping his narrowed white-lensed eyes on Nightwing the entire time, "now answer my question."

"Keep him occupied. Robin is on his way, so are the police and ambulances." Oracle was informed quickly.

"Penguin's name," Nightwing started, keeping still for now, "is Oswald Cobblepot. Everyone knows that, y'know. A businessman, but you use that word with very heavy parentheses. And one of Gotham's most notorious crimelords. Big ol' enemy of The Bat. The real one."

At that, the copycat clicked his tongue, looking more enraged with every word that Nightwing uttered, as if what he was saying was simply wrong. He spared another glance at Penguin, who looked half-unconscious, clutching his mauled limb.

Bending over, the copycat grabbed the sliced hand, dwarfing it with his own. He threw it too, towards Penguin, who squawked indignantly at how he was treated.

Nightwing didn't particularly mind that part.

"You talk like a cop," the copycat said without looking at Nightwing, now looking towards the exit of the basement. Yeah, right. As if Nightwing would let him escape. "Do you protect this city?"

"Always." Nightwing answered as easy as breathing. Only after the easy-coming answer did he hesitate.

Always?

That feeling again, of the copycat's voice, raised his hackles in a way only one other man could do. But this was no place to ask that now.

But then, the copycat growled his following words out. "Do a better job, then." It was a bark. It was an order.

Nightwing had no time to answer, not when the cape that ended in tendrils served another purpose than just looking intimidating—the fabric formed around the copycat's arms, which he used to shoot the tendrils out.

One tendril wrapped itself around Nightwing's escrima stick, throwing him off-balance. The crackling electricity did nothing against the inanimate fabric, and rather than let go, Nightwing was thrown across the room.

He landed with a seamless pirouette before cursing at the sight of the copycat further swinging himself out of the basement. The big guy was silent, practiced, capable, which only further pissed Nightwing off.

"So much for de-escalation," Oracle sighed, tapping something urgently on her keyboard, "don't sulk, Nightwing. You bought me more than enough time. I think I know what we're dealing with."

Still sulking, Nightwing straightened himself. Oracle had likely accessed the security cameras in the basement, and with Robin nearby, they could further track the copycat's movements.

Only there was one more problem.

Nightwing glanced at Penguin, who had promptly passed out by now. "That wasn't a copycat." He muttered into the comms.

"No, it wasn't." Oracle confirmed back.

Robin arrived outside the warehouse fifteen minutes after Nightwing's encounter with the false bat.

The two hid in the shadows, out of sight of several police officers. Paramedics were carrying Penguin out. One of them held an icebox, likely containing the severed hand. 

"That was a bloodbath," Robin said as soon as he arrived. He didn't sound that amused anymore.

"Yeah," Nightwing agreed.

"A several-streets-long bloodbath."

"Mhm."

"While we were on patrol. While we were on active duty. While we- we did nothing. Didn't even know until it was over."

It made Nightwing shrug. He didn't necessarily disagree with Robin, but he didn't want to agree either.

"Oracle said it herself. Big B was knocking out five men per second. He was also screaming at civilians to back off, but, you know, how Gothamites are. Gotta film it."

"We've knocked out more people faster," Robin grumbled. It made Nightwing want to ruffle his hair.

"Yeah. Well, we weren't fast enough now." Nightwing directed his hand to his ear, adjusting his comm again. "So?" He asked, "Any updates on our guy?"

"Big B is still on the same route. Return to your patrol routes. The case is covered." Oracle confirmed.

Nightwing didn't like it. To be dismissed, just because they found a more efficient route. He didn't want efficiency now. He wanted to find Big B and demand answers.

But there was nothing he could do about it now. Not when they've managed to predict his movements, and the brute posing as Batman was on a direct trail towards Crime Alley.

Towards Red Hood.

Chapter Text

Image and reputation were important. Not a priority, of course, but still a point that lingered in the back of Jason's mind each time he donned his helmet.

As the Red Hood, he made it a point to uphold the routine he set for himself and not deviate from the planned patrols that mapped his quieter nights.

Areas like Crime Alley needed some consistency. It was a damn vital thing for the people living in this shitter of a place, that glimmer of hope signaling that, even if the system had failed them, the Red Hood would be their walking vindication. That the promise of his presence alone served to scare off offenders, and that he would shoot down the unjust, those that preyed on the weak and tried to do it in his damn territory.

On this particular night, Jason could have followed his routine like he promised. But frankly, his sense of curiosity had won over. Instead of patrolling the three points of the East End, starting in The Bowery and ending in Alleytown, Red Hood found himself on his motorcycle, speeding downtown.

For once, his comm was suspiciously quiet with just a question from Oracle or two, maybe a quick report of a nearby robbery or whatever else. It was clear her attention was elsewhere tonight, and as far as Red Hood was concerned, if she didn't ask directly why the hell he was leaving his patrol route without explanation, he certainly wouldn't offer any.

Tonight, he had had something planned, and he wanted to make sure the gamble paid off. To know, he needed to venture beyond his route, and he most importantly required to keep a close ear on his comm line for any updates.

Access to information was always a priority during patrol. If you did not know what the fuck was going on, what were you logically meant to do? Jason was not one of the bats, and he was not naive enough to go back just because he'd been invited, or because they preached forgiveness and future understanding. Jason was being logical here.

Realistic.

