Work Text:
Living in a mansion the size of a small European principality, you can never truly relax. Bruce Wayne has learned this all too well over the years. Just when you think you can finally find peace in your study, perhaps contemplating the nature of justice or wondering if Alfred is scolding you for eating a whole box of Oreos at 3 a.m. last Tuesday, someone always breaks in through the window.
Or, more precisely, they pick the lock on the back door like a polite person.
Hearing the signature "click" of the Batcave's backup door, Bruce didn't even look up from his tablet. He knew the rhythm of that lock-picking. Dick's was light and melodious, like conducting a small symphony orchestra. Tim's was meticulous, precise, and efficient, each bolt falling with the precision of a mathematical formula. Damian was too lazy to pick locks; he just stared at them until they opened on their own, purely out of self-preservation.
Jason's lock-picking technique sounded like someone trying to break into a bank vault with a hairpin and brute force.
"The front door is unlocked," Bruce shouted without looking up.
"What's the fun in that?" Jason's voice echoed in the cave, his boots clicking on the metal stairs. "Besides, I have to maintain my skills. Who knows when I might need to break in..." He paused. "Wait, why isn't the door locked?"
"Tim forgot to lock it after his patrol. I left it unlocked in case he came back for a spare belt."
"That's a security risk."
Bruce finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Jason, you just broke in."
"Yeah, but what if it was a bad guy?"
"You were wearing a red helmet, the design of which screams vengeful fury."
Jason removed his helmet, revealing a completely different expression, nothing like revenge. If Bruce had to describe him, he'd say Jason looked like a kicked puppy desperately trying to act like nothing happened. This worried Bruce. A kicked puppy usually meant one of three things: someone was dead, someone was dying, or he'd run out of vitamins.
Running out of vitamins was far more common than people thought. Jason had a very strong opinion about supplements.
“I’m wearing my tactical helmet,” Jason corrected, slamming it down on Bruce’s desk. “It’s different.”
“Really different?”
“One’s designed to intimidate criminals; the other intimidates them while also providing excellent peripheral vision and Bluetooth connectivity.”
“You have Bluetooth in your helmet?”
“Otherwise, how am I supposed to listen to a podcast while punching someone in their knee?"
Bruce decided not to delve into the meaning of that statement. Some things are better left unsaid, like the fact that he discovered Damian had a thriving shop on eBay selling “official” Batman memorabilia—and because it was genuinely authentic, that was the problem.
“What are you doing here at 2:47?” Bruce glanced at his watch.
"Isn’t it normal for a son to visit his father in the middle of the night?"
"At our house? No."
Jason slumped into the chair opposite Bruce's desk, and Bruce noticed a subtle unease emanating from him. He was slumped more heavily in the chair than usual, his jaw clenched tighter. And he wasn't wearing his favorite leather jacket, but his second-favorite.
This was serious.
"Have you eaten?" Bruce asked, a polite way of asking, "Are you alright?" but he didn't want to show his emotions like a normal person would.
"I can eat."
Bruce pressed the intercom button. "Alfred, can you—"
"Sir, I'm already preparing master Jason's usual order." Alfred's voice came through before Bruce could finish. "Large chicken cutlet, extra seasoning, a serving of fries, and a chocolate milkshake. Should I interpret this as an emergency visit or a regular visit?"
Jason leaned closer to the intercom. "It'semergency, but manageable. About a 6 out of 10 in urgency."
"Got it. I'll add an extra order of fries."
The walkie-talkie clicked off. Bruce leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing Jason with the same focused attention he usually displayed when analyzing crime scenes. "Want to talk?"
"Not really."
"Okay."
A full forty-three seconds of silence followed before Jason finally broke it.
"I need to borrow your PR team."
Bruce blinked. He anticipated all sorts of things Jason would say—accidentally killed someone, framed for murder, or I adopted seventeen cats and needed help—but this was definitely not what he expected.
