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Frustratingly, the first person to clock Jason was fucking Two-Face.
“So, how much longer are ya gonna keep this up?” former DA Harvey Dent, the good one only by technicality, offered during a rare smoke break in their brief zombie-based partnership. “Not the leader thing; the whole Red Hood thing.”
Jason thankfully hadn’t smoked since the whole blowing up thing. He sometimes pondered if the crowbar, the oxygen deprivation, the second oxygen deprivation, or the dip in Ra’s goop managed to erase his habit. Who could tell?
“Define ‘the whole Red Hood thing,’ please.”
“You know what I mean,” Harvey insisted, leaning against the science lab’s halls. “It’s a solid gimmick and you wear it well, but it’s never felt like a passion of yours. Putting the reheated and frankly annoying Joker imagery aside, there just isn’t much to it. You’re using crowbars now? Why? Some impenetrable inside joke? Just doesn’t feel like your heart’s really in it.”
That somehow hit a nerve Jason was never aware of and he could never hope to define. He hated it. He kept pressing it. “Yeah, well. What else would I be?”
Harvey shrugged. “Damn if I know. All I know is this city ain’t for the half-assed.”
“You just love your halves, don’t ya?”
The man merely raised his arms in surrender. “Not trying to pick a fight, Jason. Just an observation. My… other half always knew what he wanted to be. He committed to the bit on a homicidal level every other psycho in town struggled to match. Your old man, he definitely knows his deal. He’ll die in that costume, I’m sure…” He took a long drag. “When the time comes, will you really be happy dying as Red Hood?”
Jason remained silent and glaring. His sharp tongue produced no answer.
So, Harvey just clicked his tongue. “Ah well. Guess it wouldn’t be your first time dying with someone else’s gimmick.” He flicked his cigarette and walked off.
Jason Todd hated his body. Far as he was concerned, it was a goddamn traitor.
Every attempt at disciplining his body, to have some level of control of this vessel, always cow tailed to the workings of fate. Jason was big now, as terrifying a thought as it was. He spent much of his developing years struggling for food on the street, unable to process much beyond his basic necessities. Then, he was found and nurtured and honed his body into something approximating Dick Grayson at his physical peak, an impossible goal he never had the chance to reach.
Then, he died. And whenever he came back, waltzing around Gotham like the walking dead, exercise and a well-balanced diet weren’t exactly a priority. Then, there was the Pit, the fucking Pit, which allowed his body to finally reform into something resembling a healthy human being. By the time he regained his mind, he had already surrendered any agency over his own body. This body was not one he crafted for himself over years of hard work; the water washed his scars clean from muscles he never got to grow.
Sure, since then, he trained, he fought, he was a proper killing machine, but no number of push-ups would make this body anything more than a compromise.
Maybe he was being dramatic, a common case after his more intense training; those moments of quiet isolation whenever his shirtless body was glazed in sweat, and his muscles cried out to take the shape of something he wasn’t entirely sure he needed or wanted. He could usually disassociate for a few hours and train all day. Something was different this time.
It was bewildering. Nothing was really new, save for that odd nerve. Its awful tingling only intensified with each new pain, infecting every nerve cluster with its unease. He put his tank top back on. It was hard to ignore, but that didn’t stop him from trying.
Barbara was unsurprisingly still sitting at her Oracle console whenever he exited her VR chamber. “Done already?” she questioned without bothering to look behind her. “Hope my new sim was up to snuff.”
“Oh, it completely kicked my ass. In a good way.” He kept the details minimum. “Very thorough.”
“Speaking of thorough…” Barbara finally swerved her chair to face her guest. “It’s not often we get to talk one-on-one without either of us screaming into the ear of the other.”
“Hey, the sun’s still up. We still have time.”
Her body language became very librarian. “Alright then. I’ve been meaning to breach a subject with you. A kinda serious one.”
The nerve tightened and Jason’s tongue dried. “What is it?”
“Well. There was discussion following the whole Task Force Z scenario.” Of course they were talking about him behind his back. The earth remained in orbit. “That whole operation only worked because, legally, you still don’t exist. At least, not permanently as any sort of living person.”
