Chapter Text
A gentle breeze tickled the nape of Gordon's neck. He pulled his water bottle from his lips, “Can't sneak up on me anymore, Bats. We've known each other for too long.”
He turned around to face no one. The rooftop remained empty and silent, minus the humming from the Batsignal and a Batburger wrapper being tossed across the floor by the warm wind. Gordon huffed, exhaustion seeping into his bones. Hanging around the Bats wasn’t doing his paranoia any good.
“You were saying?”
“Jeezus!” Gordon jumped a considerable height from the ground. The water bottle slipped from his hands, spilling its contents all over his shoes. He looked up to see Batman’s static expression, the amusement radiating off of him. He grumbled, “There goes my two and a half dollars.”
“You should consider switching to a reusable drinking bottle. It’s better for the environment.”
The older man ignored him, “The feds want your help with the hunt.”
Batman hummed, “What made them change their minds?”
“The chaos.” Gordon bent down to pick up the plastic bottle, then walked towards the trash can, “We got too many bounty hunters in the city, interfering in operations. And sixteen agents are out of commission ‘cause of unrelated incidents. They’re not used to Gotham. Luckily, we already arrested the people Quintana brought in the country with him. As far as we know, he’s all alone, unless he made new friends.”
The bottle fell into the trash with an empty clatter. He looked over his shoulder, “But you already knew all that, didn’t you?”
“I might’ve been keeping up.”
“I’m assuming you already know where he is?”
“No, but I know where to look.”
“‘Course you do,” The commissioner said with a sigh, leaning on a wall, “What do you got?”
“A study in Ohio showed that students in racially diverse high schools are likely to form segregated friend groups. Criminals aren’t that different from high schoolers, which is how we have gangs based on ethnicity. Immigrants have a higher tendency for this. When you’re far away from home, your first instinct is to look for people with a similar background who you can relate to.”
“There's only one Filipino gang in Gotham, and they like to keep outta trouble.”
“There’s another gang that’s been mistaken for a Filipino gang by non-locals. More famous, powerful, dangerous. If Quintana is looking for new allies, that would be his first stop.”
Gordon’s brow was raised at the masked man, “Mind being less cryptic?”
“Hn,” Batman looked around, “You should get solar panels. The Batsignal consumes too much energy.”
He turned his head towards the giant spotlight, “Since when were you so environmentally conscious? Have you been talking to Iv—?”
Batman was gone. Gordon didn’t sigh because he felt like he’d done it enough times tonight. Instead, he reached for his packet of cigarettes and hoped tonight wouldn’t be too messy.
-
Club Ilaya, formerly Babylonia, was the first property owned by the Red Hood gang outside of Crime Alley. The official owner was Jonathan Moreno, whom people assumed to be Red Hood, until they actually meet the mild-mannered man. He, like many older members and top officials of the gang, was Filipino. Although the Red Hood gang is officially a Crime Alley gang, recruitment started on the locally named Manila Street (Jason’s old home) with the approval of the Balikbayan gang, before the word spread. Some people– white ones– would see that one or two members of a gang were Filipino and conclude that they all were.
A lot of renovations had been made since the last time Batman was here. Large glass panes replaced many of the interior walls, eliminating the old club’s inclination to secrecy. The VIP area had open tables instead of private rooms. The BDSM dungeon was thoroughly disinfected and turned into a breakroom. Batman’s X-ray camera didn’t reveal any more hidden rooms. He turned his comm on, “Found anything?”
“Quintana arrived by taxi at 10:06 this morning with a man wearing a domino and red mask,” said Oracle. They both knew that only one person in that gang wore a domino. She continued, “The cameras were only turned on thirty minutes before the club opened at nine. According to the new layout, every room has a camera except for the one above the dance floor.”
Batman looked towards the room overlooking the whole club, covered in reflective glass. It was a new addition to the building. Oracle told him the hallways were clear. Batman approached the room with caution, the image of Cesare Bonasera’s suspended body flashing behind his eyes. When the news came out, the other mobsters backed off with their tails between their legs. A few more incidents occured. Many petty criminals were being beaten within an inch of their lives, then dropped off in front of the city’s most expensive hospitals. A high-profile drug dealer ‘accidentally’ got hooked on her product and almost died of an overdose after allegedly trying to sell in the Alley. An arms dealer who tried to swindle Hood attempted suicide too after his right-hand man/lover left him for one of Red Hood’s captains. Anyone who broke Hood’s rules or had the audacity to be immoral within his sight would fall victim to one of his cruel punishments.
