Archive of Our Own

Jason didn’t look in the mirror very often, at least not since emerging from the Lazarus Pit nearly a foot taller and with enough muscles to compete with Bruce. He avoided looking whenever he stood in front of his sink, eyes downcast and heart pounding. The only reason he hadn’t smashed his mirror was that it was useful for sewing up his own wounds whenever some asshole got a lucky shot in. But sometimes, it was unavoidable. Sometimes, Jason’s morbid curiosity overtook him, and he looked at himself. 

It would be inaccurate to say that a stranger looked back at him. Whilst he certainly looked different to the poor 15-year-old who had been brutally beaten to death, he was still recognisable. The same freckles and moles. The same slightly crooked nose. The same dark brows. But there were differences. His curls now held a streak of white, obvious against the raven background of his hair. He’d lost the baby fat in his cheeks. There was a faint ‘J’ carved into his face, one of the only scars the Pit hadn’t healed, for reasons Jason didn’t entirely understand. His eyes, perhaps, were the most different. They were haunted. You didn’t die and come back under mysterious circumstances without leaving a stain on your soul, and the eyes are the window to the soul, after all. They’d also changed colour, or more accurately, his left eye had changed colour. From dull blue, bordering on grey, to an emerald green that he suspected would gain the same glowing hue as Ra’s al Ghul’s if he continued to take dips in the cursed pits that had restored his mind. 

But the main reason Jason couldn’t stand looking in the mirror was that he saw Bruce in himself. His father, a title that he desperately wanted to strip from the man who had failed to avenge him, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, even in the privacy of his own mind. When he looked in the mirror, when he looked at his furrowed brows, sharp jawline, haunted eyes, and broad shoulders, he saw a distorted reflection of the man he had wanted to be when he was younger. How ironic that he got his wish in one way, just not the way he’d planned.

Balling his fists and gritting his teeth, Jason turned away from the dirty mirror. He refused to allow Bruce to take over his every waking thought. He’d get what was coming to him, Jason would make sure of that. 

Jason returned to Gotham on his 18th birthday. He returned and saw that nothing had changed. He hadn’t expected anything else. 

Muggings were still all too frequent (nevermind that ordinary civilians were more likely to step in instead of just walking by), murder was still higher per capita than anywhere else on the East Coast (if you ignored the fact that murders had more than halved since Batman had descended onto the streets), and gang crime was still a parasite snaking through the neighbourhood that Jason grew up in. 

Nothing had changed. Except for the things that had. 

Though he was reluctant to admit it, there were things around him that showed that at least some small amount of progress had been made in his absence. There was a new food bank on the corner where he used to scout out people to pickpocket. The library he had gone to whilst he was homeless had been refurbished. Progress had been made in Gotham, but not enough.

At the back of his mind, Jason thought he might be being unreasonable. He’d been gone for just over two years, not that long in the grand scheme of things, and change took time. But his anger was louder. His disdain at the knowledge that Batman allowed Joker to live made every small change seem meaningless. What did it matter if children now had better access to learning resources if they were at risk of being thoughtlessly slaughtered for the joy of a maniacal pretend clown? At least villains like Mr Freeze and Poison Ivy had manifestos that made sense; Joker was a senseless agent of chaos whose only goal was to rile up Batman. If the death of his son wasn’t enough to spur Batman into action, what would be?

With the hood of his red jacket obscuring his face, Jason slipped in and out of the shadows of Gotham. He retraced his childhood through Park Row, glaring at any would-be mugger who thought to test their luck. 

He skulked past the ice-cream shop Dick had taken him to on more than one occasion. He desperately suppressed the memories of Dick’s laughter and the warm feeling of his hugs. If Dick had loved him, he would have tried to convince Bruce to kill the Joker; he wouldn’t have allowed him to be replaced. He stood outside the museum where he’d attended his first charity gala. It had been some sort of young artists' exhibition, and Jason had been amazed at the skill that those his age possessed. 

Every location Jason’s legs unconsciously (or consciously, Jason didn’t want to think about it) took him, inspired more and more memories. Some of them were happy ones. Memories of his mother taking him to the cinema not long before she died. Some of them were sad. Memories of shivering in the rain, stomach growling voraciously because he hadn’t eaten in 3 days. The worst places were those that inspired memories of Bruce. 

There was a tumultuous storm of emotions that swirled through Jason at every reminder of Bruce that he stumbled across. Every memory was mired in a haze of conflicting longing and anger. Rejection and desperation for acceptance. He wanted to cast Bruce aside, but he couldn’t. Bruce may no longer long for his son, but Jason desperately wanted his dad. But what was the point in trying to return? He knew what he’d face if he returned. Derision. Disgust. Explicit ousting. He couldn’t handle it. It was so much easier (and yet simultaneously harder) to stick to his plan. 

As the sun dipped low on the horizon and the summer air became cold, Jason turned away from the last stop in his masochistic tour of Gotham. It had been a risk to venture to close, but he had to return, if only to the outskirts.

Jason turned his back on Wayne Manor, heart stony and resolve set. 

It was far too easy to start a gang in the poverty-riddled underbelly of Gotham. People were desperate for money, and if that meant they had to work for an unknown player, they were willing to take that risk. All it took was covertly spreading the word amongst the street stalking criminals, and suddenly, Jason had a group of roughly 20 people ready to listen to him. He knew that if he were in any other city, it wouldn’t have been as easy. He knew that compared to other gangs, his crew was pitiful at best. He knew that his gang was not yet loyal to him, but he didn’t care. He only needed them so that he could create some buzz, so that he could steadily announce his presence to the crime lords and vigilantes of Gotham. 

Before he had left for Gotham, Talia had stopped him and handed him the helmet, which he now wore. She’d insisted that Bruce would recognise him if he just wore a domino mask, and that if he really wanted to stir up the kind of drama he was aiming for, he needed to be completely anonymous. Jason couldn’t say that he wasn’t grateful for her gift. It was fairly high-tech and contained a voice modulator that worked miracles when it came time to intimidate his foes. An additional benefit, he reluctantly supposed, was that both the full coverage of the helmet and the voice modulator hid his age. Very few Gotham thugs would take an 18-year-old seriously without proof that he wasn’t worth messing with, and Jason couldn’t afford to show off what he could really do, not without gaining the attention of the Bats prematurely. Everything had to go according to plan; it was vital. 

“Alright, listen up.” Jason didn’t raise his voice more than he felt he had to to gain the attention of the criminals in front of him. Through the modulator, his voice was deep and gritty. It was hard to tell whether it had been mechanically changed or whether he just sounded like that.

Every head in the dingy warehouse swivelled to look at him. Gristled faces and faces still bright with the lights of youth. Men and women. Muscles and scrawny. The hodgepodge group before him was far from an ideal gang, but that was fine. He would work with what he had.

“I ain’t gonna beat around the bush,” Jason said, “This ain’t no ordinary gang. I’m not trying to distribute drugs, that shit got my ma killed. Think of me as Robin Hood, and you lot as my Merry Men, but more forceful. Do you understand?”

Amongst the crowd, there were a couple of heads nodding, although they were vastly outweighed by the baffled looks. Jason knew he shouldn’t have tried to make a literary/mythological reference. 

“It’s like this,” Jason huffed, “We don’t deal in drugs. If we see drugs, we take them off the street and burn them. We are targeting the weapons trade, people. In the crates behind you are weapons that I have procured for our use. What is our goal? We’re taking down Black Mask’s gang. We’re going to steal his weapons. We’re going to take his drugs. We’re going to start a gang war with him so that I can get his attention. Capiche?”

A hesitant hand raised from the middle of the group. It belonged to a man who was probably 10 years older than Jason. His eyes were haunted with tales of the alley, and his face was disbelieving. 

“This sounds like it's a personal vendetta.” The man said, “And a gang war? That gets people killed. That gets innocent people killed. I don’t know if you’re from around here, but this place don’t need no more gang wars.”

Murmurs of assent echoed around the group. Underneath his helmet, Jason couldn’t help but smile. Before him, he had evidence that the people of Gotham did actually care for the place where they lived. For the people they shared the godforsaken, cursed city with. 

“You are correct.” Jason nodded, “But this won’t be like any gang war you’ve seen before. Every hit will be targeted. There won’t be shootouts in the streets. I wanna make it clear, if I find out that you’ve killed an innocent, you will be killed. I will find out, and you will be dead before you know it. It’s a simple rule to follow.”

Jason ploughed through the unsettled silence; he knew what he had to say next would incentify most, if not all, of the people in front of him.

“As a group, your primary purpose is to take the things I tell you to, whilst I draw the heavy fire. I ain’t planning on putting you lot in much danger. I’m the canon fodder and the general. Every week, you will be paid $1,250. You will be paid up until October 31st, when this gang will disband, whether I’ve taken down Black Mask or not. That is $13,750 for each of you.”