“And? Lemme guess: B wants to reintroduce his somehow not-dead son to the world. Pass.”
“That is an option,” she emphasized curiously. “Not the only one. You actually have quantifiably infinite options. Any name you want, any backstory, you name it, I’ll make it the truth. I could even make you an entirely new entity still named Jason Todd. Whatever way you want, it all branches from a clean binary: do you want to legally exist?” Each word was a tap on her armrest. “Yes, or no?”
He didn’t have an answer. He only had sulking and pockets for his hands. “It’s something to think about,” he conceded. “Does this offer expire anytime soon?”
“No, not really. I’d just prefer sometime before the next crisis.” She took his shrug as a maybe. “Oh, one more thing while I have you here.” She rolled over to a nearby table to pick up a stack of fliers. “Alysia’s catering a queer punk show over in the Hill this weekend.”
“Okay. You want me to guard it?”
“No, the girls already volunteered. I thought I’d trade in some of those countless favors you owe me and ask you for some help advertising the event.”
Jason eyed the fliers. Bands with names like Kitty Dogbed, The Derogatory Gay, and Treacly Pablum were apparently performing down at the old metalworks near midnight on Friday. He appreciated an abandoned factory being used for more than the evil lair industrial complex.
“Hmm. Okay. But it’s one favor per flier.”
“Barely a budge.”
By the time that same Friday night rolled around, Jason had nothing else to do. No leads, no intel, nothing that would justify putting on the Red Hood.
Because that’s what Red Hood was nowadays, wasn’t it? A justification. A reason to go out, a reason to interact with the only people that would have him, a reason to be trusted. The bat painted on his chest wasn’t a tribute; it was a membership card on a good day and a penance on the worst, and most of his life now was cycling between those two extremes.
Nowadays, just looking at the mask activated that nerve.
It called out to him like some unknowable answer to a question he had yet to decipher. He only knew it was something beyond his eternal default. He would clench his fists whenever it acted up, intensifying the sensation in hope of it forming into anything recognizable. It never did.
So, fuck it. Why not go to a punk show?
The great thing about being in a hoodie is that nobody in a hoodie really exists. Wearing a red Gotham Knights hoodie in Gotham made you as interesting as a plastic bag.
The Great Big Dump, once legally known as Downtown Landfill, had become a center of Gotham’s nascent neo-punk scene. If you had dissenting literature, a primal scream, or a general disdain for the expectations of society, this was the place to be. Kids everywhere were laying on no doubt diseased discarded couches smoking and huffing whatever premiere opiates they could get their hands on, starting bonfires of trash, ax-throwing, kissing, groping, and throw-upping. Anarchy reigned at the Great Big Dump. To some, it was a means of political resistance, to others, a way of life.
Okay, so maybe they weren’t kids. If there were any, they were primarily amongst young adults technically within what one might call his age range; college kids tasting independence for the first time, college graduates with nothing to lose, the outcasts, the misfits, blah blah. Empirically, he knew all these kids having the time of their life were very similar to him; in his mind, they might as well be separate species.
He obviously missed whatever youth movement that created this party and its endless variety of gender ambiguity. Rarely did he feel more like a cop than scanning the party trying in vain to pin any categorization for any partygoer. Jason wasn’t an idiot, he knew about trans people, defended them before both verbally and violently, but his feeble cisgender mind struggled to make sense of the sheer density of gender miasma.
Jason knew the chemical composition of every drug at this party, yet he could not place what pronouns would be offensive to any person. Or anyone. Here was a place where categorization died. Every person was a new puzzle, and every attempt to solve them made his skin vibrate at such an irritating frequency that he found himself stealthily squeezing his arms underneath the hoodie. Everyone else at this party looked comfortable in their skin and unafraid to show off that skin to the world. Lucky him for finding the one place where a guy walking around in a hoodie looked out of place.