There was only one reason Red Hood would harbor a human trafficker, and it wasn’t to help him.
Batman entered the room. Only the colorful lights from outside illuminated the unlit room. Red Hood’s silhouette stood before the glass. His earpiece was silent. Short-range signal blockers. Hood turned around to face the newcomer, whiskey glass in hand, domino in place. His white hair was gone, likely with just temporary dye. He wore a red button-up, black slacks, and dress shoes. He was dressed like a middle-aged mob boss rather than a boy barely out of his teens. His mouth twisted in annoyance as he set his drink on the nearby table loudly, “You’re early.”
“You know why I’m here,” said Batman, closing the door and locking it.
“Yeah, yeah,” He picked up his red mask from the table, placing it on his face. His movements were too careful, like he was trying his best not to seem sluggish. Definitely not sober. The boss motioned towards the corner of the room, “He’s over there. Alive.”
Someone was sitting in the darkest part of the room, silent and still. Batman feared it would be another body, despite what Hood said. When Quintana still didn’t react as he approached, he aimed a flashlight at him. The man on the FBI’s wanted list was propped up on an armchair, still wearing the suit he was last seen in, eyes wide and empty. They followed the light when Batman pointed the flashlight at them, indicating he was still responsive. And yet, he just sat passively. There was a little dried blood around the inner corner of his left eye. Batman’s blood went cold.
“What did you do to him?” growled Batman.
“Do you want a report?” Red Hood’s voice dripped with sarcasm, pacing around the room. There was a stagger in his steps that he tried to brush off. “Zeus Quintana, seventy-six, cult– I mean, religious leader from the Philippines, champion against homosexuals, birth-control, women’s rights– and he’s a convicted child sex trafficker. He flew to the US to evade arrest, only for the FBI to put him on the most wanted list. He heard rumours of a Filipino gang in the city and planned to seek asylum and form an alliance. Zeus came running to me, expecting kinship. He got a prefrontal lobotomy instead.”
Quintana blinked at Batman.
Batman turned to Hood, who just shrugged. “Hey, if you wanna preach 19th-century values, you’re gonna get 19th-century punishments.”
“He was supposed to face trial.” His voice raised ever so slightly. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep calm when the other man acted so casually. “Because of what you did, hundreds of victims will never get their justice. He was supposed to answer for his crimes in front of his whole country.”
“Yeah, in the Philippines, where he’s buddies with every wealthy elite and government official, and he’s got thousands of devout followers willing to lay their pathetic little lives for him. Either he’ll get off scot-free, get sent to the most luxurious prison they could get him, or get smuggled out to another country where Batman can’t reach him. He’ll get to keep building churches and raping little girls to his heart’s content, but at least it’s out of your hands, right? Quintana spent years making sure he’d be invincible. Justice never stood a chance.”
“I can’t let you get away with this.” Batman’s fists clenched harder.
Hood sauntered towards the door, “I said I ain’t gonna kill if you’ll mind your business, and you agreed. Unless you can get him a death certificate, I haven’t murdered anyone. I’ve been holding up my end of the deal, and you’ve been holding up yours. Well, the others are more stubborn, but whatever. Anyways, I gotta bounce. I don’t like being here at peak hour—”
Just as Hood’s hand wrapped around the doorknob, a Batarang embedded itself into the door with a loud thud. He lifted his fingers to the side of his neck and felt the warm liquid dripping from a small cut. His body language was tense and unreadable as he slowly turned towards his attacker.
Batman was already in a fighting stance, strong and true. It hid the way his heart was beating out of his chest at the idea of fighting his son. The blood in his ears was so loud he could barely hear the words coming out of his mouth. “Just because you’re not committing murder doesn’t mean I’m letting you go.”
The sound of heavy breathing was getting louder and louder from Hood’s mask. He spoke, voice hoarse, “That’s not what we agreed upon, Batman. You don’t get to change the conditions because you don’t like ‘em.”
“I agreed to that deal thinking you were going to make the right decisions for the sake of the people.” Pointing at the elderly man, Batman gritted, “This isn’t what’s good for the people; this is you acting on your emotions rather than logic.”
“You ain’t got a fucking clue what’s good for the people, Wayne,” Jason stalked closer, “You ain’t got a fucking clue. Punching them in the jaw ain’t gonna do nothing; throwing money at them and telling them to turn their life around ain’t gonna do nothing. Some people just gotta go.”