A shocked silence echoed around the open space. Whilst it wasn’t enough to live off of for a year, it was certainly more money than any of the people in front of him would expect to see in eleven weeks, even if they were working for another crime boss. Grunt and henchmen just didn’t see that type of money. 

“And all you want is for us to move weapons to and from different places?” A woman asked, disbelief rife in her voice. 

“Well, that and a bit of distraction here and there. The Bats will most likely get involved, and if I need them to direct their attention somewhere else, I might ask one of you to set off an explosion or cause a disturbance. That’s all.”

The shocked looks from before had yet to abate. Whilst Batman and his various allies caused fear in the criminal elements of Gotham, they weren’t known to kill. The worst a henchman could expect from Batman was a broken arm and a stint in Blackgate that would probably end early due to overcrowding. 

“How do we know you won’t stiff us?” a voice called from the back of the crowd.

It was a valid fear, Jason supposed. He’d certainly be asking the same question. Jason had wondered, when he’d started constructing his plan, how he was going to pay for everything. Talia had assuaged that concern with the revelation that they had, apparently, been paying Jason for every hit he carried out. It would have been nice to know that, but Jason didn’t hold it against her; he had other grudges that deserved his attention. 

From one of the duffel bags at his feet, Jason pulled out a wad of money. “An advanced payment. You’ll each get $1000, keep working for me, and you’ll get plenty more.”

From there, it was easy to convince the amassed group to work for him. Nearly $15,000 went a long way in Gotham, if you knew how to use it properly. Each member of the group stepped up and took the offered payment alongside the red masks he’d had made. He needed it to be clear that a new gang was on the rise and that they were targeting Black Mask. He needed it to be clear to both Mask and Batman if his plan was to unfold properly.

“What’s in the other bag, boss?” A tall man asked. 

Although they couldn’t see it, an unsettling smirk flickered over Jason’s face, “Just proof to the other gangs of Gotham that they shouldn’t mess with me.”

Jason thought that all of the gang leaders of Gotham would be a bit more suspicious about a random summons to an out-of-the-way warehouse. He’d assumed that even though they were criminals, they were the smart sort. The sort that knew to be at least a bit wary, nevertheless, they had flocked to the address he had sent, none the wiser to what was about to occur. Their idiocy was to his advantage, he supposed. 

“If it wasn’t any of us, then who the hell sent that summons? Was it Black Mask? He ain’t here.” some low level ‘crime boss’ sneered from the amassed bodies on the floor below.

From the mezzanine, hidden in the shadows of stacked crates, Jason had also taken notice of Black Mask’s absence. Presumably, he’d been suspicious in a way nobody else was. He’d probably intended to send his second in command, not that he’d be able to find him. 

“Well, I ain’t stickin’ ‘round just ‘cause some punk thought it’d be fun to play a prank. I’m out of here.” Jason wasn’t sure which gruff-voiced man had made that declaration, but he took it as his sign to announce his presence. 

“Hold on fellas.” Jason’s voice washed over the discontent murmurings in the room. “I wouldn’t leave just yet, if I were you.”

Leaning against the railing, Jason allowed his gaze to sweep over the group. Already, some of them had pulled out their guns, and although they hadn’t aimed at him yet, he knew it was only a matter of minutes before their impatience led to gunfire. 

“And who the fuck are you to tell us what we can and can’t do?”

“Yeah. Are you the asshole who called us here for no reason?”

Similar complaints and curses washed over Jason; he didn’t pay them much attention. They weren’t a threat to him. 

“You can call me Red Hood.” Jason finally said, interrupting the deluge of shouts, “And I called you here to warn you now that it wouldn’t be smart to mess with me.”

As he expected, his declaration was met with an array of laughter. They didn’t take him seriously, and why should they? From their perspective, Jason had called them all to a random warehouse and issued a command to some of the most dangerous people in the city (aside from the various villains that Batman fought). If he had been anyone else, he would have been signing his own death certificate. But Jason wasn’t anyone else. He had been trained by the League of Assassins, and he’d observed the dynamics of the streets since he was old enough to form a coherent thought. 

“Are you trying to threaten us?” One of the gang leaders said, a scoff evident in his voice.

“I’m not trying.” Jason said back calmly, though his voice modulator warped his tone and voice into a more threatening cadence, “I’m doing.”

Quite suddenly, Jason tossed the duffel bag at his feet down into the crowd. It landed with a thud on the table. For a moment, there was absolute silence, until one person was brave enough to inch forward and unzip the bag. The reaction was immediate, every person around the table recoiled in disgust and turned their disbelieving gazes on Jason. 

“In that bag is the head of every single one of your second-in-commands. You should really get better at tracking what’s going on in all of your organisations. I took them out yesterday. It was real easy too, they didn’t stand a chance. So, as I said, I wasn’t trying to threaten you, I am threatening you. Every last one of you. If you try to interfere in anything I do, trust that your friends and family will receive a similar treatment.” Jason threatened. 

Jason hadn’t taken joy in killing and decapitating those 10 people. It had been messy work, but he hadn’t lied when he’d said it was easy. The gangs of Gotham were sloppy, at best. Though they feared The Bat, they held no fear of someone worse than him. They hadn’t yet learned to fear Jason, but they would.

A gunshot rang through the air. 

Having anticipated the move, Jason had already moved out of the way and returned the shot. The man who’d shot at him, Hartfield, fell to the floor. Dead. 

“Anyone else want to try and take a shot at me?” Jason asked, gun held firmly in his hand. “Please, I insist. If you want to throw your lives away, who am I to stop you?” 

The following minutes were somewhat chaotic, but in the end, Jason walked out of the warehouse without a scratch on him with his duffel bag of horror clutched firmly in hand. Having to kill 5 of the gang leaders hadn’t been in Jason’s plan, but he didn’t think it would cause him many issues. With the head and second in command of 5 gangs killed, there would be a period of instability amongst the organised crime groups within the city. Instability meant less organised opposition to him as he tore down Black Mask’s group and gained the attention of Batman and his allies. Everything was going to plan.

As the dawn’s light tried its hardest to cast itself over Gotham, Jason left the bag on the steps of the GCPD with a note attached.

For Batman- RH.

It was inevitable that every paper in the city was talking about his little stunt with the bag full of heads. From respected newspapers to trashy magazines, every front page was decorated with some sort of variation of what he’d done. Jason wasn’t sure how to feel about the whole thing.

On the one hand, he was being noticed. Sure, it wasn’t being attributed to him, and he’d never want the act to be linked back to his actual name, but people were noticing something that he’d done. He wasn’t in anyone else’s shadow, he had stepped into the stagelight of Gotham’s tumultuous crime stage, and he had made himself known. He couldn’t be ignored now. When he did things, it would actually matter. He’d actually matter in a way he clearly hadn’t before, if the aftermath of his death was any indication.

On the other hand, Jason wasn’t exactly happy with how he’d earned the attention for his alter ego. The city hadn’t recognised the fact that gang-related crime had taken a sharp nosedive as a result of his actions. They hadn’t noticed that the Narrows was going through a period of lower assaults and robberies being reported. They didn’t notice any of the good things that Jason had done, only the glaringly huge bad things. And Jason knew that this would happen. Of course, a bag of heads turning up outside of the GCPD would be big news, but… Jason wasn’t sure what he wanted. He wanted attention, but the right kind of attention, the kind of attention that only one man could give him, a man who had given up on him the moment he’d done something he didn’t like. 

It all came back to Bruce. Every move that Jason had made, even though he was loath to admit it, had been a desperate step in his plan to get his father’s attention again. Every mugging he stopped, almost without thinking, was done with the lingering hope that Batman would drop down from a nearby rooftop and commend him for his actions. With every man he killed for a crime Jason deemed too inexcusable for redemption, Batman’s gravelly growl echoed in his head, arguing that there was always a way to redemption. 

Jason hated how wrapped up in Bruce he’d become since his return. His life would be infinitely easier if he could just let go and move on, if he could just accept that his father hadn’t loved him the same way Jason had loved Bruce. But Jason was still clinging to the last vestiges of family that he’d glimpsed before dying. 

As Jason walked down the street, all of these thoughts and more swirling through his head and making his heart heavier and heavier, something caught his ear.

“I’m just glad someone’s doing something about those assholes. Whoever killed all those chumps, well, I think he’s the thing that Gotham needs at the moment. Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t hating on Batman, the guy does good work, but he ain’t enough. Sometimes… Well, sometimes some people just can’t be redeemed. This guy has the right idea.” The words drifted over to Jason above the hubbub of midday Gotham traffic. The man speaking leaned casually against the wall of a closed business; his thick accent inspired comfortable feelings of home in Jason, but his words had a contradicting effect. 