What was he even doing here? Loud, persistent rumblings of percussion vaguely reminded him. Electrified guitars soon followed, all hailing from the one compound in this dump. Hollering quickly followed, followed by electrified wails of anguish. Judging by the cheers, this was unlikely a villainous Saw trap and simply what passed for entertainment here. It was emotional, Jason gave it that.
Pressing earplugs in, he elected to enter the belly of the beast he worked so tirelessly to advertise. A large crowd had swarmed the band, making it difficult to make out the three gothic members of ambiguous everything releasing all their blood and sweat into every note. Beyond them, tables were set with all manner of semi-legal pleasure and political awareness. Whippets were supplied along with foldable pocketknives, tasers beside what he assumed to be butch lesbians selling alcoholic beverages, and doubtfully prescribed vials of estrogen by the woman he actually recognized stirring up some succulent-smelling noodles.
Jason didn’t know Alysia Yeoh personally, but Babs always spoke highly of her and forced him and everyone else to follow her socials. An activist by day, a cook by some nights if she felt like it. Since he’d been regularly force-fed her social media posts, he knew she was a regular at these events. Plus, they had a common friend! Talking to her was probably preferential to awkwardly lumbering around like an undercover cop.
So, between songs, when the aural atmosphere approached breathable, Jason approached with a wave. “Hey! That stuff smells pretty good. What is it?”
“Japchae!” the chef replied, shifting slightly to show a “She/Her” button on her apron. See? Effective communication! “Stir-fry with noodles, jackfruit, carrots, the whole shebang. All for ten bucks!”
“Sounds like ten dollars well spent!” God, he needed to work on his small talk skills. At least he had the money. “You’re Alysia, right? Friend of Babs?”
That got some attention away from the portable grill. “Babs as in Barbara? Barbara Gordon?” There was whooping and hollering blasting from the crowd now. Alysia leaned in conspiratorially, eyes darting for any witnesses. “Are you one of her… co-workers?”
Jason chuckled, momentarily enjoying the cloak and dagger. “Yep. The one with the red hood.”
“That guy?!”
Music started blasting again, the beat much faster and dancier this time around. Alysia did a quick apology before properly serving Jason a bowl of piping hot japchae. Many words were attempted between the two of them, largely attempts at deciphering any sound into proper language, but nothing that could really overcome the primal wail of punk queers.
Alysia eventually settled on summoning yet another flyer for yet another event, a side quest within a side quest. This one advertised a clothing swap at a nearby bar on Sunday with noodles provided by a certain familiar someone, as she was happy to point at. Social moors suggested he was best off accepting the flyer, so he did, before waving a nonverbal thanks and finally heading out of this stupid party.
Why did he come here again? Because he hated himself? Yeah, that sounded right. At least he got some pretty amazing noodles through the trouble. Good as they were, all he wanted was an inconspicuous retreat.
“Well well! What have we here? A Jason out in the wild? In a social setting? Good heavens, I’ve seen everything now!”
Seemed his stealth was lacking.
The Blonde Batgirl herself stood proudly behind him. The mask hid most of Steph’s face, but that damnable smirk would give her away to even the dumbest Daily Planet employee. “Didn’t think you were the partying type, kid.”
“Kid?” Jason sputtered. “Who are you calling a kid? Pretty sure I’m still older than you, Batgirl.”
“Preeeeeetty sure your math is off. Feels unfair to count deadtime. The only way to solve this is a copy of your birth certificate. And your death certificate. And your rebirth certificate.”
Rebirth. Was that what happened? No, now wasn’t the time to spiral. Certainly not in front of Dead Robin #2, the Jason Todd of Dead Robins! At least she was somewhat easy to talk to. “Algebra aside, the hell are you doing here? Last I checked, you’re already a hip young person. You don’t need to play superhero as an excuse to party.”
“Hey! I’ll have you know I’m here on very serious bat-business.” Hands heroically on her hips did indeed signify serious business. “Batgirl and I make it a habit to check these kinda parties out since we’re, you know, the only ones cool enough to not look out of place here. Cass keeps a lookout for potential invaders, while I dutifully prowl around and analyze the drugs to make sure they’re purely safe and recreational and not the kind that makes you evil or dead or an evil dead.”