“If that’s how you’re going to run things, I can’t let Crime Alley be ruled by a monster.” The word felt like knives on his tongue, yet he said it anyway. He could taste the bile rising in his throat. Someone needed to say it. He couldn’t enable this behavior just because the Red Hood was his son. He had a duty as Batman to protect Gotham from villains; it was just his luck that one of them happened to be Jason.
Red Hood went scarily still. Batman waited for him to keep talking, but he just stood there. He didn’t even seem to be breathing. The loud music and voices from below occupied the silence. Then, Hood barked out a laugh. He sounded like he had a wide smile as he spoke, but his voice was void of any humor. “Oh, okay. Fine. That’s okay! That’s okay. That’s okay! If you’re not gonna hold up your end of the deal, then neither am I!”
Jason whipped out a gun and fired at Quintana.
Batman jumped in the way and raised his cape to catch the bullets Hood kept firing. He charged at the younger man, backhanding the weapon out of his grip. Hood caught the punch aimed at his temple and kicked at Batman’s armored knees, to no effect.
“Stop this!” Batman wrestled his fist out of Hood’s grip, grabbing his wrist and twisting it behind his back.
“Fuck you!” Hood shrieked. His free hand quickly dove into the utility belt, pulling out a Batarang and burying it between the armor panels and into the flesh of Batman’s thighs. He grunted in pain as he felt the blade twist. Batman spun around, dislodging the Batarang and throwing Hood over his shoulder.
He landed harshly on his shoulder. Half of his domino was peeling off. His visible eye was wild, with dark circles under it. Red was outlining the sclera, and his blue irises were consumed by black. Jason looked at Bruce with burning hatred. Shame filled Batman’s gut because this wasn’t even the first time one of his children looked at him that way.
He limped to Hood, “We don’t need to break off the deal. You just need to stop—”
But he wasn’t listening anymore. Hood charged at him like a rabid animal, clawing at the exposed skin the cowl allowed. Because of Batman’s injured leg, they lost balance, tumbling backwards until his back hit the glass. A crack, then another, followed by several louder ones. A spider web of lines formed across the glass wall before Batman and Red Hood crashed through.
Batman could hear Oracle yelling in his ear, but he was too busy falling in the air to listen. The room was several feet above the ground. Falling from that height would leave one permanently disabled, if not dead. Batman shot a grapple at the ceiling. He grabbed the back of Jason’s shirt as they were falling, but the boy was still trying to attack him. His fingers slipped, but they were close enough to the ground as Jason rolled to soften his fall. Thankfully, the people in the club were smart enough to leave when they heard gunshots earlier. The dancefloor was mostly empty, save for security and a few stragglers.
Just as Batman landed, Hood flipped forward and brought his foot down on his head. While still reeling from the blow, he delivered another kick to Batman’s injured thigh, causing him to fall on one knee. Hood spun around to deliver a final hook kick, but Batman grabbed his leg and threw him down. He got back up, noticing how Red Hood’s gangsters did nothing but stand by awaiting orders.
Hood quickly got to his feet to charge at Batman. His muscle memory made him throw a hook, knocking Jason down again.
‘It hurts me more than it hurts you’ was a phrase Batman heard when he stopped a mother beating her son's backside with a broom. He never understood phrase, nor did he ever understand how parents could hit their children. He was privileged, others said, because his parents never hit him, and perhaps he'd understand when he had children of his own. He had Dick, then Jason, then Tim, then Cassandra, but he still didn't get it. Until now, feeling the faint ache in his knuckles and the crushing pain in his chest. He finally understood why parents hit their children: it's because you've failed them.
The punch knocked the mask off Hood's face. Most of his face was now visible. There was a red cut across his cheekbone. His face twisted in fury, making him look older than he is. He was in smart casual, unarmored, unarmed, and unprepared, with whiskey in his breath. Batman had seen footage of the Red Hood in battle. Talia's influence was written all over his fighting style– never lacking lethality and grace. But Jason's greatest weakness had always been his volatility. The man Batman was fighting against now was not a disciplined assassin, but an unstable kid with too much training. And he was going against Batman. Jason stood no chance, yet he didn't seem like he was backing down any time soon.
A cylinder landed at Red Hood’s feet, blinking red. He wasted no time kicking it towards Batman and jumping away. The vigilante wrapped his cape around him, but there was no bomb. It hissed loudly as smoke shot out from both ends, making the cylinder spin erratically. A large cloud consumed them both. It took Batman a second to realize the smoke screen wasn't for Hood, but for himself. Not willing to dwell on the reason why, he fled from Club Ilaya.