“My…PR team?”
“Yeah, you know, the kind that makes you look like a responsible billionaire, not some emotionally immature vigilante in a Batman suit beating up poor people.”
“I don’t beat up poor people; I beat up criminals.”
“In Gotham, some people think the they are the same.”
Bruce was speechless. “Why do you need my PR team?”
Jason shifted uncomfortably, a hint of unease creeping in. Jason Todd was never unsettling; confident, angry, sarcastic, and occasionally melancholic, his artistic flair was such that even Batman couldn’t write good poetry, but he was never uncomfortable.
“This is stupid.”
“Jason.”
“This is really stupid.”
“Jason.”
“Okay!” Jason raised his hands. “Never search for yourself online. That’s the lesson. Never, ever, under any circumstances, Google yourself.”
Bruce felt a near-sympathetic unease, an unease stemming from his carefully cultivated emotional range over the years, from “cold objection” to “slightly less cold objection.” “What did you find out?”
Jason didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled out his phone，not his encrypted work phone, but the ordinary one he used to order takeout and give one-star reviews on Yelp to restaurants that put raisins in their potato salads.
He shoved the screen at Bruce with the kind of aggressive force usually reserved for wanting someone to kill a spider.
Bruce took the phone and began to read.
Reading it over and over.
Then he read it again.
“Hmm?” he finally said.
“Hmm?’ That’s all your reaction? Hmmm?”
“This… is comprehensive.”
“That’s a personal attack!” Jason’s gloved fingers poked at the screen, but nothing happened. The tactical gloves weren’t compatible with touchscreens, which only fueled his frustration. He ripped off one glove and tried again. “Look at this guy. User GothamKnight88 says Jason Todd is a monster, probably broke a priceless vase, and has serious emotional management issues.”
Bruce scrolled down. “This one says you kicked dog.”
“I didn’t and never kick any dog!” Jason’s voice rose about seventeen octaves. “I feed stray dogs. I have a fixed feeding route! There’s a three-legged terrier on Park Street that loves bacon treats and a German Shepherd mix in the Diamond District that I’m going to neuter; it only eats premium organic dog food. Do you know how expensive organic dog food is? I spend almost $200 a month on dog food!”
“I know. I’ve seen your credit card statement.”
Jason froze. “You…know about my dog?”
“Jason, I’m Batman. I know everything.” Bruce paused. “There’s also a pink collar with rhinestones on the receipt.”
“That’s for Princess. She’s the bulldog I adopted in Crime Alley. She deserves nice things!”
Bruce felt a dangerous throbbing in his chest. Was it…love? Pride? Or the urge to smile? He ruthlessly suppressed the emotion. He had to protect his reputation.
“Let me see the rest of the comments,” he said, swiping through Jason’s phone screen.
This forum, apparently called “Gotham Watchdog”…a veritable cesspool of bizarre opinions and worse. Bruce recognized these people immediately. They wrote articles saying Batman was a menace to society, yet they speculated at the slightest hint of suspicion.
User WayneWatcher69: Jason Todd is the embodiment of all of Gotham’s problems. Born in Crime Alley, he probably started stealing before he could even walk. Bruce Wayne tried to reform him, but human nature can't be changed. This kid was destined to be a problem child.
User GothamGossipGirl: I heard he used to smash things at Wayne's house. I bet it was full of priceless antiques. Bruce Wayne was too nice to say anything, but you know he was relieved the kid finally moved out.
User BatmanSuperfan: Jason Todd has serious anger management issues. I saw him at a charity gala once, and he looked like he wanted to punch someone. Knowing him, he probably actually did.
User TruthSeeker2024: Does anyone find Jason Todd's "death" and resurrection suspicious? What has he been doing all these years? Most likely committing crimes overseas. Definitely crimes.
Bruce had to admit that when people speculated about the cause of Jason's "mysterious" disappearance, the truth—that he was dead, resurrected by an ancient, mysterious pool, went on a killing spree, and then returned to normal—was even more absurd than their guesses; it was in itself a dark humor.