Justice was delivered differently by his hands, in ways that no proper hero would approve, so why would he ever consider working with the bats?

Realistic.

But Oracle? Oracle was another matter entirely. It had nothing to do with Barbarda Gordon per se, but the need of any vigilante worth their money for a reliable source of information. In this case, Oracle was The reliable asset. Invaluable and incomparable to anything that came before.

Simply having access to the police's encrypted line was not enough. On a usual night, their information barely scratched the tip of the iceberg of everything that could go down during the hours of the night.

Oracle went deeper and beyond. And although she'd throw in the occasional comments — suggestions about potential team-ups for a particular case or reminders to consider backup "just in case" — they were easy to dismiss when he weighed his annoyance against her efficiency.

Valuable, he told himself. Too valuable to let his anger ruin this, too, and Jason was determined not to regret this one indulgence.

To put it short, all hail the Oracle. Which is why it was all the more surprising to Jason that it was the pig-snotted officers' radio chatter that first broke the news of The Penguin's latest attempt and the subsequent beating he received at the hands of "a really fucking big Bat. John, did you see the footage because holy shit that ain't our bat— "

It took some time for Jason even to understand what had been going on, given how the officers in the line were talking over each other, their voices filled with disbelief as they reported back and forth the potential number of bodies laid strewn across three city streets.

As he revved up his motorcycle and turned to head back to Crime Alley, the Red Hood felt a rare rush of exhilaration.

It felt good to be right, and damn it felt godly to surprise Gotham like this. He hadn't done so in a while.

The helmet may muffle the sound, but he did chuckle, almost shivering from the wind around him and the thrill of a gamble paying off. He first chuckled, then laughed as his motorcycle sped faster and faster.

Exhilarating. Fun, it was fun to have another like-minded lunatic in town.

It hadn't been a test of loyalty or anything stupid like that—just pure, unfiltered curiosity.

The night prior, Jason threw at the somewhat aimless Big B a folder full of data, names, and locations about Penguin's ongoing little scheme in The Narrows. It hadn't been in the Red Hood's high list of priorities, given Penguin was taking his sweet time laying low. Still, after it seemed like the bats overestimated their ability to keep track of their rogues, Jason wanted to test the newbie.

Big B had read through about a quarter of the files before throwing them back on the table and leaving.

Very Bruce-like, Jason supposed, swallowing down the bile that arose with the thought.

After that, he hadn't seen or heard from the guy anywhere. It was only after the GCPD's line confirmed it that he even knew Big B had taken down Penguin's whole damn operation with swift, brutal force, with only about 24 hours' notice.

Fucking madman.

Jason hoped there was good footage.

"Red?" Oracle called through the helmet's comm.

Red Hood answered, already well aware of what that tone in her voice meant. "I'm getting an assignment? Tsch Oracle, y'know it's busy out here."

"The Narrows' threat is heading towards Crime Alley. Thought you'd like to know."

Threat? Jason wondered mildly. "Oh, that's terrific news. Well, tell the rest to stand back."

"Are you serious-?"

"Put some trust in me, Babs, it's just–"
"—No names, Hood–"

"-that this ain't seem like the sort of case where more people just complicates it." Red Hood had to raise his voice quite loudly as he sped even faster. "Look, I'm five minutes from Alley. Just cause this 'threat' dealt with Penguin ain't mean he an actual threat. It's the damn Penguin we're talking 'bout. Tell the rest to stand back, and I'll keep you updated."

Jason liked his secrets, so sue him. What right did the bats have to his information, when countless times they have kept shit from him?

But this wasn't retaliation; Jason didn't view it that way, at least. It was just good old-fashioned fun.

Because, as it turned out, the Red Hood and the newest, biggest bat had encountered each other last week.

Referred to as the bane of Gotham City, there were several reasons Crime Alley had a reputation that preceded it.

Hell, look at its name — changed because nobody called it Park Row anymore. It just didn't fit. All that it was anymore was a known black hole, swallowing any money that dared to flow in, meant to aid its infrastructure and community, only for it to fall into the wrong hands.

For all its complexities and issues, Crime Alley wasn't that large (and East End as a whole, really — but nobody referred to the East End when talking about "Gotham's worst." They only ever mentioned Crime Alley, ignoring its surrounding and equally impoverished areas like The Bowery and Alleytown.)

Compact, definitely. Suffocating on bad days (summer, ugh). But to call it just a district felt like a disservice.

Crime Alley was its own microsystem within the organ that was Gotham, a hive of activity (more often than not, illegal). Its population of less than 12 thousand had its own culture; its own Gothamite accent, its rituals and practices that no outsider could hope to understand. Only by living there could one ever hope to know how it works.

Despite it all — and maybe (especially) because of it — Jason was hopelessly proud to have been born and raised there.

In many ways, it has been Crime Alley that shaped him, forging his identity through adversity and giving him the tools to survive and thrive.

Ingenuity thrives on constraints, and all that.

Red Hood, as the official unofficial vigilante of East End, knew pretty much everything major that went through those streets. Was it a big area? No, which is why, after proving himself as reliable as the big old bat and even more accessible, it was terribly easy to get all the gossip from the working girls and street rats.

There was an art to differentiating straight-up bullshit from factual rumors, and the latter hadn't been alarming at first.

Hell, Jason had hardly paid attention to it, not due to a lack of care, but rather a lack of time.