Jason's furious screams grew farther as he did.
-
“Where are you, Batman?! I'm not fucking done with you, motherfucker!” Jason's throat was starting to burn from the screaming and smoke. His eyes stung and teared up. His vision was still red since Batman spat out that word. Monster. He'll show him what a monster really looks like. Jason whirled around, preparing to attack. “BATMAN!”
“Boss!” over the ringing of his ears, he heard someone calling for him through the smoke. Their voice was laced with worry and frustration. Johnny appeared in front of him, grabbing his shoulders. His mask, which he rarely wore, was firmly over his face, his breathing amplified by the respirator feature being turned on. “We gotta go.”
Jason snarled, gripping the older man's forearms harshly. His fingers dug so deep it had to hurt. “You did this. You let him get away.”
He didn't even flinch as he spoke calmly, “Your face is exposed. Everyone outside’s tryna get in with their cameras. Unless you wanna be on the front page of the Gazette, we gotta go.”
He removed his mask from his face and placed it over Jason’s. He instinctively inhaled the clean air into his lungs. Johnny started coughing, reminding Jason of his lieutenant's asthma. He grabbed Johnny's arm and dragged them away.
Back in Johnny's bathroom, Jason's wounds are dressed and his bruises are being iced. The bathroom was nice but not too fancy, equipped with a bathtub that fit Johnny's stout body, a marble sink now scattered with medical supplies, and a bidet. His new place was a far cry from the dump he rented when Jason recruited him. It was as nice as you could get in Coventry. Close enough to his family and the university in case of an emergency, but not too close where they'd call him out for hovering.
Slowly, the anger and adrenaline drained from Jason's bones, replaced with a heavy exhaustion. His muscles were punishing him for every little movement. He wasn't prepared for a fight today, but he should've known Batman was always ten steps ahead.
He stared at himself in the mirror, pulling the ice pack away from his face. Blue and purple were beginning to bloom across his cheekbone. Catherine and Willis didn't beat Jason; they always called him an easy kid. Even when their lives started to go downhill, they never took it out on Jason. That was why it was such a shock for him when he received his first backhand in the boy's home. From there, the hitting never seemed to stop. If anything, it was the most mercy anyone would show a kid in the streets. His first time at the manor was him living all his dreams while also waiting for the needle to drop. The dread Jason felt was so bad that he would pray every night that one of them would just slap him so he could get it over with. He'd do things he thought would trigger it, to no avail. Bruce and Alfred's patience was terrifying for him. When Jason thought he finally did it– Martha's favorite vase reduced to pieces all over the carpet– he'd closed his eyes and braced for impact. Bruce sent him to his room and locked the library. Jason was always reassured that no one would cause him harm. He believed them eventually, but the dread never left. The punch from Batman was inevitable, and quite frankly, it brought him relief.
At least there was no room for doubt anymore. No room for attachment and hesitation. Bruce hated him. That was that.
“You're stupid,” said Johnny, standing by the door. He was holding folded clothes, probably his son’s.
Jason blinked in surprise, too caught up in his thoughts to notice him. He glared, “Fuck you mean?”
“Going against the Bat. You could’a put the whole gang at risk for what? You told our folks you'd kill them and their families if they disobeyed your rules, then you turn around and pull this shit?”
Anger began simmering up again. Johnny had always spoken plainly, especially when it concerned the well-being of Jason or the gang. He provided much-needed honesty where everyone was scared of Red Hood. Sometimes, it just pissed Jason off. His eye twitched, “Fuck off, John.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, “I entertained your little crusade against the clown because it was well planned, and quite frankly, you deserved the closure. And I would go along with whatever plan you got for the other rogues, so long as you think it through. But go against Batman, Jason? You ain’t thinking nothing through! You’re just letting your daddy issues interfere with the job.”
He put the clothes on the sink, giving Jason one last scathing look before turning to leave. “Don’t go back to your place. You’ll just drink yourself to death again. I ain’t dealing with your tantrum and your hangover.”
“I ain’t a fucking kid!” Jason shouted at Johnny’s back.
“Yeah? Well, stop fucking acting like one.”
“You’re not my fucking dad!”
“Someone has to be!” The sound of the bedroom door slamming reverberated across the hall.
Jason was shaking, his nails digging into his palms. A frustrated yell escaped his throat, but it got no response. He grabbed the nearest breakable thing– a glass soap dispenser– and slammed it at the far wall. It exploded into tiny little pieces. It brought no satisfaction.