The man had been speaking to, presumably, his friend, who nodded along quietly, grunting in assent to every few words. 

There it was, clear as day, the attention that Jason craved. The validation that his pursuit was in line with the wants of Gotham’s people. He’d been born in the bowels of the city, he knew her people more intimately than Bruce could imagine. He’d trekked her streets and peered into her darkest corners before most kids had started puberty. He knew what would make the city better, and yet he didn’t feel better at hearing the man’s words. Jason agreed wholeheartedly, so why did his chest tighten more at the aspersion cast upon Batman’s method? Jason didn’t want to examine his feelings, he never wanted to, but that day, especially, he was content to stuff every emotion he felt deep down. They were useless, all he needed to feel was his anger and betrayal. They would carry him through his plan. Everything else was useless. 

Over the next few days, more and more whispers about Gotham’s view on his actions trickled into Jason’s awareness. Some people commended him, praising him for doing what Batman was too scared to do. Others condemned him, whispering that they were sure they had another rogue villain on their hands. Someone who didn’t care an ounce for the city. Someone who would see the world burn as long as it got his point across. Jason didn’t like hearing that, he knew he was the villain in this story now, but it still wasn’t all that comforting to hear people compare him to the likes of Professor Pyg. The worst comparisons were between him and Joker. The first time one of his gang members reported hearing such a thing, Jason had walked away without a word, scared that even the modulator in his helmet wouldn’t help disguise the shaking in his voice. It was an inevitable comparison, and yet still one that scorched Jason to his very bone marrow. 

And yet, despite his hatred for the comparison between himself and Joker, Jason hated one thing just slightly more. He hated the people who had taken inspiration from his actions. Gotham was a city of derived copycats and confused morals, but he hadn’t expected his actions to yield a small faction of avid fanboys. He hated it with his entire being. He wasn’t supposed to be an inspiration. He’d served his time acting as Gotham’s inspiring light when he’d run around in green pixie boots. Jason was not an inspiration now, nor would he ever be again. But there was nothing he could do to stop the quiet fanatics, he had a plan to carry out, and he supposed he would just have to keep an eye out for anything that even slightly resembled copycat behaviour. 

When Jason had set foot in Gotham again, after his years away, he’d been sure that he would be able to carry out his plan without any complications; he was learning quickly that life had the habit of not going the way he wanted. 

It took longer than Jason expected for Batman to find him. Jason had anticipated Batman seeking him out and trying to apprehend him nearly as soon as he’d dropped the bag off outside of the station, but that wasn’t the case. Jason had been sure to allow a few scant CCTV cameras to catch a fuzzy image of his brown leather jacket and red helmet. 

Their first confrontation happened on a roof at the edge of Crime Alley, three nights after Jason’s grand plan had officially commenced. Jason had been looking out over the city, his mind a maelstrom of doubt, hope and conflicting emotions. Had he not been used to people appearing out of nowhere (e.g., Talia), then he might not have noticed Batman and Nightwing’s presence. As it so happened, Jason felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end just moments before the near-silent scuff of heavy boots sounded behind him, slightly to the left. 

Jason unholstered his gun, almost instinctively, as he spun around and faced his family again for the first time in years. No. Not his family. They didn’t want him anymore, and he didn’t want them either. They’d replaced him, they’d never truly loved him. And yet for all of his denial, Jason couldn’t deny that his heart did a pathetic flop at the sight of his father and brother, standing in front of him once again. If only things weren’t so different. If only he weren’t nearly a foot taller than the last time they’d seen him. If only they weren’t scowling at him like they wanted nothing but the worst for him. If only he hadn’t died. 

It was hard to look at the shadowed figures in front of him and not see the people he’d loved. It was hard to look at Nightwing and not see his older brother. If he tried hard enough, he could see Dick’s smile, he could see the way it stretched over his face as he teased Jason relentlessly. It was hard to look at Batman and not remember the night when he’d forsaken his crusade for the night, just so that he could comfort Jason whilst he was ill. That night, Bruce had promised Jason that he’d always love him. Clearly, that had been a lie. 

With more effort than Jason was comfortable with, he pushed his tumultuous feelings as far down as he could. They were useless to him now, they would only impede his mission. 

“I was expecting to see you sooner, Bat.” Jason’s voice was little more than a mechanical growl as it floated into the space between them. Their hostile stances became even more so. 

“Who are you?” Batman’s characteristic growl caused a twist in Jason’s stomach, but he ignored it. Just like he was ignoring everything else that was racing through his mind. 

“Well, I’m not just going to give away my identity,” Jason sneered, “That would defeat the purpose of the helmet, wouldn’t you agree? How’s about you call me… Red Hood.”

Jason indulged in the way Nightwing’s fist twitched, and Batman’s scowl grew. Who knew it would be so easy to rile them up?

“So you’re a Joker fanboy?” Nightwing said, voice taunt with barely suppressed anger. Anger he tried to cover up with his usual brand of annoyingly witty humour. “Figures a psycho like you would look up to that bastard.”

Jason fought to maintain his composure, to not give in to the anger trying to take control of his body. Whilst the Lazarus Fever had long since faded from his body, Jason had noticed he was much quicker to anger than he had been before his murder. Perhaps it was trauma-related, but Jason wasn’t going to interrogate his psyche to try and unravel that particular mess.

With gritted teeth, Jason replied, “Call me a Joker fanboy again, and you’ll find your brains splattered across the floor before you know what’s happening. He has taken more from me than you could ever know.”

Nightwing scarcely held back his scoff, Jason could see it in the way his shoulders hitched slightly, and his lips tilted into a deprecating sneer. Beside him, Batman had scarcely moved since the entire interaction had started. Whether he was analysing Jason’s body language to determine how much of a threat he was, or whether he was just leaving the talking to Nightwing, Jason didn’t know. What he did know was that he needed to get a reaction, a big one, from both of them before he absconded into the night. That was the only way to advance his plan. 

“What, you think only you’ve been affected by his actions?” Jason said, voice sharp.

Finally, Batman stepped forward, his movements betraying just how much of a threat he was, “Enough, Red Hood. Turn yourself in.”

“As if,” Jason scoffed, “I can’t help but notice that your little trio is missing a traffic light-themed companion. If you keep coming after me, you might find that you lose another Robin. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Though they couldn’t see it, Jason was sure that they could hear his malicious grin in his voice. Despite the clear panic on Nightwing's face (and the subtle panic in Batman’s body language), they weren’t shocked still by his threat. And Jason hadn’t expected them to be. Before either one of them could take a step towards him, he threw down a flash grenade and jumped from the building, quickly hiding himself in the shadows. 

Jason watched, satisfaction squirming in his chest, as the silhouettes of Batman and Nightwing ran in the direction they thought he’d gone. 

He didn’t want to focus on the aching loneliness and yearning that had burst forth at the sight of his brother and dad, mere feet in front of him. He didn’t want to dwell on the knowledge that they would never love him as much as he loved them. He didn't want to think about the fact that no matter what they did to him in the future, he would always cling to them in his mind, because they were the last family he had known and the last family he would ever have. Instead, Jason focused on what was important. He had completed another phase of his plan, and now he had to take the next step.  

At the thought of the next phase of his plan, a familiar sense of vindictive anger bubbled in Jason’s chest. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his hurt mind, he was sure that there was a voice telling him to reflect on what he was actually doing, to think just a tiny bit deeper, but the voice was easy to ignore. Jason didn’t have time for second thoughts. 

The next week was filled with steady antagonisation of Black Mask’s forces. He guided his gang to interfere with drops and spread rumours about Black Mask’s weakening forces all throughout the city. A mob boss’ reputation was one of his most powerful tools, and if aspersions were cast on Black Mask’s ability to lead his gang, it would only work to anger him sooner. Jason indulged in the thought of sparking fervent ire in Black Mask. Something about it set his heart racing and his hands tingling.

For the life of him, Jason couldn’t pin down what excited him so much about the prospect of making himself a target of Black Mask’s retaliation. All he knew was that with every day that passed, it was becoming clearer and clearer that Black Mask was getting desperate to hunt him down. Jason would like to see him try.

The cat and mouse chase around Gotham was fun, but Jason was all too happy when he got word that the next phase of his plan on the Batman front was advancing. It hadn’t been hard to hack into the surveillance cameras in the area around Titan Tower; he hadn’t dared try to penetrate the Tower itself, lest he tip someone off to his presence. Jason had watched, one night, a week and a half after his confrontation with Batman and Nightwing, as Dick’s car pulled up outside the tower. 

Dick had stepped out of the car with a huffy-looking Tim Drake at his heel. The cameras didn’t have audio, but Jason had been trained in lip reading by not only Bruce but also Talia, so it wasn’t hard to pick up the gist of their conversation. 