Number one on Red Hood's list of priorities was a minor weapon trafficking ring that was setting up supplies to be shipped somewhere else in Gotham. It was a ticking time bomb and a potential new collection of weapons for him to tinker with, but there was no use gunning them down yet. First, he liked to pinpoint the details, like which stupid fuck was backing them and the purpose of the guns.

It was only after a few patrol nights that the constant stream of gratitude for shit he had never done began to wear on Jason's nerves.

The first instance came from a sweet, older woman who looked lost.

It was nearing midnight when he approached to assess the situation. The elderly lady turned to him, and her eyes lit with recognition. Then came her words, a ragged little thank you for walking her to the gate of her building the previous night after she'd gotten separated from her aged care nurse. She held out a few crumpled bills, pressing them into his hand while he politely declined. Instead, he discreetly sneaked back double the amount into her purse and "again" walked her back home, where he chastised the shit out of that incompetent nurse.

On the second occasion, which cemented the fact that something might be out of sorts, was when Red Hood found himself being thanked by a bunch of working girls.

It had been two days since the elderly lady incident, and as he patrolled the shittily lit streets, chilli dog in hand on his way for a breather, the group of girls hanging by the balcony of some strip club whistled for his attention. That wasn't the unusual part; what was, however, was when their voices rang with cheers of appreciation. He stood there (definitely not awkwardly), trying to decipher amidst the shouting what they were even saying. Something about a fixed heater, that he was a life-saver for real.

Red Hood raised his hand in salute, but inwardly, Jason had no clue what they were on about.

The final straw was a social media post Tim shared with him with the attached message:

LOLOLOLOLOL r u fr bout dis??? If East End isn't giving u enough to do, u can gladly start patrolling more districts. Lazy bum.

Jason is going to punt that runt.

But before he could respond, the post had him baffled.

The blurry picture showed a recently repaired pothole; next to it, a large man gave the cameraman a thumbs-up. The man wore a red hoodie and dark sunglasses, even though the photo was taken at night, obscuring any features that could help identify him.

For the briefest moment, Jason really thought it was a picture of himself. 'Holy shit, is my memory deteriorating? Did I do that?' were his first thoughts, before actually thinking it through and recognizing that his physique did not make hoodies stretch out like that.

The caption beneath the photo caught his eye: "Red Hood, thank you for fixing that bothersome pothole. Alleytown's hero!!" 

Aw, sweet, Jason supposed. Except for the fact that Red Hood doesn't have time to fix potholes?

He's trying to shut down smuggling rings?

Who is out here pretending to be Red Hood and fixing potholes?

And is Tim calling him jobless?

As if you'd understand the necessity of community service. My pothole fixing just eased the lives of thousands, while you do jackshit every night. Godbless.

Jason pressed the send button in one snappy movement and crushed the phone under his foot the next.

There was no point in asking himself how Tim had found his current number, which he changed weekly anyway. This was Tim. It was like asking how Barbara always knew his exact location. Some things are just above his level of caring.

But that stupid post gave Jason the needed hint about who the Red Hood impostor is.

When the confrontation happened, it was entirely accidental. 

"Do you want me to spot you?" A voice asked, surprisingly soft for the vast shadow they formed.

Jason removed his headphones even though he had heard the question perfectly. He ran the sentence over and over again in his head, unable to find sense in it.

"What?" Jason asked instead, rather lamely.

The headphones that hung on his neck were old and used, held together with black tape and spite. The sound quality was awful, but that did not matter since Jason only ever used them to play brown noise.

Jason did not know what it was about it that soothed him so. Still, the low frequencies, so similar to the sound of rain hitting a window or distant thunder, drowned out the interior scramble of ill-meaning, impulsive thoughts, and the exterior sounds were enough for him to concentrate on his sets.

There was often no time between sleeping and a night's work. The Red Hood never did anything half-assed, so if he wasn't busting down rings, he was out patrolling or doing investigative work under a pseudo-identity.

Then, if he actually managed to finish his route at five sharp like intended, he'd walk back on foot to the nearest safehouse, always in time to miss the sunrise. It was not anything worth seeing, he reckoned.

If Jason found himself unable to sleep, then, with the curtains closed, he continued his work. Mind-numbing stuff: analog reports, a map of clues that could lead to a bigger case, sorting out his assortment of blackmail, among other things.

If needed, then he cleaned his guns and uniform. Only when it was all categorized and done did he try to sleep again, but by then it was soon dawn, and his head ached. He picked up a book, then, and sat to read. It never helped with the headache, but it helped his focus.

After dawn, Jason stepped out again, just as the sun set, and went to train at the gym till it was time for patrol.

The time Jason allowed himself to practice his drills in Crime Alley's local gym was precious.

Sacred.

The location was part of an attempt at gentrification some time ago; now generally referred to as Wayward's gym, it has existed for longer than Jason has been alive and will most likely continue running long after his death.

At first glance, it was clear that it was the cheap kind.

From smell alone, one ought to think it should've closed decades ago. The air was dusty and heavy, with the constant floor-shaking base from the continuous, awful pop-radio hits playing overhead. The squeaking of sports shoes walking back and forth over mats and rubber flooring from the five or so other residents who, too, trained at such late times.

There was comfort in routine, even when that routine required wiping sweat stains off training equipment with a spray of rubbing alcohol and thin, rough gym-provided paper towels. A routine that required simple waiting for someone to finish their set before taking over a machine, and the quiet nods when they finished. On rarer occasions, someone asks him to spot their form.

