Work Text:
It was a long, long time spent away from home–from Gotham. From her shadowed alleyways and flickering streetlights, to her glinting skyscrapers and numerous galas.
Jason sighed, sitting alone on a bed miles and miles away from anything familiar. A red helmet sat in his lap, the color comforting but also alien, a combination of his past and present in one.
Somehow, through regular Gotham bullshit and all around fucked up energy, he had found himself trapped in space on land that was just a shade uncanny. And it wasn't a space he was familiar with, no, that would be too kind. With his crash landing, he found himself without money or anything of use except his skills. After wandering around for a while, he resigned himself to joining the military, despite his gigantic reservations towards any government and especially a military. Alas, beggars can't be choosers, and he soon found his way into a new class of reluctant recruits and military brats. Truly, there were some things that were universal.
After basic training, he was sent out into the field. Something, something, whatever, he didn't particularly care about what was going on. He wasn’t exactly there because he was filled with patriotism or anything, just a quiet desperation of being trapped in a world he knew nothing about. The military gave him a chance to access information otherwise blocked from him, even if he would need to find a way to find info that wasn’t available to any old dog. As long as he was a soldier, he would be able to look. And, he shook his head, after his dip in the neon green water pit of evil, he was all too familiar with selling his soul in return for vital things like information.
Of course, his life couldn't be as easy as simply selling off his soul. No, something worse always needed to happen to him, as if the universe, different or not, was perpetually unbalanced if he received any sort of kindness or ease in his life. The higher-ups kept a little too close an eye on him, and he was soon swept up into a program, hidden behind so much paperwork and only whispered about between soldiers who always knew a little too much.
Project Freelancer, it was called, and while Jason had to applaud whoever named it for their startling lack of naming subtlety for a highly covert military program, it was exactly as advertised on the tin. Freelance mercenaries, dispatched by the UNSC—some bigshot government agency that Jason knew had more corruption than one could shake a stick at—to oversee and carry out various black ops and blacksite operations, things that need highly skilled people to even attempt. Typical military shit he normally wouldn't have batted an eye at.
But then there were the AIs.
Sure, the whole competitiveness of the program was a rather blatant manipulation of all the agents, even before the AIs came into the picture. It just so happened that Jason, now coined Agent New Jersey, which was something that plucked at a fraying string within his still-wounded heart, wasn't exactly immune to such tactics. He knew what the director of the program was likely fishing for: the agents who were at the top of the game or who had distinctive personalities were likely valuable pieces in the eyes of the higher-ups. He also knew what he was bringing to the table as Agent New Jersey, as Jason.
He wasn't particularly close to anyone in the program, but it wasn't as if he didn't talk with anyone. The Leaderboard loomed over everyone, but after constantly living under the shadow of the original Robin, Jason wasn’t all too concerned about placements or standing. He had been there, done that, lived with perpetual imposter syndrome he had greeted every day until his death, and even a while afterwards. He hung out with people among the middle of the ranks, the ones he knew weren't exactly itching to jockey for power or recognition, but still competent enough on the field that he would be comfortable with them watching his back. It showed others that he was willing to communicate with others, but that he still remained slightly detached from everyone in the program. The higher-ups, presumably, took a liking to that fact, and the fact that he was able to beat most of the other agents in spars. He was a sniper and self-described gunslinger, but he wasn’t too shabby at hand-to-hand. Talia and his trainers had made sure of that. Even when holding himself back a little, paranoia dogging his every step, he still made it into the top ten.
He wasn't the first agent to be given an AI, nor was he the last.
When he was given Xi, he had to go hide in his room for what felt like ages. The AI had ripped open wounds that still bled, that had never closed and remained tender and aching. For Jason was just a collage of the darkest blues and rich purples, blended together until it hid the red of his heart. Xi had scrubbed at that paint, had brought the red to the surface and barred the color to the world. Jason could admit, in the isolation of his room, that it was likely a good thing. If something had happened on the field, had taken place during a critical point in a mission, there would be no good outcomes. So Jason and Xi talked, about love and pain and the twisted entanglement of both within him. Had talked and talked and talked, until it felt like the room was empty of any oxygen and the only thing remaining was the two of them and the glow of Xi in the encompassing darkness of his room.
But that agreement and partnership weren’t enough to save them from the claws of Project Freelancer, nor the Meta, nor the UNSC. Jason managed to survive it all, managed to get away from the Meta with Xi still in his head, managed to work as a UNSC trooper with forged papers and death lingering around every corner. He felt his body gain more and more scars, felt the Pit lessen as each wound he gained healed slower and slower. Yet, his body never aged. He was stuck looking as he did when he first joined Project Freelancer, stuck looking like he did when he first fell into the new universe. But he persevered, using every drop of tenacity to make his way through each battle, each year. He managed to survive it all with Xi, until he ran into the simulation troops. From there, it was struggle after struggle, but it was also full of unexpected reunions and newfound friendships he never would have imagined himself having back when he roamed the halls of the Freelancer headquarters.
When the Justice League heard the report from the Green Lanterns at the hastily called emergency meeting, they were taken aback.
A group of people was unexpectedly deposited in the middle of the country, dressed in colorful armor and armed with weapons never seen before. They were less surprised than the average hero would be, having dealt with unexpected surprises within a year more than the usual person would in their life, but the report still caught them a bit off guard. It gave them a sense of relief that they didn’t seem to be hostile, from what little Hal observed as he reported back.
“It was almost like looking in a mirror,” he commented, gesturing to all of those gathered in the room, “bickering and nudging each other. Seemed to be a sign of how close they are to each other, though the division between the ones with red and blue armor seemed to be something that unconsciously formed.” He tapped a finger to his jaw, thinking some more before speaking again, “There were three in particular who seemed to briefly huddle up before splitting up to either side.”
“Do you hear anything Supes?” The Flash looked to Superman, who seemed to be listening out for the potential conversations happening.
“They seem to recognize Earth to some extent, though one in particular seems to be a bit hesitant when speaking about how they recognize the area.” Superman frowned, as if there was something he couldn’t quite understand.