"This guy said you 'might be illiterate,'" Bruce said.
"I'm literate. I have a master's degree in English linguistics!"
"Really? You have any student loans to tell me about?"
"I..." Jason paused. "No, but I could get a master's. I've read more books than most master's holders. I have a complete set of opinions on the Oxford Comma..."
"What do you think of the Oxford comma?"
"It's necessary. Anyone who disagrees is a monster, but that's not the point!" Jason snatched back the phone. "The point is, what do these people think I am... what..."
"A delinquent?" Bruce asked.
"I was only eight!"
That's the problem. The real problem. Some people hate the Red Hood, and Jason had accepted that, even treating it like most people's other hobbies, like knitting or birdwatching. But Jason Todd, the kid Bruce brought home from Crime Alley, the kid who wore the Robin uniform and believed in heroes?
That Jason was still important to him.
Bruce leaned back in his chair, the first smile he'd shown during the conversation.
“What?” Jason asked. “Why are you smiling? It’s not funny!”
“It’s kind of funny.”
“It’s not funny…”
“Jason, most of Gotham’s media has been saying for years that you were born in Crime Alley and destined to be a dog catcher before you were eight.”
“I didn’t!”
“I know you didn’t. That’s why it’s funny.” Bruce pulled out his tablet and typed rapidly. “Do you want to know what you were like when I brought you home?”
“I was cool, strong, and…”
“You believed in Santa Claus.”
Several complex emotions flashed across Jason’s face, finally settling on “insatiable disbelief.” “I don’t believe you.”
“Of course you do. That was your first Christmas at the manor. On December 23rd, you asked me very seriously if Santa Claus could find you in such a large Wayne Manor or if you should leave him a note with your contact information.”
“I…I was…”
But Bruce was now flowing on and on, his carefully preserved memories pouring out like evidence in court. “You asked if you could wish for a pair of jeans. Just a pair of jeans. I thought you were going to say ‘I want a puppy’ or ‘I want a motorcycle’…”
“Should I have said I wanted a motorcycle?”
“But you wanted jeans. Blue jeans, boy’s size 8, because you had a hole in your knee. Bruce’s expression softened, an expression that would terrify any criminal who encountered him in a dark alley. “I bought you ten and several Christmas sweaters. You wore that reindeer-patterned sweater for three whole months.”
“Well, first of all, that sweater was tactically warm…”
“And,” Bruce continued, mercilessly reminiscing, “you also liked horror stories but were actually too scared to watch them. Remember Monkey Paw?”
Jason’s expression quickly shifted from offended to deeply ashamed.
“I don’t remember.”
“You saw it in the library. At two in the morning, Alfred found you hiding in the kitchen crying because you were too scared to go back to your room.”
“I didn’t!”
“Dick insisted you undergo desensitization training. He even bought you a gorilla plush toy.”
“That thing was terrifying!”
“You threw it in the park, and Dick found it while on patrol and brought it back.”
“That’s probably because Dick enjoys psychological torture!”
“You’re actually afraid of a plush toy.”
Jason stood up, pacing back and forth, his face flushed. “Okay, okay, I admit I was a weird kid, afraid of plush gorillas, believed in Santa Claus, and had emotional reactions to all sorts of things like a normal person. happynow?”
Bruce was actually quite satisfied, though he would never admit it. “The key is, those people online don’t know you at all. They’ve fabricated an image of you based on stereotypes and conjecture. They see ‘Crime Alley’ and ‘Wayne Manor’ and fill in the gaps according to their own understanding.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Why do you care what they think?”
Jason stopped pacing. “I don’t care.”
“Jason.”
“I don’t care.” But his tone lacked persuasiveness. “I just… I don’t care that people hate Red Hood. That was my own choice. I put on the helmet, I made the decision, and I took the consequences. But Jason Todd? That kid didn’t make any choices. He was just a kid from Crime Alley who happened to be in the right place when Batman needed to steal a tire.”