It was all so ordained and quiet; Jason barely spoke at all in his time in the gym.

The night's event faded from the corner of his eyes, the ringing in his ears subsided, and his head stopped aching. For the first time in hours, Jason could breathe.

But nobody ever spotted him.

Despite his persistent presence in this public area, despite knowing the faces of every night owl training at this hour, despite never showing displaced aggression — never fucking ever — nobody offered.

Nobody came with the intention of helping or showing camaraderie, as if he were not worth the risk of approaching. Jason had not even noticed this until this rando offered out of nowhere.

Perhaps he was scary. Intimidating. Possibly emanating an aura that warranted no help.

Yes, that had to be the reason. After all, Jason was self-aware enough to understand that he looked like the sort of guy he'd avoid when he was a kid. The kind of guy that, just by the way they walked, one could tell carried a gun wherever they went. The tall sort, who towered over children, women, and most men, with scars across his face and carved over his arms. A grave expression with a built-in scowl, combined with an air of exhaustion only achieved through endless hours of labour.

He was unapproachable, Jason understood that. No part of him invited conversation or companionship.

He understood, he really did. Yet no part of him was used to training alone quite yet. Not after Robin. Not after the League.

As Robin, Jason hadn't been allowed to train alone. Bruce was always there, observing, correcting his form, throwing a critical eye at any mistake. There would never be a training session in which he did not correct Jason's form, offering adjustments and tips, and always, always using that aggravating monotone voice that separated Bruce the mentor from Bruce the dad, as Jason understood it back then.

Bruce could go on tangents back then, explaining how poor form and improper technique could lead to injury, and injury led to Robin being taken away until Jason recovered.

Jason supposed he appreciated that lesson. Tecnique really did amount to everything in the end. For never would he stand on the same pedestal as the prodigal bats; Nightwing, with his acrobatic skills from long before Bruce, or Batgirl with that creepy ability to read and predict body language.

Nah, Jason had no gift, no sole talent. He knew that, he didn't mind that. Because he had passion, a drive to survive.

Since always. Since before Bruce, there has been no single ability to rely on but his own resourcefulness and drive. It had been his own damn dedication and painstaking training that earned him mastery over the fundamentals, over the language of combat, over marksmanship and swordsmanship, and everything in between.

He may not be a prodigy, but he had the technique etched into his bones to the point that, even if his mind ever gave way, his body would still be standing.

"I can spot you," the same, somewhat soft voice repeated, audibly shifting in place. Jason still didn't turn to look at the guy, a creeping ball of annoyance crawling up his throat.

"I don't need it," Jason waved off, "I know what I'm doing."

"Your form is bad."

Instantly, Jason turned around, the headphones flying off of him as he stood to regard the stranger.

It wasn't really a stranger. Not with that red hoodie, sunglasses, and broad fucking shoulders.

"Not bad," the guy opted to correct, not looking intimidated at all, "but you aren't compensating for the strain on your shoulder." The pothole fixer raised his hands, as if saying that he's coming in peace. "My friend was a boxer. I'd know."

'Motherfucker you should be a boxer,' Jason thought with a huff, throwing his towel across his neck, where the headphones had been. "And what? You a trainer?"

"Just know what I'm doing," the big guy shrugged.

The bafflement of the whole situation must have lowered his guard, because Jason could not explain to himself how it was that he ended up agreeing to the whole being spotted thing.

Part of him wanted to prove the guy wrong, to show that there was no bad form, no need to be seen, acknowledged.

Jason failed at that.

Because his time at the gym was insightful. Fulfilling. The fucker spotted him and gave actual good advice. Not that Jason ended up needing him to intervene or assist with a lift, yet the second opinion — the company of someone else willingly spending time without demanding anything back — had Jason forgetting to keep track of time.

They were barely even talking, just an instruction or two, and it was as if Jason had been transported back in time, back to a cave that felt like a second home. 

Jason lowered the EZ bar towards his head while lying flat on the bench, about to finish the third set of skull crushers. As an isolation exercise, it targeted only one joint, helping alleviate stress on the shoulder ligaments and rotator cuff tendons.

The guy had gone off on a tangential murmur about how beneficial it was for fixing imbalances in the triceps, rehabilitating from injury, or whatever else.

He stood behind Jason, hands always 6 inches below the bar in case of anything. Now that he thought about it, Jason still did not know the guy's name, nor the guy his.

"So," he grunted as he sat up, pushing the fringe off his forehead, "what's your name? I don't think I caught it."

"I didn't throw it," the guy responded, taking a few steps back. "It's Bruce."

Huh.

"Were your parents trynna manifest you a rich future? With a name like that," he chuckled. For every twenty kids, five were named Bruce. A popular name these days, given its association.

Bruce hummed, clearly unsure what to do with his hands now. Somehow, looking at it, it felt terribly familiar, like Jason had watched him do the same gesture a hundred times before.

"It's a common name," Bruce spoke, his tone saying nothing at all, "but I guess you mean the Wayne guy? The Enterprises?"

There was something about the way he spoke, the way he said it, that did not sound Gothamite at all.

A sense of unease washed over Jason, and for a moment, he stilled.