“I don’t get why I have to hole up in the Tower.” Tim seemed to huff, if the way his shoulders bunched to his ears and his eyes rolled was any indication. Jason would say that he never had that sort of attitude when he was Robin, but that would be a bald-faced lie. 

“We get it, Tim, you don’t want to be away from the action, but this Red Hood guy looks like he’s trouble, and he indirectly threatened you. We have to take it seriously.” Dick placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder as he spoke. The gesture made Jason’s chest ache, but he refused to dwell on why that was. 

“Yeah… I know. I’m just gonna be so alone. Nobody is gonna be around for, like, ages.”

“That just means you can blast your music as loud as you want and walk around the place in your undies.”

The look that Tim gave Dick could only be described as lethal. If looks could kill, Dick Grayson would be deader than Jason had ever been. He hated to admit it, but if the circumstances had been different, he could’ve seen him and Tim having a pretty solid friendship. But the circumstances weren’t different. Tim had usurped his role as both Robin and in the Wayne family. He had to be taught a lesson. 

Tim and Dick’s farewell had been relatively short after that interaction, Dick seemed in a rush to get back from New York so that he could help Bruce out. Jason had sent them on a wild goose chase the night before; they were probably still working on it. Just in case, however, Jason had instructed his gang members to create a diversion down at the docks. One of the guys who had a similar physique to his would be dressed in a spare brown jacket and faux hood to ensure that there was no suspicion about his whereabouts. 

With Batman and Nightwing distracted, Jason was ready to teach them a lesson for thinking that they could replace him. For thinking that it was safe to put another kid in the costume that he had died in. Part of Jason, the part of him that was constantly bitching at him to think logically (like Bruce had taught him), was screaming that he should turn around. He didn’t need to infiltrate Titan Tower, but Jason’s bitterness clouded his better judgment. 

Why should Tim get the sense of community that Jason was denied in the hero community? There were practically no heroes his age, whilst Jason had been Robin, so of course he hadn’t been on a team like Dick and Tim were, but… It just didn’t seem fair. Nothing was fair to Jason. His life hadn’t been fair. The world wasn’t fair. It was a lesson that he was sure the newest bird in Batman’s was in dire need of learning.

Exhaling heavily through his nose, Jason pushed his reservations to the back of his mind. He had a tower to break into.

It was almost laughably easy to get into Titans Tower. Had he been any other villain, he was sure it would have taken a little bit more effort on his end, but as it was, his codes had never been deleted from the server. All he had to do was mosey up and stroll in, as easy as anything. Briefly, Jason debated removing any sign that he’d been there. Batman would link this attack to Red Hood, Jason knew that, but would he make the wild jump in logic necessary to link Red Hood to Jason Todd? After some hesitation, Jason elected to leave the log as it was, it would leave a trail for Batman to follow, but he wasn’t too concerned. He had always planned to reveal his identity; it would just be one more clue in Batman’s repertoire. 

Silently, footsteps concealed with an amalgamation of techniques, Jason prowled through the tower, alert for any sign of Robin. As Robin had alluded to earlier, none of his teammates were currently present, which made everything all the more easy for Jason. After all, he wasn’t eager to tango with a kryptonian or a speedster. 

After five minutes, he finally came across Robin. The boy was sitting at his desk, ears covered by chunky headphones, as he doodled something that looked like a new schematic for a gadget. Though he was remiss to admit it, Jason could recognise that Robin was a very talented inventor and strategist. They could have been good partners, he supposed, had the brat not stolen his place in his family. 

Taking one last fortifying breath and locking away that annoying voice, Jason stepped into the room. It took a moment for Robin to recognise that he was no longer alone. His shoulders tensed slightly before relaxing. 

“Shouldn’t you be in Gotham?” Robin said. Though he was trying to sound calm, Jason could hear the slight tremor of fear in his voice. “Not much for you here.”

“I think there’s plenty for me to do here, pretender.” Jason’s voice, rough and mechanical, made Robin’s fist clench around the stylus in his hand. His body coiled just seconds before he launched himself from his chair, fist already sailing towards Jason. 

He had to give it to the kid, he wasn’t stupid. Immediately going on the offensive against him was probably the best plan he could’ve come up with, given the way Jason had cornered him. Unfortunately for Robin, however, Jason wasn’t your run-of-the-mill grunt.

Before the attack was even anywhere near him, Jason had twisted out of the way and retaliated. Robin’s eyes widened and the breath wooshed out of his body as Jason landed a firm punch to his gut. He didn’t give the hero any time to compose himself before swinging his leg into Robin’s exposed side, knocking him into his bookshelf. 

“Wow," Jason sneered, “Batman’s quality control must have really dipped. Come on, you’re barely putting up a fight.”

With gritted teeth, Robin pushed himself off the floor and regarded Jason with a wary look in his eyes. The room wasn’t big enough for him to put any meaningful space between them, yet despite this, Jason could see the desire to flee flickering through Robin’s eyes. The way they darted towards the door for scarcely a second gave him away. It was a good plan. If he escaped the confining space, he’d have more room to defend himself, whilst also allowing himself to escape Jason, but he wasn’t going to let that happen. 

“Now, now, Little Bird, don’t even think about running. Real Robins stand their ground.”

Once again, Robin initiated their next bout of blows. At some point, without Jason noticing, he had obtained a bow staff. Jason suspected he’d picked it up when he’d been knocked to the floor, hiding it in the palm of his hand before he’d extended it from its smaller form. The bow staff whistled through the air, catching Jason off guard momentarily. A moment was all you needed in a fight. The blow landed, hitting Jason in the ribs with an astounding amount of force. If he hadn’t been trained by the League of Assassins, forced to ignore his own pain and persevere, he might have been stunned. As it was, the blow to the ribs was taken with gritted teeth and met with a firm jab to the face. 

The feeling of Robin’s nose crunching under his fist stirred something in Jason. He didn’t know what it was. Whether it was good or bad. The feeling fluttered throughout his body and roiled in his stomach. He didn’t let that stop him from pushing his advantage. As Robin’s head whipped back, Jason pressed in closer, he took a hold of Robin’s forearm and judo threw him over his shoulder. The bitten-off cry of pain that the move elicited when Robin landed harshly on the floor caused another bout of that emotion that Jason didn’t want to acknowledge. 

With Robin on the floor, eyes scrunched in pain, Jason quickly pinned him. As Robin struggled beneath him, Jason pulled a knife from the sheath on his thigh. At the sight of the sharp weapon, Robin’s brown eyes went even wider. 

“I need to send a message to Batman, you see,” Jason said, “And I thought, well, I was thinking that maybe if I gave him a little reminder of the past, he’d get the message. Not that losing a Robin the first time seems to have left much of a lasting impression.”

“No, you’re wrong,” Robin said. Jason had to admit, he admired his bravery. To back-talk a villain when they had you pinned, with a knife at your throat, took an extraordinary amount of guts.

“I’m wrong?” Jason sneered. “How am I wrong, pretender?”

“Batman was distraught after the second Robin died. He was barely keeping himself together. It was like he was… Like he was trying to kill himself.” Robin gasped for air. Unconsciously, whilst he had been speaking, Jason had been applying more and more pressure to his neck. The conflicting maelstrom perpetually raging inside of Jason was on the verge of breaking free.

Why hadn’t he been told about this? Jason knew that Talia was keeping things from him. Of course he knew, he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that she wasn’t censoring the information he was given. Was it because they thought the knowledge that Batman had been affected by his death would diminish his anger? It might have, initially, until he realised that nothing had changed. The clown was still alive, he had still been replaced, he’d still been discarded. This new information didn’t change anything. Jason wouldn’t let it change anything, even though the knowledge knocked something loose in his chest.

“Please…” Robin said weakly, “Please don’t kill me. I’m sorry. Please.”

For a second, Jason wasn’t in Titans Tower. He was in a warehouse in Ethiopia. He wasn’t the one in control, he was the one being beaten mercilessly until he couldn’t hold back his screams anymore. 

Jason sprang away from Tim, breath laboured and hands shaking. Tim was barely conscious from the deprivation of air, nevertheless, his shiny, tear-beaded eyes were still open just enough to fix Jason with a terrified look. 

“Please.” 

It hit Jason that he was beating a teenager. A boy who was the same age as he’d been when he’d been murdered. Jason hadn’t had any plans to kill Tim that day, but now his original plan of leaving him on the edge of death made Jason feel sick. 

What was he doing?

He was no better than the Joker

Desperately trying to hold in the bile that threatened to snake up his throat at such a thought, Jason stumbled over to Tim and pulled out a needle from one of the many pockets dotted across his outfit. The needle contained a drug that would knock Tim out for a good long time, Jason estimated around 72 hours. Once it was injected, Tim was out like a light. 