“You still stole my tire.”
“Nonsense.” Jason slumped back in his chair. “I just don’t want people to think that kid… was bad, because he wasn’t. He was scared and hungry, just doing his best.”
So that’s it. That’s the real reason Jason barged into the Batcave at 2:47 a.m. seeking PR help.
Bruce understood this better than Jason.
“Alfred will send your food,” Bruce said, hearing the distinctive sound of the freight elevator. “Eat, and we’ll figure something out afterward.”
“We?”
“You want my PR team. I’ll arrange it.” Bruce pulled out his phone and started texting. “But I must warn you, they’re very professional, which means they’ll ask you some sensitive questions about your past and will have you attend some events you absolutely don’t want to go to.”
“Like what?”
“Charity event. Photo shoot. And possibly an interview with vicki vale
Jason looked genuinely terrified. “I’d rather fight the Joker.”
“The Joker doesn’t have a primetime news program.”
“Neither does vicki vale”
“She does have a show now; Gotham News gave her a thirty-minute segment.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m Batman. I know everything.” Bruce paused. “And she interviewed me last month about Wayne Enterprises’ new youth literacy program.”
“How was the interview?”
“She asked me seventeen questions about you.”
Jason narrowed his eyes. “What did you say?”
“I said you’re a privacy person.”
“That…was surprisingly subtle.”
“Then she asked if you’d really been arrested for street racing.”
“I was only eight years old, and it was your car; I was returning it!” “I know.” “I told her.” Bruce smiled again. “She seemed a little disappointed.”
Just then, Alfred pushed in a silver food cart piled high with enough food to feed a Boy Scout, or Jason Todd. The chicken cutlets were the size of plates, the fries were stacked high, defying several structural engineering principles, and the milkshakes were so thick the straws stood upright.
“Young Master Jason,” Alfred greeted, placing the food on Bruce’s table with the precision of someone who had done it hundreds of times. “I’ve taken the liberty of adding some vegetables.”
Jason looked suspiciously at the small salad. “Alfred, I love you, but if you think I’m eating rabbit feed at three in the morning…”
“The salad is for Young Master Bruce. You need to eat something proper.” Alfred turned to Bruce. “You had Oreos for dinner again.”
“How could you—”
“I’m Alfred; I know everything.” The butler looked at Jason, his expression softening slightly. "I believe this crisis isn't too serious, is it?"
"Jason searched his name online," Bruce explained.
"Ah." Alfred's expression was a mix of emotions, shifting from sympathy to "I told you so" and then to "That's why we can't have beautiful things."
"I guess the result... isn't good?"
"They say he kicked a dog."
"Ridiculous! Young Master Jason would never harm an animal. He once accidentally stepped on a beetle and cried."
"I didn't..." Jason stopped, clearly realizing that defending himself would only confirm that claim. "Okay, yes, but it was a big beetle; I thought it would be fine, but... this happened."
Alfred patted him on the shoulder. "Right. Crisis management is in your hands." He turned to leave, then stopped. "Young Master Jason, if I may be so bold, I've always thought you were a young man of high moral character, with a strong sense of ethics and excellent literary taste." “Thank you, Alfred. Wait, how did you know my taste in literature?”
“I’ve been cleaning your safe house for three years. You’ve collected quite a few first editions of Dickens and an astonishing number of romance novels.”
Jason’s face flushed red. “Those are for research!”
“Of course, sir.” Alfred’s expression showed he didn’t believe him at all. “Anything else?”
“My dignity?” Jason muttered.
“I’m afraid that can’t be washed away.” Alfred stepped into the elevator, leaving Jason alone to ponder his life choices and the chicken cutlet in his hand.
Bruce watched Jason wolf down his food with the same gusto he usually displayed when he was committing crimes. The scene strangely comforted him.