“Gotta look out for Deadites.”
“Legit. I’ve had more than my fill of the undead, thank you very much. No offense to present company.”
“Offense felt.”
“Whelp, can’t please everybody.” With a shrug, Stephanie turned about face to wave him off and descend deeper into the party. “Anyway, gotta go! No way am I gonna miss Treacly Pablum! They deserve the Batgirl bump! Have fun with your night off!”
“Yeah yeah, see ya.”
And so, Jason turned about face himself, heading farther away from another wasted night.
Rebirth certificate. What a stupid joke that wouldn’t stop bouncing in his stupid head. Did no longer being dead constitute a rebirth? Was Red Hood a rebirth or merely something designed to fill an impossibly deep hole?
For a time, it felt easy traveling across the world, acquiring new names and new purposes at the drop of the hat. No one had to get attached to him, no one had to know his past or worry about his future. But Talia did. Talia knew his name and said it often, emphasizing practically the one vestige he had remaining of his life before. He didn’t even have his old body. All he had was Jason…
There was still an edge whenever anyone used his name. Years of regret were woven into every utterance of Jason. Only Stephanie managed any level of levity purely through inexperience. Once more, it was a lot easier to talk to everyone while on a mission wearing a mask and calling him the name of a murderer.
Red Hood worked well enough as an alternative to Jason Todd. But now it didn’t. Now, he wasn’t sure what could mask Jason Todd. All he knew for certain was something had to.
He had to be something other than Jason Todd at any cost.
Two days later, the nerve was still acting up. He wasn’t even doing anything, the helmet was nowhere to be seen. Jason checked the rearview mirror of his parked pickup and saw nothing but felt everything.
He ignored his rearview mirror and peeked directly behind, expecting someone to pop out of nowhere. A rogue, a bird, a thug, a war, anything that would stop him from getting out and walking towards the bar. No such luck. His legs kept moving towards where his brain really didn’t want to be.
Not like he had to be here. There was no strategic purpose for this, nor was Alysia someone he really knew. There was no earthly reason he could gather as to why he’d even want to be here. This was purely the intention of the itch…
The bar was simple, more spacious and less historical than a lot of Gotham’s dives. While the entrance was akin to the average sports bar, complete with a nice selection of booze and booths for the less bar-inclined, the back might as well be a whole other building, a somewhat cramped but still inviting square performance space with stairs that lead to surrounding railings. Said square was presently occupied by racks upon racks of used clothing being surveyed by customers both hard and soft in the gender binary. There was a table in a corner, the only hint that this may be an enterprise, where Alysia was inspecting the newest batch of donations.
Any hope of going about his business unrecognized was dashed immediately. “Oh hey! Hood guy!”
Jason cringed at the accidental accuracy but nonetheless turned. “Yeah. Hey. Surprised you recognized me.”
“I mean, not a lot of guys are still rocking a skunk stripe,” Alysia teased, plucking her fringe for emphasis. “Plus, your funny little gait gave you away.”
“My gait?”
“Ya know, the way you carry yourself. That slouch, the awkward jerkiness like you’re entering sacred ground and you don’t feel worthy.”
Jason remained stone-faced. “Forget it. I don’t need this.” As good an excuse as ever to leave.
“Wait wait wait! Sorry, I’m just teasing you! I used to be the same way!”
Somehow, that stopped his exit. The tingle returned. “The same how?”
Alysia gave him a look. He couldn’t really name any of its many cocktailed emotions, only able to identify the pity and tinge of regret. “Well. Alright. Okay. Honestly? Complete honesty? The way you’ve been carrying yourself reminds me a lot of me before I transitioned.” Once the sentence finally escaped, she bit her lip.
Jason’s mouth hung open to no sound, that nerve seemingly overtaking his entire nervous system. First of all, he did not clock that Alysia was trans at any point (not that he made a habit of such a thing), and secondly…
“W-what do you mean?” He couldn’t even be angry. He wished he could. That would have been an easy, identifiable emotion that wasn’t whatever this was.