Looking at the younger boy now, Jason was struck by how youthful he looked. Jason hadn’t been a particularly tall 15-year-old, but Tim wasn’t much bigger. And although his face was mired by the blood steadily leaking from his nose, Jason could tell that, despite being 15, Tim was yet to lose the roundness in his cheeks from childhood. They were too similar. They were too alike. 

Stumbling away from Tim’s body, Jason quickly scrawled his message across the wall, activated Tim’s distress beacon and fled the scene. 

Across Tim’s wall, the crimson paint dripping in a macabre imitation of blood, the message ‘DEAD BIRDS DON’T TALK’ loomed over the boy’s body, waiting for the correct people to find it. 

After the attack on Titan Tower, Jason tried his hardest to keep himself busy. Any time he paused, any time he even thought about resting, the same thought popped into his mind 

‘I’m no better than the Joker’

And it was true. How could he be better than the Joker when he had entered the confrontation with Tim with the intention of leaving him on the verge of death? How could he be better than the Joker when he was all too willing to target a 15-year-old who was weaker than him? That’s not to say that Tim was weak, but he didn’t have Jason’s training, nor his experience. 

Jason was disgusted with himself, but he never gave himself time to dwell on those thoughts. He didn’t think about Tim, instead, he focused his mental energy on annoying the hell out of Black Mask, giving Nightwing and Batman the run around, and advancing his plan. This one little hiccup wouldn’t stop him. He was still intent on teaching Batman a lesson that he was long overdue for. 

Four nights after the Titans Tower mishap, Jason was skulking through the shadows at the edge of his self-proclaimed territory, doing his best to stay out of Batman and Nightwing’s sights. They’d renewed their search for him, scouring every nook and cranny with a vigour that sent a fissure of concern through Jason. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he could avoid them forever, especially not with the way Nightwing was clearly fueled by the sort of brotherly anger that used to comfort Jason. 

Jason was just about to dart from one shadow to the next when he heard a window shattering and a terrified scream. These sorts of sounds weren’t all that out of place in Crime Alley. Screams and gunfire were akin to birdsong for the area’s residents. But this felt different. There was something about the scream, the rawness of it and the youth of its owner’s voice, that set Jason’s teeth on edge. 

Mind on autopilot, he absconded from the shadows and raced towards the noise. It took him less than a minute to arrive on the scene, and what he saw made his stomach turn and his mouth fill with the metallic taste of rage. 

Below him, a young girl struggled in the arms of her captor. She couldn’t have been older than 13. Her skinny arms and sunken cheeks told Jason all he needed to know about her living situation. Homeless, and if not, then severely neglected, if not abused. Her mouth had been covered by the burly man trying to haul her into the back of a nondescript black van. The captor spat threats and cursed at the girl fervently, clearly unhappy with the fight she was putting up.

Jason had seen enough. A kidnapping in process, no doubt part of a trafficking organisation that had slipped past his notice. He would rectify that mistake swiftly.

Without any further delay, Jason leapt from the rooftop, barely pausing to ensure that his grapple had stuck firmly when he had shot it. It was second nature to leap from large heights without fear of falling. If being Robin had taught him one thing, it was the freedom of flying, and that was one of the only things he hadn’t lost after his death (that was a lie. Jason had retained many things from his time as Robin, like his love for his family and his firm sense of justice, he just didn’t want to confront those facts). 

Jason landed with a solid thud, gun already in hand and firing before the kidnapper had time to acknowledge his presence. The gunshot echoed slightly in the alley, but Jason didn’t concern himself with the noise. The sound of one gunshot wasn’t of much consequence in this part of town. 

Yelling in pain, the kidnapper fell away from his victim, hands coming to shakily hold his injured shoulder. Jason wasn’t willing to let the man escape, but he also wanted to comfort the victim. As swiftly as he could, he punched the man in his stomach. Winded, the criminal was easy enough to subdue and tie up. With the kidnapping dealt with, Jason turned his attention to the trembling form of the young girl. 

During the brief altercation, if you could call it that, she had backed herself into the corner of the alley. With shaking limbs and wide eyes, she looked up at Jason with fear written in every line of her body.

“Please don’t hurt me.” She choked. 

Try as he might, Jason found it nearly impossible not to feel a pang of pain in his heart at the girl’s fear-fueled words. He was not stupid, he knew he cut an imposing figure. And, unlike Batman, he had no reputation for helping those in need. The Red Hood was feared and revered in equal measures, but not for the right reason, if such reasons existed. The innocent did not look upon him and see a hero; they saw the latest villain to grace Gotham’s streets. 

Slowly, Jason crouched down so that he wasn’t towering over the poor girl. He pulled off his helmet, glad he’d elected to wear a mask beneath it, and offered her as gentle a smile as he could manage. Jason’s face had lost all of its baby fat, but he liked to think, when he could bear to look at himself in the mirror, that he still had at least a hint of the kindness that was smeared as clear as day across his visage when he was younger.

Upon taking off his helmet, the girl seemed to relax a bit, though her body language was still standoffish.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you kid,” Jason said as gently as he could. “Do you have somewhere to go tonight? You know about the shelter a couple of blocks from here?” 

Silently, the girl shook her head. 

From his belt, Jason pulled a card and offered it to her with exaggerated motions that she couldn’t misconstrue as an attempted attack. The card held the addresses of all of the Wayne Foundations' many homeless shelters. Jason may hold a boiling animosity for Batman, but he couldn’t deny the good that Bruce had done for Park Row. He probably would have died on the streets if it hadn’t been for the free food trucks that circled the neighbourhoods. And though there hadn’t been nearly as many homeless shelters when he was on the streets, he still knew that they did good for the community. 

Slowly, with a hesitance that belied the girl’s prior bad experiences, the girl took the card from him and looked closely. 

“Won’t they send me to a foster home?” The girl muttered. 

“Maybe.” Jason didn’t try to obscure the truth, “But I think that shelter there can keep you for a good long while, if you want it to. I know personally that a representative from The Wayne Foundation comes around once a week to make sure that there ain’t no funny business going on. Safest you’re gonna get, kid.”

Silently, the girl nodded and stood from where she was hunched. In silent agreement, Jason walked the kid the 10-minute walk to the shelter, hiding in the shadows as she was accepted by a warm woman with a maternal look about her. With the victim safe, Jason’s anger returned. He fitted his helmet back onto his head and stomped back towards the alleyway he’d left the perp tied up in. He was gonna get some answers.

It didn’t take a lot to break the man’s tight-lipped resolve. A punch to the face and a knife to the thigh were all it took for Jason to attain the address of the trafficking ring’s base. He stormed from the alley, intent on closing the ring down that night, leaving the slumped corpse of the kidnapper in his wake. 

Ordinarily, Jason would expect a trafficking ring to set up base in one of the many derelict warehouses that Gotham seemed to have an abundance of. They were easy to break into, and few people asked questions when criminals set up shop in them, unless the warehouse happened to have been claimed by Cobblepot or any of the other crime lords. So it was a novelty to find that this particular trafficking ring had elected to take over what used to be the community centre. A new one had been built five years ago after the initial community centre had been the target of one of Crane’s attacks. The city, with Wayne Foundation funding, hadn’t seen the point in trying to fumigate and save a building that was already on the verge of being a health hazard.

Through half-boarded windows, Jason watched as shadows moved about in the building. It was hard to get a good view, the traffickers had done a good job of making it look like nobody was occupying the building. You’d only realise if you knew where to look. Unfortunately for them, Jason knew where to look, and he wasn’t happy with what he’d found. 

Had this happened during his days as Robin, Jason would’ve been ordered to scope the building and report back. They would have come up with a plan and executed it perfectly because they trusted each other to have the other’s back. But Jason wasn’t Robin anymore, and the trust that had been intertwined with love had long since evaded his grasp. Jason wasn’t the boy he used to be. 

After checking that his guns were fully loaded, Jason took a deep breath, straightened his back, and swung from the roof he’d been occupying opposite the community centre, crashing through one of the few scarcely boarded windows with ease. 

Jason didn’t give anyone time to think. The henchmen in front of him had scarcely had time to register his presence before they’d been shot. This pattern continued. Jason moved through the building, almost on autopilot, shooting, punching and kicking whenever he saw fit. He lost count of how many people he encountered, he didn’t particularly care. He didn’t care if his shots were fatal. He didn’t care if the echoing sounds of his gunshots drew more attention to himself. He didn't care about the minor wounds he accrued as he fought. All that mattered was that he stopped the trafficking ring. 

Eventually, Jason came across a cavernous hall. Before the building had been abandoned, Jason recalled that it had been used for local parties and the rare community meeting. Now it had been transformed into what Jason could only describe as a dungeon. Chains had been hammered into the walls, and at the end of each one of them, a child or teenager looked back at him with fearful eyes and trembling frames. 