It had almost become the norm.
But for the Bat Family, it was highly suspicious.
“So,” Jason mumbled, his mouth full of chicken, “what’s the plan?” “Bruce pulled up a file. He said on his tablet, “First, we need to understand the severity of the problem. How many forums are there?”
“I don’t know, I stopped counting after twelve.”
“Twelve?”
“To make amends, I was in a bad mood that night and made some unwise decisions.” Jason took a big gulp of his milkshake. “It all started with a Google news alert I set up a few years ago, when I felt it necessary to know if anyone was linking Red Hood to Jason Todd.”
“And then?”
“Then apparently someone posted an article titled ‘Jason Todd: From Wayne to Prodigal Son?’”
“An entire forum was analyzing my baseless ‘problem childhood.’”
“Let me see.”"
Jason pulled out his phone and opened the article. Bruce had to admit, it was shockingly bad. It had everything: speculation presented as fact, the anonymous source was clearly fabricated, and there was a photo of a teenage Jason looking somewhat uncomfortable at a Wayne family dinner, captioned “Problem teenager exhibiting antisocial behavior at high-society event.”
“You were fourteen,” Bruce said.
“My stomach was upset.”
“What?”
“You should remember, I ate some sweet shrimp at the buffet, and I don’t know if it was because the stuff wasn’t fresh or because I then ate salmon and ice cream, but for the next three hours my stomach was upset.” “That’s not ‘antisocial behavior'; that’s food poisoning.”
Bruce zoomed in on the photo. Jason did look uncomfortable, but it was the regret of “why did I eat those shrimp?” not the unease of “I was planning to subvert society.” However, he could understand that those looking for evidence of a crime might interpret it differently.
“Okay,” Bruce said, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call someone over.” “It’s 3 a.m."
“Public relations never stop.” Bruce dialed a number he’d set up a speed dial for, because billionaire vigilantes, like him, needed a good public image. They needed some good tactical gear. “Bethany? This is Bruce Wayne. I need your help.”
Bethany had been the head of public relations for Wayne Enterprises for seven years, which was equivalent to seven hundred years elsewhere in Gotham City. She’d handled all sorts of news, from “Bruce Wayne caught dating a supermodel again” to “Wayne Enterprises accused of harboring a vigilante” to “Is Bruce Wayne really Batman?”
However, she never expected to be called to Wayne Manor at 3:30 a.m. to discuss Jason Todd’s online reputation.
“Let me sort this out,” she said, sitting in Bruce’s study, a cup of Alfred’s emergency coffee and a laptop on her lap. “You want me to help your son, who’s legally dead and probably still a crime boss, rebuild his public image?” “He’s not a crime boss,” Bruce said.
“He controls Crime Alley,” Bethany countered.
“He protects Crime Alley.”
“With guns.”
“Mostly rubber bullets,” Jason interjected, wolfing down his second chicken cutlet, “and I only shoot the damn people.”
Bethany glanced at Jason, then at Bruce, then back at her coffee as if wishing it would turn into a stronger drink. “Mr. Wayne, I appreciate your trust, but I’m just a public relations expert, not a miracle worker.”
“You’ve made people forget I drove the Batmobile to the charity auction.”
“That took six months and involved a donation to Gotham Children’s Hospital.”
“You’ve made people think the dark circles under my eyes from fighting Killer Croc were from ‘boxing at the gym.’” “Then I’d have to hire three different personal trainers to verify your claim and find a very reasonable plastic surgeon.”
“So you can do it.”
Bethany sighed, the kind of sigh only someone paid a high salary to do the impossible would have. “Okay. But I need you to be completely honest. Everything. Every single thing, every rumor, every possible scandal.”
Jason and Bruce exchanged a glance.
“What exactly does ‘everything’ mean?” Jason asked cautiously.
“Did you kick a dog?”
“No!”
“Did you break a priceless vase at Wayne Manor?”
