Chapter Text
When you're abandoned, time turns into this weird, shapeless blur. The biggest reason you stop giving a shit about what time it is, or how the minutes drag by when you're on your own, is because more than anything else, you're just trying to survive. Just one more hour. One more day. One more week...
While this vicious fucking cycle keeps spinning, those 'midnight kisses' they sing about don't mean jack shit anymore.
When the only thing left to steal from God is death, Jason knew for a dead fact that if he hit that freezing asphalt tonight with that blind, gnawing pit in his gut one more time, he wouldn’t live to see the morning.
Would you gamble with starvation?
Jason had been sitting at this table for three solid days, and guess fucking what?
The dealer ain't handing out fair cards (I'm talking to you, you piece of shit God, play fair)`.
When hunger takes a seat at the table, if it wins, it's game over on the spot. It wouldn't matter a single damn bit how hard Jason had fought to stay alive, how street-smart he was, or what his high score was.
So, that little statistic is exactly what brings him here.
Jason knew the street talk about the Hood like the back of his hand. Anyone breathing in Crime Alley did.
The guy had only been on these cursed streets for a solid month, but the whispers crawling through the shadows had already turned him into an urban legend. Everyone was talking about that bloody white streak of hair peeking out from under the red helmet ,the two loaded mags always waiting under his jacket, and the metallic, static rasp of his voice modulator that sounded like the damn Angel of Death.
The street gossip spread so fast and chaotic that some claimed he was a metahuman, a three-hundred-pound mountain of muscle with a red helmet slapped on top; while others swore he had a lean, steel-wire frame and a wildly twisted genius. Word on the street was he once crashed a drug lords' secret meeting carrying a duffel bag full of severed heads, that black coffee ran in his veins instead of blood, and that he wasn't even strictly human. The Scourge of God. A modern-day Attila. Who the Red Hood really was had become Crime Alley's favorite daily headline. I mean, hey, Crime Alley loved talking about death, and the new death in town was the Red Hood.
So yeah, Jason was a smart kid, and he was well aware that stealing from the Red Hood was technically a piss-poor, downright suicidal idea.
But what the hell else was he supposed to do? Go jack the tires off the Batmobile?
At least the weight of the rusty crowbar in his hands gave him some fake sense of security. And the main thing that brought him all the way to the locked door of this warehouse wasn't just his hunger, but the most important whisper he'd heard: Hood's absurd, fiercely overprotective stance on kids.
The first and absolute rule the guy had carved into the streets was crystal clear: You don't touch kids.
Jason gripped the crowbar a little tighter, swallowing hard as he felt the cold metal against his sweaty palms. He was a kid himself. So, technically, maybe Hood wouldn't lay a hand on him. Right?
As his empty stomach kept eating itself alive and the freezing wind cut right through his torn jacket, Jason made his call.
It was definitely worth the risk.
Jason was actually getting lucky tonight.
A few streets down, muffled cracks and abruptly silenced screams echoed, breaking the monotonous rhythm of the rain. Some dumbass punks who probably tried to push product or extort protection money in Hood's territory were getting the most agonizing physics lesson of their lives at this hour of the night. Those cold, metallic thuds accompanying the sound of breaking bones were broadcasting to the whole street just how brutally efficient Hood's method of "silencing troublemakers" really was.
But the real jackpot for Jason was that Hood had parked his bike in the blind spot right behind the warehouse for his little bloody joyride.
Of course he did; Crime Alley was his. He could park his ride wherever the hell he wanted, even in the darkest, most desolate corner. What beat cop or street thug would dare write him a parking ticket or even look at his bike the wrong way?
Jason swallowed hard, fixing his eyes on the monster resting in the dark. Its heavy, matte-black chassis practically swallowed the feeble light from the streetlamp nearby. While the blood-red accents—classic Red Hood style—gave it an aggressive, predatory stance, the bike had smooth, high-tech touches that definitely couldn't belong to any ordinary street thug. The aerodynamic lines on the front panel were flawless, sculpted with an almost obsessive mathematical precision; the dashboard looked like a damn rolling supercomputer. (Rather than a classic crime lord's chopper, this beast was clearly the product of a wildly brilliant mind—it even had a hidden compartment to keep coffee at the perfect temperature for night patrols, though it was impossible for Jason to notice that right now).
God... as Jason approached the chassis with trembling hands, just looking at the transmission system was enough to take his breath away. It was an absolute engineering marvel. If he could just strip that engine block and fence it to some shady chop shop in Crime Alley, he could rent a warm, mold-free place for at least two months and put actual food in his stomach that didn't come out of a dumpster. Two months. That was a whole fucking lifetime for a kid gambling with starvation.
He knew the drill; get within three feet of the Batmobile, and deafening alarms would go off, instantly locking you down with security measures. Red Hood’s bike was an engineering marvel, sure, but Hood didn't do flashy, screaming Bat-sirens that just drew the GCPD's attention. He was the street itself. If this thing had an alarm, it was a silent ping sent straight to his helmet. He didn't need a force field; his ultimate defense was pure, unadulterated terror. Besides, who would be stupid, blind, and suicidal enough to steal a psychopathic crime lord's custom-built motorcycle?