With his jaw clenched beneath his helmet, Jason quickly set about undoing the chains of the child closest to him. He couldn’t blame the boy for flinching; he’d do the same if an intimidating gun-wielding man stepped too close to him when he was a child. Nevertheless, Jason continued his task, undoing shackles as quickly as he could, one eye and ear always trained on his environment, lest he be snuck up on.

Just as he was reaching the last few people, Jason heard the sound of heavy footsteps racing down the hall. He’d just pulled his gun from its holster when the man burst into the room, eyes manic with anger and face a putrid red shade. Behind the man, a boy who couldn’t have been older than 16 cowered. The gun in his hand was little more than something for him to fiddle with. Jason wasn’t sure if the boy even knew how to fire it. 

“You!” The man roared,  “Who do you think you are?”

Something about this man was familiar to Jason. It took a second, but suddenly a memory burst behind his eyes. The memory of busting another trafficking ring years before, with Batman at his side, and beating the shit out of a man who had been dragging a girl around by her hair. He had new scars, and he’d lost half of his left earlobe, but that was certainly the man Jason had encountered before. He shouldn’t be out of prison, let alone out long enough to establish a trafficking ring, and yet here they were. Contrary to Batman’s beliefs, some people never changed, and the asshole in front of him was stark evidence of that.

“Are you deaf? I said who-” Jason didn’t let the man finish. The gunshot echoed around the hall, reverberating over and over again until the sound dissipated. 

With the man (Jason didn’t care what his name was) dead, he turned his gun on the trembling kid who had been standing behind him. The kid’s eyes were wide with fear. Covered in the blood of the man he’d been following, the kid looked at Jason with terror. 

“What’s it gonna be, kid?” Jason said, “You gonna turn yourself in, or am I gonna have to take this into my own hands?” 

The kid didn’t need to know that Jason had no intention of killing him. He wouldn’t be able to bring himself to do it, but that didn’t mean that the kid should go unpunished. It was one thing to get caught up with drug running to keep yourself afloat in Crime Alley, it was another thing entirely to find yourself aiding a trafficking ring. 

With his knees knocking, the boy dropped his gun and shook his head speechlessly. It was a surrender if Jason had ever seen one. 

Silently, he resumed his task of freeing all of the captives. Once he was done, he called in an anonymous tip to the police and crushed the phone beneath his foot. He wasn’t keen to interact with the police, the GCPD was crooked to its core, but he knew that he couldn’t just let the 20+ kids around him wander off into the night. They needed to be taken to the hospital and cared for. 

With heavy bootsteps, Jason stomped over to the kid. His entire frame trembled as Jason neared him, tears leaked steadily down his cheeks, and he hiccoughed almost uncontrollably. 

“What’s your name, kid?” Jason said. It was hard to sound calm when his helmet mechanised his voice so heavily.

Hesitantly, the kid whispered, “Andrew.”

“Well, Andrew, when the police get here, you’re gonna turn yourself in. You’re going to tell them exactly what was going on here, how the kids were kidnapped and where they were being sent, and who was leading the entire operation.” Jason ordered, “And then, when you’re in juvie, you’re going to use their resources to sort your life out. Get your GED or some vocational certificate. And when you get out, I better not find you doing shit like this again, got it? Cause if I do, I ain’t gonna be so lenient. I will kill you, do you understand?” 

Andrew nodded rapidly, his tears falling even faster. 

The sound of sirens was growing louder. Jason knew he couldn’t be around when the police arrived. With one last look at Andrew’s curled-up and sobbing body, Jason darted out of the fire exit at the back of the hall, trusting that the police wouldn’t surround that area fast enough to block him in. 

Watching from a rooftop a few buildings over, the adrenaline that had been powering Jason through the last few hours settled down. Unbidden, Tim’s words came to mind again. 

“Batman was distraught after the second Robin died. He was barely keeping himself together. It was like he was… Like he was trying to kill himself.”

The words had sent a jolt of something through Jason when he’d first heard them. He hadn’t wanted to dwell on the feeling, because he knew that if he did, he’d be lost.

Hope.

The words had inspired hope in Jason. If Bruce had been that broken up about him dying, surely he’d still loved him. Surely he’d cared about him, despite what Talia had insinuated. The logical part of his brain, the part that spoke plainly, once again reminded him that Talia was a known manipulator. That he couldn’t be mad at Batman for passing on the Robin mantle when the same thing had happened to Dick. It reminded him that the world couldn’t stop revolving just because Batman had lost his reckless, rebellious, insubordinate Robin. Another part of his brain told him that everything would just be better off if he’d stayed dead. Everything would be so much easier. 

Thoughts and emotions conflicted in him in a way he was all too familiar with. Was he loved before? Maybe, but his family sure as shit wouldn’t love him now. He represented everything they hated. He was no better than the Joker. How could they ever love him again? He’d come back broken and tainted; he wasn’t the boy he’d once been.

As Jason turned away from the sight of police swarming the community centre, a tumultuous storm of regret, bitterness, loneliness and misery swirled through his heart. He was so lost in his muddied mind that he didn’t see the caped figure hiding in the shadows, watching him leave with curious eyes. 

Time seemed to swirl around Jason. It seemed to flow through his fingers, trickling away all too quickly. One moment, it was the middle of September, and the next, an entire month had passed. Black Mask was on the verge of breaking. Jason could taste his desperation. He could scarcely step out into the streets at night without encountering some sort of fruitless attempt by Black Mask to take him down. Perhaps it was strange, but he was exhilarated by the attempts to take him down. Black Mask’s henchmen certainly weren’t trying to take him alive, and yet every attempt on his life fueled something. It sparked light in Jason’s otherwise dull days. 

If he wasn’t out on the street, Jason was only ever doing one of three things. Sat in his apartment, staring at the wall. He never allowed himself to indulge in the things that used to bring him joy, such as reading or watching the TV show he’d been borderline obsessed with. If he did that, then he’d be admitting that there was still a large part of him that resembled the boy that the Joker murdered, and he couldn’t admit that. He had changed. He had to have changed, otherwise, why was he like this?

If he wasn’t staring at the wall, he was pounding the pavement of Gotham, observing the city he both loved and hated. He watched as people went about their lives, all content enough in the knowledge that they might live in a cursed city, but there was nothing they could do about it. He watched people’s pockets being picked and beggars on the street. He also watched as friends and family laughed together, seeing that hurt him the most. He always turned away. 

If he wasn’t doing the aforementioned activities, he was compulsively poring over his plans. He’d memorised the plan almost immediately after he’d conceived it, and yet he still returned to it, day after day. Maybe it was just something to do. Something that didn’t reek of the life he had once lived and didn’t stab him in the heart the same way gazing over Gotham did. There were too many memories out there, in the smog-filled streets. Too many memories in old TV shows and books he was itching to read. There were no old, painful, hopeful memories in his plans. His plans were objective, emotionless, and cold. 

So being shot, stabbed and punched at least inspired something in Jason, and he knew it wasn’t healthy, but even a glimpse of light was more than Jason had ever thought he’d get. After all, he should be 6 feet under. 

With the end of October rapidly getting closer, Jason knew it was time to unveil the last steps of his plan. Black Mask was practically poised to snap, he just needed an extra push. A push that Jason was all too glad to give him in the form of blowing up every single warehouse that Black Mask stored his illegal products in, as well as directly targeting the man’s base of operations. Jason thought Black Mask had held out for an extraordinarily long time, but even the most level-headed crime lord (which Black Mask was not) would resort to desperate measures when everything they’d ever worked for had been blown to smithereens. 

It just filled Jason with such twisted joy to watch as flames consumed Black Mask’s skyscraper. Only assholes owned skyscrapers anyway.

As Jason watched the flames consume the building, he felt somebody’s eyes on him. He scarcely had time to drop and roll before an escrima stick whizzed over his head, narrowly missing. Even with his helmet on, Jason knew that he’d have been more than a little disoriented if the hit had landed. 

Instinctually, Jason kicked out, catching Nightwing in the midriff before they both sprang apart and beheld the sight of each other. 

Nightwing wasn’t as good at hiding his emotions as Batman was. He was good at it compared to others, but when something especially pissed him off, his anger was practically painted across his face. Jason could tell that Nightwing was angry. The snarl, the clenched fists, the bordering on murderous body language. Yeah, Jason suspected that Nightwing wasn’t all too happy with him.

“What happened to good sportsmanship?” Jason joked, hand twitching to his holster. 

Behind Nightwing, Batman melted from the shadows. Despite his relaxed (or relaxed for Batman) posture, Jason had no doubt that he was in more than a little bit of danger.

“What would you know about good sportsmanship, Hood?” Nightwing spat, “Attacking a 15-year-old in his own bedroom doesn’t seem very fair to me.”