“I broke a vase; it was an accident, and it was really ugly.”
“Do you have any problems with emotional management?”
“I mean… what exactly does ‘problem’ mean?”
Bethany pulled out a notebook. “Tonight is destined to be a long night.”"
At five in the morning, Bethany had filled seventeen pages of notes, and the coffee she'd drunk would have knocked a normal person unconscious. Jason admitted to some minor offenses, but he maintained his innocence on all major charges.
“Okay,” Bethany said, flipping through her notes, “this is the situation we have now. Public opinion about Jason Todd is largely based on speculation, stereotypes about Crime Alley, and a very unfortunate photo of you with food poisoning when you were sixteen.”
“Don’t forget about me driving around in the car,” Jason added.
“You were only eight then, returning Bruce’s car.”
“Yeah, but strictly speaking, I stole it first.”
Bethany added another note. “The good news is we have a lot of positive material to use. You’re well-educated, and you run a charity.”
“What do I run now?"
Bruce coughed. “‘The Stray Cat Foundation.’ You registered it as a tax-deductible item last year to offset the cost of dog food.” “That’s not…” Jason paused. “Actually, it’s a brilliant idea. Why didn’t you tell me I had a charity?”
“I’ll tell you now.”
Bethany had already started typing. “A stray cat foundation. Providing food and care for stray animals in impoverished communities. That’s perfect. We can build on that.”
“How?” Jason asked suspiciously.
“Take photos. You’re surrounded by a bunch of adorable stray dogs. Maybe a few cats too. Can you smile?”
Jason made a face, which could barely be considered a smile if you squinted and had recently suffered a head injury.
“We’ll figure something out,” Bethany said tactfully. “What else? Hobbies? Interests? Anything that makes you seem…approachable?”
“I read.”
“Books or other people’s criminal records?”
“Both?”
“Just books. What kind?” Jason shifted uncomfortably. “Mostly classics. Jane Austen, Dickens, and Brontë. Some modern fiction too. Poetry.”
Bethany’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “Perfect. We can use that. ‘From Crime Street to Classics: Jason Todd’s Inspirational Journey.’ We can arrange for you to do a reading at a library or something.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Jason,” Bruce said gently, “you asked for help yourself.”
“I’m looking to repair my online reputation, not turn me into a performing monkey.”
“Do you want people to continue thinking you abused dogs?”
Jason slumped into his chair, looking dejected. “Fine. But I won’t read children’s books. I have my bottom line.”
“You can read whatever you want, as long as it’s not…” Bethany glanced at her notes. “Romance novels?”
“Those are for research!”
“Research what?”
“Research…character development…emotional development…and…shut up.”
Brook was definitely laughing now. He tried to hide it with his coffee cup, but Jason saw it, pointed at him accusingly.
“You're enjoying all this.”
“I'd love to see you pay for your actions.”
“I didn't do anything!”
“You Googled yourself.”
“That's not a crime!”
“In this house? That should be a crime.”
Bethany cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, please focus. Jason, you need to list all your merits and achievements.”
“I'm a good shot?”
“A legitimate achievement.”
“I haven't been arrested in six months?”
“My goodness,” Bethany muttered, scribbling down another piece of paper. “Okay, let's try something else. Bruce, what are Jason's merits?” “Bruce thought for a moment. “He’s loyal, brave, and has a strong sense of justice, even if his methods… are a bit unconventional. He’s well-read, and although he says he hates children, he’s surprisingly good with them and genuinely wants to protect those who can’t defend themselves.”
Jason stared at Bruce, as if he had a second head. “Were you… praising me just now?”
“I was just stating facts.”
“You never state facts about feelings.”
“I didn’t mention feelings. I was talking about observable behaviors and personality traits.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?"
“Obviously not.”
Bethany watched their conversation, a look of sudden realization dawning on her, as if she suddenly understood why her work was so difficult. “Okay. Then, let’s emphasize Jason’s protectiveness, his intelligence, and his dedication to helping the vulnerable. We can start from those areas.”
