Chapter Text
Crime Alley — 02:45 AM
The air in the apartment above the old cinema is thick. Heavy. It smells of settled dust and the metallic ghost of gun oil. A place time forgot, fitting, really. A mirror of the man who lives here now.
Jason sits on the floor in the middle of his own organized chaos.
Architectural blueprints of Gotham lie open, anchored at the corners with bullet casings. Police reports stamped "Confidential" cover the worn-out rug. Not that he had any trouble getting them actually. But he didn't expect much from Gotham's security in the first place.
Security? That's a joke.
Red lines connect points across the maps — escape routes, Batman's bolt-holes. Plans for a city of the future discarded decades ago rest beside the new ones.
In the center of it all, the cold blue glow of a laptop lights up Jason's face.
What's on-screen isn't just any file. If only he were analyzing an old blueprint… or maybe he is. He's staring at Batman's failed project.
Images of the Batcave.
Untouched.
The static camera shows a simple memorial. Bare. Too cold for someone who claimed to care.
A glass case.
A uniform.
A plaque.
Jason Todd – A Good Soldier.
The silence is almost total. Broken only by the laptop's low hum and static. Jason stares at the words. Reads them. Reads them again, until the meaning of "Soldier" starts to crack and fall apart.
A laugh escapes his lips. Long. Uncomfortable.
Jason freezes.
It doesn't sound like his own.
As if something else is laughing with him.
The hair on his neck and arms rises.
Because he's heard that sound before.
Not like this...
Closer.
He shuts his eyes for a second, then looks back at the screen.
"Good soldier," he mutters.
The word hangs there.
Soldier.
For one second, his defenses slip.
The memory hits without warning: the soft light of the Manor library. The smell of Alfred's tea and old wood. A book in his lap. A smile on his lips. Rain gently tapping against the tall windows. A large, calloused hand ruffling his hair with a tenderness he never knew how to process.
"Good night, son."
The rain outside suddenly turns heavy, hammering the glass.
The memory shatters. Jason blinks. The apartment slams back into place. Jason blinks again. His jaw tightens. The only constant left from the past is the rain outside, not so gentle anymore.
The rest? Cold. Empty. Real.
"Son…" The word feels strange. Wrong. Like it never belonged to him. Maybe it never did.
"Well, fuck you too, Bruce."
He slams the laptop shut. The sound cuts through the silence like a gunshot. Harder than he meant.
Jason exhales and runs a hand over his chest. Feels the uneven texture beneath the soft fabric and press lightly.
Precise cuts. Surgical. Too clean for a fight.
A short, nasal laugh
"At least they didn't hurt."
He rises in a fluid motion. The stiffness in his body betrays the fury he's forcing back into purpose.
Not on impulse this time.
Not blind revenge.
The right way.
He walks to the table, scans the paperwork. Forged documents — skill from learning with the best and worst in the world. Names. Histories. An invented past to fill the black hole where his death should be. One day, that past is gonna step into a courtroom and give Gotham a show, swearing that he never died.
Plans not just to explain the past, but to redraw the future. The future of Crime Alley, of Gotham, of Batman — and the lack of a future for the Joker.
He picks up a sheet, reads it again: "Victim of prolonged kidnapping. Survivor."
He lets it drop with something like disgust.
"Pathetic." A pause. His eyes go hollow for a moment. "Not that far from the truth, though."
He moves to the grimy window. Gotham breathes out there — nearly about to choke. Still alive, more than you can say about some people... And above it all, cutting the sky like a god of stone and steel: Wayne Tower.
Jason stares at it for too long.
"You had your chance…" His voice is low. A promise to the waiting darkness.
The anger rises. Old and familiar. He swallows it. Shapes it.
"Now it's mine."
He picks up the pistol from the table. Checking the magazine is automatic — drilled into him by a thousand simulations and real fights. The weight of the gun settles into his palm like it's always been there.
He pauses. One second. Two.
He's about to go back. Not as the kid who stole tires. Not as the hero wanting for approval from his fa- mentor
Something cleaner.
More efficient.
More dangerous.
Crime Alley is waiting. It always has. From the day he was born to the day he was killed.
He walks slowly to the door. His hand hesitates on the cold metal knob. He takes one last deep breath. Leaving the Jason Todd of the memorial behind.
He opens the door. The dark, silent hallway doesn't react to him. Of course it doesn't.
One step out. Another. No hesitation. No looking back.
"Let's see if you recognize this, Gotham."
The door closes behind him.
Outside, the rain pours. Washes the filthy concrete of Crime Alley without changing a thing.
It never changes.
Gotham keeps breathing the same way it always has — an asthmatic smoker breathing in the rain. Bruce's order and logic never really reached it, after all.
Water runs down Jason's face. He doesn't wipe it away. Doesn't take cover.
He lets it.
He stops at the exit.
Above, Wayne Tower slices through the dark sky.
Untouchable.
For now.