“Like…” She popped her lips as the words buffered. “Okay, so. I kinda wore a ton of hoodies as a kid. And I’ve seen videos of me back then. Had that kinda creeper walk, like the guy that tends a graveyard. It wasn’t even that I was ashamed of my body, it was more like I never felt anything about my body, right?” She maintained eye contact even while stuffing piles of clothes into trash bags. “Why would I worry about how I presented myself if there wasn’t really any way I wanted to be seen by the world? I never really had a moment of agony like ‘oh, I hate my skin, I hate my body, ooooh!’ Not to belittle anyone that’s been like that. Totally valid, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“I guess my main problem was… it took me forever to identify a problem. I just kept going through life, same ole same ole, doing everything I thought I had to do, but never really feeling like I was heading towards anything.”
Jason opened his dry mouth. “You couldn’t imagine a future for yourself.”
Alysia looked downright relieved. “Yes! Thank you. You understand.”
“I understand.” Shit. He understood.
Shit shit shit. The tingling had overtaken his arm, every possible nerve burning. Rubbing and pinching his skin only exacerbated the torrent of sensations. Only he wanted those sensations. Except he didn’t. He really didn’t.
Alysia noticed, her eyes flashing something like concern briefly before tightening with purpose, like an archer preparing its bow. “Look: I know I can’t make any assumptions about you, just like I don’t want you making any about me. End of the day, I only have my own shit to project onto you. But… can I ask you a question? Actually, two questions. Two normal questions for most people that absolutely changed my life. And these aren’t gotchas; I mean them very, very sincerely. Do you mind if I ask them?”
He minded a lot. “No.”
Her spine straightened and her breathing slowed. “Seeing as I’m a perfect stranger and we’ve never exchanged names before, what would you like me to call you?”
He didn’t know. “And the other?”
“Course, I couldn’t just make up a name on the fly.”
“Of course.” Talia al Ghul lounged comfortably upon Jason’s couch, peachily partaking in a rare cigarette that her host permitted. After a small drag, she faced the closed bathroom door to continue the conversation. “So, what did you say?”
“I said I wasn’t sure. But she was nice and understanding and was just like, well, here, there’s no judgement. Still, she directed me back to the clothes and… you know, I never cared much about fashion before. I’ve cared about appearance and costumes and everything, obviously. Red Hood’s nothing if not an aesthetic.”
“Is that what you call it these days?”
“Hey, Red Hood’s very memorable! And marketable! You should see the plushes they make of him! Plus, I dunno. I know how to disguise myself to look like regular people do, but I really hadn’t picked clothes specifically just for me since… since.”
Talia nodded, even if Jason couldn’t see. “I understand. You haven’t had difficulty getting what you need for quite some time. However, it’s something else entirely to want, especially simply for wanting’s sake. If you spend so much time doing what you feel must be done, it becomes difficult to want.”
“Wow. What sage wisdom. Working on a self-help book?"
That got a very sincere laugh. “Soon as I get help, certainly!” She allowed herself one last drag, delighting in the burning coolness of her throat. “Must say, I’m still shocked you invited me here without an ulterior motive. Seemingly. It’s refreshing to simply be wanted.”
“Guess I’m trying to get a little better at wanting.” For a minute, the apartment grew silent, until Jason spoke back up. “Admittedly, I… I wanted you here because I knew you’d be honest with me and lie to everyone else. So, I guess I’d call that an ulterior motive.”
Talia waved her hand with her completely expended cigarette. “Oh, please. If anything, it’s an interior motive. One that I’m more than happy to fulfill while I’m in town.” She rose from her comfortable vinyl rest to face the bathroom door more directly. “Now, is that enough preamble? Because I know you can change into much more elaborate clothing within seconds. You wanted my opinion, did you not?”
Again, a long quiet, broken by a sigh in the bathroom. “I’m still getting used to wanting. I don’t know what this is, Talia. I don’t know why this feels so important and scary and…”
Talia waited patiently for more words, which did not come. “There’s a mirror in there, correct?”
“Y-yeah.” A rare tremble.