Bruce's Bowery accent was perfect. Perfect. He spoke like any born-and-raised Crime Alley street rat, yet Jason's instincts kept telling him to pull out the handgun tucked in the thigh holster beneath his gym shorts. The distance between them was unfavorable, so he readied his stance just in case.

That unease disappeared just as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by a coiling twist of his guts. Fuck. Being caught off guard or tricked was a sure way to fucking piss Jason off. He had never wanted his gym time to coagulate with his work.

Still, he was determined to mask all this, more than sure he kept his face carefully blank. Bruce seemed to sense it, his muscles tensing almost imperceptibly.

"Wayne Enterprises." Bruce continued, acting like nothing had happened, like he wasn't following the trajectory of Jason's hand, " for all its faults, only a city like Gotham could host such a thing. The Wayne Foundation and donations, and the- the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic. The general care towards the city. It's all good. Very. Maybe... I just wish something like that existed when I was younger. So I'm not sure how to feel about it." 

As he spoke, Bruce kept fiddling with his hands, looking so unsure in his own skin. Then the big guy took off those sunglasses, wiping them clean with the fabric of his hoodie. And although the cap remained, Jason was suddenly struck by how young this Bruce looked.

"But I can tell you this," Bruce resumed, putting the sunglasses back, "my parents are blue-collared. They did not name me after a Crest Hill millionaire."

Billionaire, Jason corrected in his head. "Yeah," Jason breathed out, feeling out of sorts, "Yeah, I suppose so. But one would think that such 'care' and charity money would go towards those potholes. Then we wouldn't have vigilantes going around fixing 'em." The look Jason gave was not subtle.

Bruce went red, "You saw that?" He removed his cap just to pass a hand across an overgrown buzzcut before putting it back, "told that fool I wasn't a red hood, but he insisted like he thought I was shy."

"Ain't nothing wrong with pretending to be the Hood," Jason said, because he found it funny. He walked up to Big B, patting the guy in the back, who somehow looked so damn awkward despite his size. "You look the part anyway."

Bruce gave the tiniest of laughs, more a breath than anything. Jason knew a laugh when he heard one. "What was your name again?" Bruce changed topic.

Jason thought about it. What name to give? It felt like a bad idea, but that had never stopped him before.

"Not was, is. My name is Jason." He answered.

Red Hood spent the following night chasing rumors — any lead on Wayward's gym's newest member.

And once he looked, once he took notice, Jason realized what he was actually dealing with. It took two nights of investigative work.

To evade the ever-watchful eye of the other Gotham vigilantes, Red Hood gathered information in ways that left no data or paper trails. It meant no assistance from Oracle, or access to the general batcave and its boatload of organized everything. Nuh-uh, none of that.

Red Hood turned to the streets, relying on the whispers he'd previously ignored and the word of mouth from any local willing to speak. Just your average age-old tactics of persuasion; smooth wording, a threat here or two, showcasing his beautiful customized Kimber 1911s up close and personal to those less inclined to yap.

Jason kept his findings in analogical reports, and when dawn fell, he went to the gym and trained with Bruce. Jason did not learn much during those hours, although in their second meeting, he convinced the big guy to join him for a batburger.

Bruce's reaction had been one of bafflement. "Batburger?" he repeated, hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

"With some jokerized fries." Jason indulged with a grin.

The fries sparked no reaction, just a slow blink.

Bruce didn't end up eating the fries. Too much sodium or something. He did eat two batburgers though, only ordering after staring at the menu with a really intense expression. Jason was glad the guy ditched those sunglasses. It made his job easier now that he could look at Bruce properly.

Yeah he looked familiar alright.

Even though the babyface threw Jason off-kilter, the similarities were striking — the very same shade of blue. Gym Bruce shared the same eyes as Bruce Wayne.

The answer lay on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach but so close.

Big ol' Brucie boy was a walking contradiction. A stranger yet familiar. A Gothamite yet not. At ease, yet always looking behind his shoulder. Open body language, yet covered from head to toe.

Red Hood later followed Bruce's tracks that night, but Bruce moved as if he knew he was being followed.

Moreover, he did not even do anything of note; he went to volunteer at a soup kitchen, helped a bunch of kids get their ball back after they kicked it up a tree, sneaked into the public library, and stayed there the rest of the night.

By day two, the duality of this new and sudden routine had settled.

There was Jason Todd, dedicated gym-goer, and the Red Hood, investigative vigilante. The key to solving who this Bruce is could only be found through clues from both identities.

It all converged after they said goodbye. Jason took his motorcycle and sped down to Yew Lane, a street only a stone's throw away from the Monarch Theater. If his sources all added up, then the owner of the apartment complex there had some very interesting things to share.

The landlord, a pudgy man with a nervous disposition, had been brave enough not to piss his pants when the Red Hood cornered him in his own home office for a simple questionnaire.

'A massive, scary fucking guy,' the landlord slurred, screeching likr a pig when shoved by Red Hood against the wall with one hand. With his back pressed against the rotting wall, he must have felt inclined to continue describing the apartment complex's newcomer: an ill-fitted hoodie, sunglasses, a cap pulled low and over his face, yada yada. It was nothing Red Hood did not already know.

With a robotic huff, Red Hood tilted his head, leaning to the side so that the glint of his handgun reflected on the man's wide, piggy eyes.

Red Hood hadn't killed in a while, nor used any bullets that were not plastic pellets, but the man did not need to know that, surely.