Jason tried to stop the full-body flinch at those words, but he wasn’t sure if he was entirely successful. A swirling miasma of rage and sadness battled behind the wall of resolve he’d erected the moment he found out about his family moving on without him. Now they cared about 15-year-olds getting hurt? Where was that concern for him? (He knew they had mourned his loss, but not enough) Tim wasn’t even part of their family. He had parents, he was loved outside of his worth as Robin. Was Jason just an expendable tool to them? (He knew he wasn’t) Instead of giving in to the melancholy that always welled up at the sight of the people he had once (still) called his family, Jason allowed the anger to take over. He allowed it to fortify his resolve and penetrate his psyche. 

“Now you care for your sidekicks?” Jason said sharply, “Guess all it takes is the right breeding. Street rats aren’t worth mourning, are they?” 

Jason didn’t let them dwell on his words too long, he pulled his guns out and shot at them. He knew that none of his shots would hit, that had been by design. The entire night was by design. He had known that they would show up at Black Mask’s headquarters, especially after he had blown it up. And just as he had anticipated, they gave chase immediately when he vaulted onto the neighbouring roof. 

Something, deep in his mind, sparked to life as he was chased across the Gotham rooftops by Nightwing and Batman. Before, in the life he had lost, he’d spent many nights of his early vigilante career rooftop hopping with his predecessor and their mentor. His laughter, strong and youthful. Had rung out like birdsong throughout the otherwise dour city. He wasn’t laughing now. He wasn’t making a noise aside from gentle grunts of exertion and pointed quips when either Nightwing or Batman got close enough. 

Every rooftop traversed, every swing from one ledge to the next, and every creak of rusty metal blowing in the breeze spurred Jason on. As always, whenever he was in the general vicinity of the men he had once called his family, a torrent of conflicting emotions pushed at the dam he’d erected in his mind. The emotions did their best to leak through the multitude of gaps, but Jason kept them at bay through sheer willpower. He had come too far to crumble now. 

Finally, they reached the place where he’d stashed his motorcycle. Jason stopped for a second, taking in a deep breath to reorient his thoughts. A second was all Batman needed to fire out a rope that wound itself around Jason’s left leg. Before the line could go taunt enough for Batman to yank him off balance, Jason cut it, the action was almost unconscious. The knife had been in his hand the millisecond he felt the rope touching his leg. 

“Nice try, old man.” Jason taunted. He threw the knife with brutal precision, aiming at Nightwing’s right leg. Jason had expected the knife to be deflected. Nightwing was one of the best fighters he knew, even including the plethora of assassins he’d come across in the League. 

Jason didn’t give them another chance to lay a hand on him. Without preamble, he leapt from the roof, simultaneously throwing another knife at them. Wrapped around the hilt of the knife was the bloodied tie that Jason had been wearing when he broke free from his grave. Jason had no idea why Talia had kept the dirt-smeared suit he’d been wearing when her people had snatched him from the streets, but he was grateful for it now. Jason had always had a flair for the dramatic.  

The gruesome reminder of their missing family member didn’t stall the duo for very long. Jason had just started his motorcycle when he saw them preparing to jump off the roof to pursue him. 

“You’re losing your touch, Bruce!” He shouted. He couldn’t stick around for long, but he indulged in the stark hesitation in Batman’s frame and the way that Nightwing’s sun-kissed skin paled dramatically. They’d soon figure out who he was, he’d given them enough clues. 

Finally, it was time to carry out the last stage of his plan for vengeance. 

When Jason received word that Black Mask had broken Joker out of prison, he had a panic attack. Having a panic attack, delaying this vital stage of his plan, was not something he had anticipated. He had been so sure, before his vision started swimming and every breath of air became more laborious than the last, that he’d be fine. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to coming face to face with Joker again, but he’d been psyching himself up for this very thing for months. He’d told himself, over and over again, that this time wouldn’t be like the last time he’d come face to face with Joker. This time, he could fight back. This time, he had something to prove. This time, it would be Joker bleeding out on the floor, not him. And yet it hadn’t been enough. 

One of his henchmen, the one who impersonated him whenever necessary, had been keeping a close eye on Black Mask’s movements, as per Jason’s explicit orders. Jason had been relaxing (or as close to relaxing as Jason ever got, which is to say, he wasn’t relaxing at all) when the call had come through.

“Boss, Black Mask is on his way to Arkham. Looks like he’s got some pretty heavy equipment with him.” His henchman had relayed before calling him back only 30 minutes later to confirm that he’d seen a glimpse of Joker’s sickly visage marching alongside Black Mask.

At first, Jason had been fine. He’d started suiting up with a heavy sense of stoicism, each layer of clothing a barrier between who he really was and who he was desperately pretending to be. He’d only needed to put on his jacket and helmet when it had all gone to shit. 

There was a loud clang of metal hitting stone that echoed in the alleyway beneath his decrepit apartment, and that was all that Jason needed to spiral into a haze of horrific memories and panting breaths. 

Every beat of his rapidly pounding heart brought forth new sensations. He could feel his bones splintering as he stumbled away from his desk, eyes sightlessly darting around. He could smell Sheila’s cigarette smoke mixed with the sharp metallic tang of his own blood as he tripped over the low table in the centre of the room, crashing to the floor. The clock on the wall now sounded eerily like a ticking bomb, counting down the seconds until Jason’s inevitable death. His clothes were too tight. His skin was too tight. He wanted to rip himself apart, peel the skin from his bones and cast it aside so that he might regrow anew. Why was he alive? Why couldn’t he just stay dead? Why did he have to be a freak of nature, crawling from his grave long after his time had come? 

Jason couldn’t determine how long his panic-fueled haze lasted. Time was immaterial to him, it had been since he’d clawed his way from the earth with rain beating down on his sepulchral site of rebirth. His body forced his breathing to even out, even as his stomach heaved. He had long since expelled all of its contents without conscious thought, the evidence splashed across his laminate floorboards. Through the sour scent of his own fear, Jason pushed himself up from the floor and shambled over to his jacket and helmet. 

It was only a minute of weakness, he told himself. Just a moment in which he forgot himself, he wasn’t the boy Jason Todd-Wayne had once been. The 15-year-old who had died thinking of the family he loved. He was Red Hood, and he was going to complete his plan. 

Capturing the Joker was laughably easy. The only reason Black Mask had turned to him was that he thought Jason was some kind of fanboy who would turn tail and run at the glimpse of the man whom Black Mask assumed he revered. That wasn’t the case. 

Jason had shot Black Mask in the stomach, not caring much whether he lived or died, and drugged Joker before either one of them truly knew what was going on. From there, it had been easy to order one of his henchmen to move Joker to the secure location where Jason knew only Batman would be able to find them. Even the thought of touching Joker had set Jason’s body more on edge than it had already been.

The apartment Jason had chosen was one that Batman should be familiar with, if he had ever cared for him at all. It was the place that Jason had been living in just before Bruce had adopted him, it had been his last ‘home’ whilst he’d been homeless. The last place he’d felt unsafe, at least until he’d found himself being beaten to death in a warehouse in Ethiopia. 

For four days, Jason sat in that apartment, periodically drugging Joker to keep him subdued. For four days, he wondered whether Batman had lost his touch, whether he had never cared about Jason enough in the first place to recognise him, even with all of the clues he’d given him. For four days, he dwelled in the thoughts of what could have been, had it not been for the raging psychopath whom he had tied up in one of the only closets in the apartment that still had a functional door. 

Finally, on Halloween, Batman’s shadow loomed in the entryway. Jason couldn’t help but think it was extremely fitting that everything was coming to a head on the anniversary of his resurrection, if Talia was to be believed about the date he had clawed his way to the living world again. It was the 2nd anniversary of his undeath, and Batman didn’t even know it. 

Jason didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but the sight of Batman’s looming, darkness-enshrouded body soothed some of the nerves that he’d constantly been feeling for the past days. The familiarity of the hero he had once watched cross rooftops whilst he was delegated to scrounging through bins for food inspired a perplexing calm in him. 

For a moment, after Batman had stepped into the room, neither one of them said anything. Neither one of them moved to attack, nor did they talk. In silence, they stood, staring at one another. Finally, Batman broke the silence.

“Jason.” 

It wasn’t Batman’s rough, gritty voice that Jason was assailed with. Instead, for the first time in years, Jason heard Bruce Wayne’s voice. He heard his dad’s voice. He heard his dad’s voice, strained with barely hidden emotions. Bruce was hard to read at the best of times, but Jason understood every tone in his voice loud and clear. Desperation. Hope. Confusion. 

Something in Jason’s chest cracked open, but he refused to acknowledge it. Now wasn’t the time. He had a plan, he needed to stick to the plan. 