“How?” Jason asked.
“We’ll launch a public relations campaign.” "This includes social media promotion, community engagement, and perhaps some carefully selected interviews." Bethany opened a presentation on her laptop. "I've drafted a preliminary strategy."
"Only twenty minutes have passed!"
"I'm very efficient." She turned the screen to show a slide titled "Save the Red Hoods (tentative name)." "Phase One: Building Online Influence. We're going to create verified social media accounts for Jason Todd—not the Red Hoods, but Jason Todd himself—and start posting positive, human content."
"Like what?"
"Photos of you and your dog. Photos of you reading, doing things that ordinary people do."
"I'm not doing things that ordinary people do."
"You'll learn." Bethany switched to the next slide. "Phase Two: Community Engagement. You're going to start doing some impactful charitable work, not the kind involving shooting criminals, but the kind involving helping old ladies cross the street and volunteering at a charity cafeteria." “I’ve helped so many old ladies, like Mrs. Parker in Crime Alley; I help her with her groceries every week!”
“Did you write all of that down?”
“Why would I write it down?”
“Because if it’s not posted on social media, it’s like it never happened.” Bethany flipped to the next slide. “Phase Three: Strategic Interviews. We’ll arrange for you to appear on some suitable platforms. Like the Gotham Gazette’s humanities column or that podcast about Gotham history.”
“That host, the one who thinks Batman is an alien?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
Jason looked at Bruce. “She’s crazy.”
“She’s effective,” Bruce corrected. “She’s convinced people I’m a responsible adult.”
“Got it.”
“I need your full cooperation,” Bethany said. “That means when I put you on screen, you have to"" Now, you have to laugh when I tell you to, and you're not allowed to shoot when I take pictures."
"Even if they deserve it?"
"Especially if they do."
Jason groaned. "Okay, but I won't wear a suit."
"You have to wear a suit."
"I'll wear a red helmet."
"You won't; you'll wear a nice shirt and try to act like you don't like violence."
"But I do like violence."
"Then you'll have to get started." Bethany closed her laptop. "I need a few days to get everything arranged. In the meantime, Jason, I need you to check your social media history and delete anything that might... be problematic."
"What constitutes problematic?"
"Anything involving threats, violence, or 'I'll kill you' or something like that."
Jason took out his phone and started swiping. "This will take some time." "---
Three days later, Jason Todd's official social media account went live, posting a carefully crafted message:
@JasonToddOfficial: Thank you all for your support over the years. Looking forward to sharing more about my work with the Stray Cats Foundation and other projects. #Gotham #CommunityFirst
The post included a photo of Jason, not in his Red Hood uniform, but in jeans and a Henley shirt, crouching and petting a three-legged terrier. He had a genuine smile on his face, the kind that made him look like a human being rather than a vigilante.
Bethany took forty-seven photos to capture this moment.
The reactions from netizens... were mixed.
@GothamGossipGirl: This is clearly a PR stunt. Jason Todd doesn't care about dogs at all.
@WayneWatcher69: Isn't this crisis management? We all know what kind of person he really is." People
But there are also:
@GothamPetLover: Wait, is the Stray Cat Foundation real? They helped my neighbor's cat last month. Well done!
@BookNerd94: Is that a first edition of a Dickens novel?
Jason watched the comments flood in from his safe house, sipping his coffee and struggling to resist the urge to throw his phone.
"This is embarrassing," he muttered.
"This works," Bethany's voice came through the phone, clearly feeling they needed to stay in touch. "You gained 500 followers in an hour."
"Now 500 people know I fed the dogs."
"Now 500 people know you're a human too. Keep posting; I'll send you a content calendar." Jason's phone vibrated; he had received an email. He opened it and found a detailed post, photos, and a schedule of "spontaneous" community interactions.