"Don't waste my time, just give me the good details and we'll both walk unharmed outta here, yeah?" he prompted, voice deceptively calm.

As predicted, the landlord spilled more information than his belly did out of his pants.

Red Hood left through a window, thoroughly satisfied, only having needed to shoot the idiot once on the knee.

Standing just out of reach of any light awaited Bruce.

"Did you get what you were looking for?" He asked, eyeing Red Hood like he ruined his nightly plans, which he probably did. He didn't sound too happy either.

Immediately, a broad grin lit up Red Hood's face (all hidden, of course, by the metallic helmet and voice modifier), before he sauntered closer, a lightness in his steps like he had just struck gold, "You know what? Yes, I did. Not that your landlord fuck said anything of note. It is you, here, that sort of solved this whole fucking scramble."

Red Hood continued, "I was searching in the wrong places, you see. You have no legal papers whatsoever. No paper trail, nothing online either. No record of you ever arriving or leaving Gotham. Hell, you even chose the perfect, spineless coward of a landlord that lets you stay at one of the apartments free of charge, as long as you don't spill to the cops 'bout that little dog ring of his! Nobody in East End knows who you are except for the fact you arrived a little over a week ago, doing nothing but helping helpless folk and readin' at the library. But it isn't just reading you're doing, is it?"

Jason walked closer, not caring about the way Bruce's fists were clenching and unclenching. "You're going through them archives. The boring paper records stacked in dusty piles that nobody fucking cares about anymore, so you didn't even fully bother hiding your traces. Hell, were it not for the fact that I did my own amount of snooping there once, I wouldn't even have thought about looking there — kudos to you! Anyways, there you were, scurrying for any and all information about my dear old Gotham. About her history, her layout, her... heroes. About the Waynes."

Red Hood whistled, a sharp sound due to the voice modulator, "a gruesome history, that family, although all that money must have soothed the sting. But nonetheless, I get why you were looking into 'em, being a pillar of Gotham and all that. Because you don't know who the Waynes are, do you? Not these ones? Ha! Look at you, you don't have a clue in the fucking world, do you? You're comically lost. Woke up with a foot in the wrong universe?"

It was Bruce who swung first.

Red Hood expected it to be messy, unrefined, and full of emotion, to the point that dodging would feel like a breeze.

It wasn't a breeze. It wasn't just a rage-filled, straight right punch. Instead of choosing raw power over technical finesse — utilizing that thicker, stronger physique to favor slower, harder punches like hooks and uppercuts over fast combinations — Bruce was fast. Steady.

A meticulous, well-aimed punch flew towards the jugular, causing Red Hood to engage on the back foot.

"You-! I'm not here to fight!" Red Hood growled, opting to stop retreating and instead deflecting the continuous attacks. "Look," he dodged a punch, "look. Fuck-" he dodged another. "Ok, fucker. Just-" and another, "I know what it's like. To-" and another, "to wake up and everything's wrong. That's why I wanna fucking-" this was getting old, "fuck! I want to help for once! Is that such a big fucking deal!?" This time, he went on the offense, crouching down to feint an uppercut jab before aiming a hook into Bruce's stomach.

It landed, but it must not have knocked out enough air, because Bruce caught his outstretched arm under his bicep and threw Jason against the wall.

"You had plenty of opportunity to ask me directly," Bruce growled, approaching yet again, "Jason."

And Red Hood was not surprised that this Bruce knew, although it still peeved him. "And start a fight at Wayward? Y'know how harsh the fucking owner is 'bout that sort of shit? I ain't risking that."

"You had a lot of chances," Bruce repeated, cornering, advancing, but not striking. He sort of paced around, furious eyes on Jason.

The sunglasses must have fallen off at some point, and the same goes for that cap. "I can't read you at all. I can't tell who exactly you are or what it is that you know or want. But you will tell me."

"Tell me your last name first. Think we forgot that part of the introduction."

Bruce squinted, huffing with clear impatience.

"It's Wayne."

"So. Bruce Wayne," Red Hood confirmed, "this isn't your Gotham."

"No shit." Bruce replied. The open admittance cleared some sort of tension from his shoulders. "Then you must be Jason Todd. The timeline tracks, I suppose. You are this Bruce Wayne's... un... dead son, then?"

"Eh. Sorta," he paused, "it's a whole story."

Bruce blinked at him like he didn't particularly care.

Damn, he really was Bruce.

"I need to go back." Bruce deadpanned. "And whoever you are, dead kid walking or what else, you're connected to this Gotham's Batman, who has this... League? That could- could bring me back home."

"Those are a lot of assumptions, one step at a time, Dorothy."

"So, how did it go?" Jason lounged on the couch, watching the TV but not really paying attention. He had arrived back in Crime Alley shortly after Oracle's request, going straight to the apartment he and Bruce had planned to meet at after it was all said and done. He still had the jacket on, his helmet resting on his lap. "Not too much trouble, I'm guessing? Although you for sure made a goddamn mess."

"Shut up." The big, visibly miserable brute grunted as he slammed the door behind him. He ran a hand through his overgrown buzzcut, a force of habit Jason found amusing to see each time.

The alternative version of Bruce that Jason had gotten to know somewhat over the last week could not keep still. He was back to civilian wear, the batsuit back to being hidden somewhere. Damn, Jason wanted a good look at it, and asking directly would get him nowhere. Everything that had to do with Bruce, no matter which version, was like pulling teeth.