“Look. Who do you see?”
A small delay, followed by a hitched breath. “I don’t know…”
“Is that so?” Talia asked, voice coated with amusement. “Well, I’m hardly one to let a mystery linger. May I see?”
It took a minute, but Jason, or whomever, finally emerged. Cloaked in a comfy, stylish floral dress with a slick black leather jacket and heels to match, they walked very tepidly, trying to keep focus on Talia more than their appearance. They smiled like they were embarrassed to be smiling, as if some layer of irony might make the moment more palatable. “Well?”
Talia had no such irony. She stood up and smiled at the child. “Oh baby…” she muttered softly, her smile welcoming and knowing. “It’s like I’m seeing you for the first time.”
“Melony.” Batman’s voice was firmly in that annoying authoritative-concerned zone.
“Wow, first try, Bigman. I’m impressed. Did you rehearse my name on the drive over?”
He smiled. Fuuuuuck, Bruce just had to smile. “The entire way.”
Melony Johnson adjusted herself in bed, wincing at the tiny shocks of pain along her bandage-covered shoulder. “Nice of you to finally stop by, old man. It’s only been six months.”
“You never contacted me.”
“You never contacted me.”
“And here we are.”
Here referred to the Themiscyran Embassy, where Melony had faded into the role of background character for several months. Talia pulled some strings to get her a comfortable gig as a live-in security guard, guarding embassy staff and their children whenever the wonderful princess was away. In the end, it was more of a high-profile babysitting gig, which she hardly minded. It was an honor just to be there, honestly, especially as it gave her early access to some early development Amazon hormone replacement therapy tech.
In one swoop, Talia managed to get Melony a job, a purpose, access to HRT, and helped fill a much-needed position at the embassy while also furthering Amazonian scientific research that would undoubtedly further Themysciran relations with the outside world. That woman could be scarily efficient.
Every day since Alysia asked those careful words was terrifying in ways death never was. Death was ancient and inevitable, but Melony was new and intentional. Melony was being crafted every day.
Melony also got stabbed by a rogue Khund warrior two days ago.
“And here we are,” she repeated.
Then, there was silence again, a literalized manifestation of their relationship, or lack thereof, the past several months. Because Melony could only be so brave. For all her changes, everyone else was the same and she really didn’t want to contend with everyone else. Not that it stopped them, obviously.
Babs found her immediately after she got the job and offered her legal services again, Dick came by a month later to check up, and Steph stopped by to take her clothes shopping while Cassandra simply left some old clothes in Melony’s room while they were away without stopping to say hi. The others simply offered their congratulations and teases over text and the occasional phone call, which always inevitably ended with them telling her to talk to Bruce.
Not like six months was a new record or anything.
“Can I ask… why Melony?” Bruce asked, breaking the silence again.
And earning a snort of laughter. “That’s your first question? Really?”
“I tried to see if you had a history with the name. Family tree, school friends, your favorite books. Taking Catherine Todd’s maiden name was smart and understandable, especially from a legal standpoint. I understand that, but I still haven't cracked where Melony came from.”
“And that’s all you’ve been worried about? The etymology of my new name?!” She wasn’t even angry. This man was just impossible to believe sometimes.
The question caused Batman’s nose to wrinkle, an effect he couldn’t really hide underneath the cowl. “I’m always worried about you. I worry about everyone. But I knew I couldn’t help you much with this. I…” It was only then that he relented and slipped the cowl off, showing off the disgusting full power of those sad, sad eyes. “I didn’t want to interfere. And I’m sorry if I ever did.”
“What? No, no! B, you’re fine, you’re—” Shit, her voice was cracking up again. All that voice training couldn’t prepare for five minutes with Batman. “God, you’re infuriating. You know that?”
Bastard had the gall to crack a smile. “I’ve heard rumors.”
There were a million conversations Melony REALLY didn’t want that morning. So much to argue, so much to untangle, so much she’d prefer stewing on than ever verbalizing. Still…
“Alright. Really wanna know where I got Melony from?” She giggled, something never thought possible months ago. “Me. I got it from me.”