Without giving himself time to second-guess his decision, Jason ripped his helmet from his head, presenting Batman, his dad, with the first clear view of his matured face. Jason knew he had lost the baby fat he’d still carried in his face as a 15-year-old. For all he hated looking at his reflection, hated seeing the similarities between himself and the father he couldn’t seem to let go of, he’d seen enough of himself to know that he was still painfully recognisable. Despite the white tuft of hair, despite the grotesque brand cut into his face, and despite the heterochromatic eyes. His face was still Jason Todd-Wayne’s face, and he wanted Batman to confront the boy he had forgotten about. 

Once again, Bruce’s voice emerged from beyond the cowl, a broken approximation of the confident man that Jason still secretly revered. 

“Jason. Son-”

He didn’t let him get any further than that.

“Don’t!” Jason snapped, cutting off Bruce’s fractured voice before he could say anything else. “Don’t call me that. Don’t call me that when it's clear that you never loved me as much as you claimed. Not if you replaced me so easily.”

Even through his cowl, Jason could see the flicker of hurt that ran through Bruce’s posture. He saw it in the way he seemed to shrink in on himself slightly, and his hands fluttered at his sides, but Bruce had never been someone to give up easily. 

“Son,” Bruce said firmly. It was almost as if he was demanding that Jason accept the title, forcefully reminding him of what they had once been. “Jason, I could never replace you. Every day I wake up with the knowledge that I lost you, and I can barely bring myself to get out of bed.”

“You’re lying.” 

“Why would I lie, Jason? What happened? Where have you been? How are you back? Please…” It was so unlike Bruce to ask so many questions out loud, to plead and beg, and yet he stood before Jason doing just that.

Though Bruce liked to think it, Batman and Bruce Wayne were not entirely different. They were both fiercely protective in their own ways, and they both cared so deeply, so wholly, that it almost looked like apathy. Bruce could argue until he was blue in the face that they were two separate aspects of his identity, completely distinct from one another, but Jason knew better. 

“Please, Jay. My Jay…”

At some point during their confrontation, Jason’s hand had snaked down to his gun. He had no intention of drawing it, but the feeling of it pressed into his palm was comforting nonetheless. 

“No, you don’t get to call me that,” Jason’s voice cracked and broke as he spoke. All of the emotions he had promised himself he wouldn’t let spill over, the emotions that he had fruitlessly been holding back with the damaged barrier in his mind, flooded forth. “You don’t get to pretend that you loved me. You promised me that nothing would ever stop you from loving me, but you did stop. That night Felipe died, you stopped loving me. You didn’t love me enough to…”

Jason's voice failed him. He tried to push on through the shaking and hoarseness, but found that he couldn’t. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, Jay. I’m sorry I let you die.” Bruce said sorrowfully. Jason could practically hear the tears in his voice.

Bruce’s words inspired a new wave of emotions in Jason. He knew, intuitively, that Bruce must’ve blamed himself for his death. Despite the fiery anger and stabbing betrayal, Jason knew Bruce, and he knew he would blame himself for Jason’s death, just as he blamed himself for his parents’ deaths. Even so, despite this knowledge, Jason hadn’t paid the notion of Bruce’s guilt any heed. He’d been so focused on the appearance of another raven-haired boy clothed in red, green and yellow. 

“I don’t blame you for my death.” Jason attempted to sneer, “I would never blame you for my dying. I care that nothing has changed. I died, and everything is ticking along like normal. I don’t expect you to have changed the world, but at least some sign that I had meant something to you would’ve been appreciated!”

Bruce opened his mouth, a rebuttal ready to burst forth, but Jason didn’t let him get a word in.

“I died, and you found yourself a new Robin. I care that I mattered so little to you that my dying didn’t make you reevaluate using kids in your war against crime. I care that we’re just soldiers to you. You said you’d love me unconditionally. Guess it wasn’t so unconditional after all.”

“You were never a soldier, Jason.” Bruce said, anger threading through his voice, “You are my son.”

Jason elected to ignore the way that Bruce was speaking in the present tense. If he dwelled on it, he wouldn’t finish his mission. He had to finish his mission. 

“If I mattered to you at all,” Jason shouted as he ripped the closet door next to him open, “Why is he still alive?”

Inside, still tied up, Joker was slumped against the closet wall. His eyelids were fluttering, he was clearly not entirely cognizant, even so, his lips were still pulled into that unbearable smirk. Jason could barely bring himself to look at him, even seeing his pale face out of the corner of his eye made Jason want to throw up.

“Ignoring the thousands of graves he’s helped fill, why was my death not enough for you to do something about him!”

For a moment, Bruce looked shocked to see his enemy bound and dirty in the closet. He was quick to school his expression, though the desperation pulling at the corners of his lips still didn’t leave. 

“I wanted to kill him.” Bruce said bluntly, “I was on the verge of it. He was right beneath me, we were going down in a helicopter…” 

Bruce paused, eyes fixed on Jason’s face, before he continued, his voice more controlled. 

“We were going down, and I had two choices. Take him with me, or leave him to die. I left him, Jay. I left him to die, it was the closest thing to revenge I could get for you. I want to kill him, more than you can possibly know, but if I kill him, how am I any better than him? Any better than the rest of them?”

It seemed that a lot had been left out of the story that Jason had been told. He hadn’t been aware that Bruce had left the Joker to die, or what circumstances could have possibly led to them being on a crashing helicopter. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be there anymore. Despite everything going to plan on the outside, Jason’s mind wasn’t fortified enough for this. He’d been prepared to scream, to fight, to yell. He hadn’t been prepared to be faced with Bruce’s pleading and begging (or at least Bruce’s version of pleading and begging). He needed to end this quickly.

From his holster, Jason withdrew his gun and threw it at Bruce’s feet. 

“Then make up for it. Kill him now and avenge me, prove that you loved me once. That I wasn’t just a soldier in your crusade. Prove that even after all the mistakes I made, you’ve kept your promise that you’d love me no matter what.” 

Even as he said it, even as he offered Bruce the option, he knew Bruce wouldn’t do it. His no-killing rule was something that Bruce clung to with such devotion that it actually astounded Jason. It was admirable, in a way, just how much control Bruce possessed. Jason admired that about him, not that he’d ever say it.

Slowly, Bruce picked up the gun and gazed at it. He almost looked like he was considering it; he looked like he wanted nothing more than to fulfil Jason’s request and put the clown down for good, once and for all. But they both knew he wouldn’t. It was an impossible request.

“You know I can’t.” Bruce whispered, “But this doesn’t mean I don’t love you, Jay. I love you, you’re my son. Just come home, we can figure everything out.” 

If Jason hadn’t been so tired, he might have found the energy to scoff and scowl about how predictable Bruce was. As it was, Jason just wanted to be done with this entire affair. He wanted to retreat to his cold, featureless den and wallow in his misery. 

“I don’t know what else I should have expected.” Jason couldn’t help the melancholy that slipped into his voice. 

He didn’t give Bruce the chance to reply to him, to even attempt to step forward towards him, before he threw a smoke pellet in his face. The few seconds wherein Batman was disoriented were short, but they were enough time for Jason to pull out a dose of poison and inject it into Joker’s neck. The poison was potentially lethal, if it didn’t kill the madman, then it would certainly render him comatose for the rest of his days. 

Batman had just waved away the cloud of white smoke from around his head when Jason leapt from the window and absconded into the night. The confrontation hadn’t gone as planned, but Jason supposed he should have expected that. 

Jason had expected Batman to stay behind to ensure that Joker lived, but that wasn’t what happened. He’d just landed on a rooftop opposite the window when Batman’s shadowed figure leapt from the building. Once again, he had abandoned Joker, potentially leaving him to die. Something in Jason’s chest loosened; he wasn’t sure what it was, but something within him was satisfied that Batman would chase after him instead of attempting to save the Joker.

Unfortunately, Batman’s chase would be in vain. Jason knew every alleyway around Park Row like it was the back of his hand, he quickly lost the hero in the shadows of his home turf. He didn’t want to talk to Bruce anymore, he just wanted to go home. 

Home was a manor on the outskirts of Gotham with gothic windows and warm memories. Home was 2 years ago, when everything was nearly perfect. Jason couldn’t go home, so he returned to the next best thing.

Since returning to Gotham, Jason hadn’t had the guts to visit his grave. Even the thought of it has seemed uncanny to him. What was the point? He was alive. Yet, somehow, despite his aversion, Jason found himself at his graveside that night. He found himself looking up at the stone angel that had been charged with watching over his eternal rest. He looked at the flowers which couldn’t be more than a week or so old that rested against his headstone. He looked at the inscription.

Jason Todd-Wayne. Beloved Son and Hero to All

Jason looked at that inscription and finally allowed himself to cry. He wailed at the injustices of the world and mourned the life he could’ve had.