Jason glanced once, then twice for good measure, before continuing to pretend to watch the game. It was a replay from yesterday's, and as usual, the Gotham Knights were losing. Meanwhile, Big B kept rummaging around, walking in one room, then another, and so on.

Letting the guy brood, Jason pulled out his phone, yet again checking to see if more footage of the whole event had spread somewhere. Plenty of Gothamites had filmed from their balconies how Big B had swept through waves of goons like cutting through soft butter.

There were no videos of good quality, unfortunately, although a tweet had gone viral of some blurry photo with the caption 'SINCE WHEN DID BATMAN USE A FUCKING AXE,' so at least there was that.

The news had reported no deaths yet, just dozens of injured.

Jason had a basic understanding of Big B's physical proficiency by now, but his tool and skill set were an unknown factor. Moreover, he did not know where the guy was holding the rest of his stuff, and he'd been looking. But thinking it over in circles would get him nowhere, so he glanced towards Big B yet again (he really needed to find a better nickname for the guy; He can't just call him Bruce either), only to see him packing up whatever little he had. In one of Jason's duffel bags, nonetheless.

"They ain't looking for you. Not in this area." Jason said, just as the Boston Colonials scored another goal.

"And why is that?" Big B grunted again, taking more of Jason's stuff, like a hat and sunglasses (Jason still didn't know what was up with that. All that covering.) Well, maybe none of it was actually Jason's; rather, everything in this apartment originally belonged to this idiot thug who overstepped while Jason was on patrol two nights ago. Now that unlucky bastard was recovering from a gunshot in the ass while Jason was watching his TV and maxing out that heat bill. But finders keepers, and Big B was taking said stuff that now belonged to Jason.

Just for courtesy, Jason properly turned his head, checking what the other was packing and rolling his eyes at what the man considered 'essentials' — stacks of money they had 'confiscated' after shutting down that dog ring in Bruce's previous complex, and the fake ID he'd gotten thanks to said money.

"Cause if you already here, then they let you go. Straight into my turf," Jason watched him take some deodorant and a toothbrush as well. "They believe Red Hood is gonna tear you a new one, which I could-"

"Yeah yeah. Fucking try."

It was those sorts of comments that had Jason leaning back into the couch, a grin spreading across his face as he patted the red helmet on his lap like it was a dog. The contrast was always so striking: despite having the same name, the same eyes, the same objectives, and the same mission, this Bruce Wayne actually got a sense of humor.

"The... Penguin," Big B said that name with open disdain, like it weighed heavily on his tongue. He then dropped the now-filled duffel bag by the door before going to the kitchen next and snatching a soda can from the fridge. "He was doing as you said. Your intel was right, but I guess you just forgot to give me his actual name."

"His name was definitely written down, punk, you just didn't read it," Jason grunted, pointing loosely at the opened but unused soda can in Bruce's hand. Bruce passed it. "You fought him, too? In your universe?"

"No."

Jason took a sip before passing the can back, "But you knew him? If I knew that, I wouldn't have—"

"So what?" Big B snapped, "His name don't matter. That wasn't— How can I trust your word anymore, if you also said that you aren't on good terms with the other vigilantes? Yet they trust you to deal with me," Big Boy Bruce continued, dropping the duffel bag by the door before going to the kitchen next and snatching a soda can from the fridge. "Blue spandex guy was pissed."

Oracle was still waiting for an update. She could wait just a little bit more. It was not like they knew their exact location, as he had removed the tracker from his helmet ages ago.

"Course he was," Jason rolled his eyes, "told you that Bats ain't just a taken title, but gatekept into high hell. Using that symbol was your offense number one, and using it without following them rules is offense number two. Killing would be three, but am guessing you one of those too."

"Three reasons they shouldn't like you, then," Bruce reiterated, hand on the back of the couch and looming over Jason, his voice louder than its usual volume. In the back of his mind, Jason thinks about how his Bruce would only yell with the cowl on. Jason couldn't... couldn't recollect the old man's bare face yelling, or in a furious frown. But it must have happened, surely. He wasn't sure why he was suddenly thinking about that. "Yet they didn't follow me here. Spandex let me go on purpose. You must mean something to them, then."

Instinctively, Jason's index finger twitched. A bad, nervous habit he had not tamed yet. "Careful what you're asking for, boy." He warned, standing up as well.

Now that they were face to face, Bruce only gave him a pointed look, the height still to his advantage. Shit. This is what Jason gets for playing nice for a few days: a novice who thinks he is allowed to make demands. It made Jason let out an ugly laugh, "You think I set you up?" He asked, not waiting for an answer before laughing again. "Boy,"

The reaction was immediate, as agitation previously unseen sparked in Bruce's eyes. Seeing Penguin —  that stubby, greedy bird — in the flesh and connecting it back to whatever version Big B was familiar with must have ruffled him. It was the first time Jason had seen the guy lose his composure, even if momentarily.

"When I gave you that folder and told you to go stop this crime lord who'd gotten in way over his head, making it a public fucking execution was your first thought?" Jason pressed to try to rattle some honesty out of Bruce. "Did I tell you to do that? To do your vengeance bullshit? To go be-? Right, cause that's where the problem lies. You think you're Batman! Ha! Actually, in here, in this city, you're not."