Monday: Post a photo with a rescue dog
Tuesday: Share a favorite book excerpt
Wednesday: Volunteer at the relief canteen (with photo)
Thursday: Share an old photo from Wayne Manor.
Friday: Q&A session about the Stray Cats Foundation
"You want me to do a Q&A?"
"People want to know you, so let them know."
"What if they ask about the resurrection?"
"They won't ask."
"What if they ask about me attacking Tim with the batarang?"
"Why did you attack Tim with the batarang?"
"He was annoying."
"Let's avoid this topic," Bethany paused. "Jason, you need to trust me. This will definitely work, but only if you're fully committed." Jason glanced at his content calendar, color-coded and filled with several spreadsheets. Bethany had somehow turned his life into a project plan.
“Okay,” he said, “but I’m not going to use TikTok.”
“TikTok would be later.”
---
By the second week, Jason had established a routine. He’d get up, patrol Crime Alley, record his dog-feeding route, read some literature, post a quote, and try to ignore the trolls who still insisted he was a delinquent.
It exhausted him.
“This is more tiring than catching real criminals,” he complained to Dick during a rare patrol.
Dick, who had been enthusiastically following Jason’s social media activity, grinned. “Don’t be like that; it’s not that bad. You got 2,000 likes on your last post.”
“That was just a picture of a dog.”
“Everyone loves dogs!”
“I feel like a fraud.” "I should be Red Hood, the most feared crime boss in Crime Alley, and instead I'm posting my favorite Jane Austen novel on Instagram."
"Which one?"
Jason stopped. "I'm thinking of quitting."
"Too late, you've already done it." Dick landed on the rooftop next to him, still smiling. "Anyway, I think it's good to let people see the real you."
"The real you would throw criminals off buildings."
"The real you would cry while reading Monkey's Paw and feed stray dogs." Dick's expression softened. "There's nothing wrong with letting people see both sides of you."
"Vulnerability can kill."
"Or rather, it makes you more human." Dick took out his phone and opened Jason's latest post. "Look at this comment: 'Jason Todd is exactly the kind of person Gotham needs. He understands the struggle, yet still chooses to lend a helping hand. 'That's no small matter.""
Jason read this comment, then the ones below. For every troll who insisted he was a monster, two or three defended him. The residents of Crime Alley had witnessed him helping his neighbors. Someone praised the Stray Cat Foundation. A few even simply liked the books he recommended.
“Hmm?” he said.
“‘Hmm,of what?”
“I don’t know. I thought nobody really cared about Jason Todd. Red Hood, yeah, he was useful. But that kid in Crime Alley? I thought that version of me was long dead.”
“He’s not dead. He’s just grown up.” Dick patted him on the shoulder. “And, I have to say, that kid was never a delinquent. He was just scared and just wanted to survive.”
“Don’t be emotional with me, Grayson.”
“Too late. I was already planning to comment on all your childhood embarrassing moments under every single one of your posts.”
“You dare!”"
But Dick was already tapping on his phone, laughing as if it were the best night of his life.
---
The turning point came in the third week when Bethany arranged for Jason to host a reading at the Gotham Public Library. It was supposed to be a small event, maybe thirty people, mainly book club members and Wayne Foundation donors, all of whom had been "politely" persuaded to come.
In the end, two hundred people showed up.
"This is a fire hazard," Jason said to Bethany in a low voice, looking at the crowd filling the library lobby.
"This is publicity," Bethany corrected, straightening his collar. "Smile, wave, and then read a passage you've prepared."
"I thought I could just read anything?"
"You can choose from this pre-selected list." She handed him a card with three options: a passage from Great Expectations, a passage from Pride and Prejudice, or a poem by Robert Frost.
Jason glanced at the list, then at the crowd, and then at Bruce, who had come to offer fatherly support and was now surrounded by about seventeen reporters taking pictures.
“I will read Dickens,” Jason decided.
“Good choice.”