Jason was having fun with this, so he continued, "And you're a smart guy, we both know that. That, and that your little stunt would pull attention, so I'm curious. Why did you do it? Beat those men up like that. Was it to release a bit of steam? Must have felt good, to not just break punching bags every night but a few skulls too."

Well, the provocations would have been more fun if Jason got a reaction, but Big B just stood there. His face was, again, withdrawing. It made him look younger, just on the verge of uncertainty. Not towards himself and his own decisions — god forbid Bruce Wayne ever thought twice about his own actions — but towards Jason. Towards Jason, and if trusting him had been a poor choice. Worse than the anger was the indignation Jason felt.

Why, no matter who Bruce was — younger, older, richer, poorer — would he always look at Jason with that same fucking expression? Equally, annoyingly stubborn, too, because Big B kept repeating the same goddamn question.

"Nobody followed me back here. And there are several of them, using some... audio system communicator to converse." Bruce glanced down at the red helmet, his frown steeling further, "You're in their communication line too," he guessed correctly, "so why not tell them about me? Red Hood's public history with them is fight after fight, so why do they trust him, you, to deal with me?"

"This ain't about me," Jason answered, plain and simple. "Batman and his menagerie can think and try whatever, and that's our business. If you don't get how we operate, it's because, newflash, you are a fucker from a parallel dimension who thinks your methods work on a city with a decades-long running network."

"You don't give a shit about my methods," Bruce guessed correctly. Again. Was Jason easy to read tonight? It made him want to pull his hair out.

"Fucking right I don't," He simply rolled his eyes, "Treating walking, living scumbags as punching bags and not thinking about it further is sort of what I do. Call it threatrics, call it cruel, I call it a warning for whoever's watching. What do you call it?"

A call for attention. A childish rebellion against his father. Jason had heard a thousand and one names for his methods since donning the Red Hood. But that is because there really was a line. A line is crossed when you take lives and do it consistently. Not because he wants to or because it's satisfying (just partly), but because it's necessary.

There was a necessity in his killings, Jason told himself. To prove his worth, to make a point. And maybe, just maybe, because maybe he'd at least mean something to Bruce again, beyond being the dead child and an empty grave.

Nowadays, if Jason wanted to wear the bat insignia — if he wanted even to be able to stay in Gotham at all — he could not kill. Jason understood it, despite his reluctance.

"Theatrics is a good way to put it, but it's not just that. Or just a warning. Tonight, I was careful, initially," Bruce answered, finally. Again, the dissimilarities struck Jason, the softness in this younger, inexperienced Bruce. It made his previous words feel all the more rotten. "But they pulled out their guns and started shooting even when there were people in the streets."

Jason saw no rage. Acceptance was the closest word Jason could use to describe the look on Big B's face. Grief, maybe, which was strange.

Sincerity?

No. Jason never wanted to associate that word with Bruce.

Instead, Jason hummed so as to not sigh, snatching the can back and drinking half of it in one go before passing it back. Big B took a sip.

"But why be so brutal? To make a point?"

When Big B looked back at Jason, the look in his eyes was firmer, yet he was also looking at Jason like his question was moronic.

"I'm fucking Batman. Everything I do is to make a point."

It was as easy as that. It was once as easy as that, Jason reasoned, for his own Bruce. But it was such a— It was just such a... childish notion? It pictured a nasty image in Jason's head. That of a grieving child, coping in an unreachable dream that he could one day, maybe, prevent the tragedy that befell him from happening to others. But that could not be it. Batman was this- A myth more than- He's fucking Batma—

When Jason failed to answer, Bruce took it upon himself to turn around, back to the duffel bag. "I've wasted enough time here." He sighed, his reaction a clenched jaw. "Tell your lot, your family, whatever you need to. That you dealt with me or something. I just-"

With his back turned, Jason dully noted a nasty surgical scar across his nape, like a pulsing, overfilled vein. But he pushed that thought aside, instead marching forward to Bruce to quickly seize the soda can.

"Hey-"
"—I didn't make you stay in East End to waste your time," Jason interrupted, tone sharp. Bruce squinted and tried to take the can back, but Jason backed away, keeping it at arm's length.

"For a week, I've done nothing but stay idle," Bruce raised his voice, "a week. What does information gathering fucking matter for if it won't bring me home?"

It made Jason roll his eyes.

"You're an anomaly here, Bruce. Perhaps you're a bit early in your career to know this, but multidimensional bullshit has only ever brought problems. Any chance you were some evil, fucked version of Bats- any sign, and I'd have killed you, you get that? And look, I think you're good. A good guy," Jason continued, as honest as he'd ever been with the guy, "but you need to lay low now. I can advocate for you now, although fucking trust me that my word won't fucking help you much if at all."

"Staying here is driving me crazy," Bruce hissed, thumb between his brows like he was trying to rub away a migraine. He'd given up trying to get the soda can back, but at least he was not reaching for the door anymore. "And I don't care if your circus lot likes me. I just need to go home."

"You got big shit to deal with back home?" Jason asked. The mention of his Gotham tended to mellow Bruce out if Jason picked his words right.

"Just the aftermath." Bruce answered, for a moment, visibly miserable. 

"I can plan a meeting for you, alright." Jason hummed, putting on the Red Hood helmet as he pressed the button to reconnect to the comm line. "But the reasons I like you are the same for why they're going to hate you."