Yep.
You guessed it. Give it up for tonight's champion, Jason.
Jason shook himself out of his trance. Alright, playtime's over.
Five minutes to midnight—or death, whatever—let's get to work. The early bird gets the worm, or in Jason’s case, gets to not starve to death in a gutter.
He wedged the flattened edge of his trusty crowbar into the seam of the side fairing, applying just enough calculated pressure to pop the clips without cracking the ridiculously expensive carbon-fiber shell. With his free hand, he fished a rusted multi-tool out of his jacket pocket. He wasn't going to try and hotwire the whole beast—that was a one-way ticket to getting tracked and skinned alive. He was going for the brain. If this machine packed half the tech it looked like it did, the Engine Control Unit nestled under the chassis was worth a small fortune on the black market.
His frozen, dirt-smudged fingers worked with a frantic, practiced speed. He bypassed the complex wiring loom, dodging the thick thermal cables, and started unscrewing the hex bolts guarding the main housing. Click. Twist. Click. Twist. The metallic sounds of his tools were completely muffled by the heavy Gotham rain. He was almost there. Just one more bolt, and the heavy metal casing would pop right off.
And then, right in the middle of stripping that last bolt, Jason felt it.
It wasn't a sound. There were no approaching footsteps, no dramatic cocking of a gun. It was a sudden, bone-deep drop in the temperature. A heavy, suffocating static filled the damp alleyway, making every single hair on the back of his neck stand on end. The air itself felt like it had suddenly died.
It felt like standing on the very edge of an open, freezing grave.
The street talk suddenly made horrifying, paralyzing sense. Hood and death were cut from the exact same cloth. The rumors were dead right: You don’t need to see or hear the Red Hood coming.
You just feel the reaper stepping into your personal space.
All the blood instantly drained from Jason's face. His muscles locked up, his survival instincts screaming at a deafening volume, completely short-circuiting his brain.
The heavy, rusty crowbar slipped from Jason’s numb fingers.
Clang.
It hit the wet asphalt, the metallic crash echoing through the dead silence of the alleyway like a gunshot.
What tore through the darkness wasn't a bullet to the head or a bone-crushing punch like he expected.
What tore through the darkness was a laugh.
Jason honestly expected anything. Getting brutally beaten, having his fingers snapped one by one, or even just getting buried right behind that dumpster... But definitely not this.
The legendary Red Hood, the guy who made the streets' blood run cold, literally dropped to his knees. He was clutching his stomach with his black leather-gloved hands, his shoulders shaking in the rain as he laughed uncontrollably.
The static, metallic timbre filtering through the voice modulator in his helmet made this hysterical, completely unhinged joy sound incredibly absurd.
"Oh my God..." Hood wheezed, trying to catch his breath between laughs. "So this is karma! The whole 'shoe is on the other foot' thing... Is this exactly how B felt? Oh God, this is priceless!"
Jason furrowed his brows deeply, standing there frozen on the wet asphalt. His heartbeat was still pounding in his ears, and a heavy wave of dizziness rising from his empty stomach was blurring his vision. Staring blankly at this so-called 'Angel of Death' who was currently doubling over in laughter, his mind clung to the only logical conclusion.
Yep. Since he hadn't had a single bite to eat in three days, Jason had finally snapped completely and was hallucinating from starvation. There couldn't be any other explanation.
Jason reached for the crowbar on the wet asphalt, not taking his eyes off the man for a single second. He gripped the cold metal so hard his knuckles turned stark white.
"I'll kick your fucking balls in, you red piece of shit!" he hissed.
Any rational human being would have dropped to their knees begging for mercy right now, or curled up like a small, defenseless cat, trying to look harmless and hoping to survive. But that wasn't Jason. His knees might be shaking from fear, but at least he wasn't going out like a coward; he was going down swinging. Those were the street rules. So, he ruffled his feathers like a stupid little bird, trying to make himself look big and scary.
At those words, Red Hood's chest shook with a fresh wave of laughter.
"Kid," he said, the mechanical voice from the helmet sounding distinctly amused, "you... you are definitely something else."
Jason swung the rusty crowbar in the air, setting up a dangerous barricade between them. "Don't talk to me, you psycho! I ain't dying!"
Hood threw his hands up in a 'fine, I surrender' gesture, but there wasn't a single ounce of seriousness in his demeanor. "You look pretty alive to me, little bird. I mean, dead men don't usually have much to say about kicking my balls in, right?"
Jason bared his teeth and hissed like a fierce, cornered stray cat trapped in a cage. He had every single one of his invisible claws out.
"Don't call me little bird."
But when Hood dropped his amused, slightly hunched posture and stood up to his full, towering height... the blood in Jason's veins practically turned to ice.
As the man's massive shadow loomed over him in the rain, completely swallowing him whole, Jason's knees trembled in betrayal. He tried to swallow around the dry lump in his throat. So, death was red.
"Alright," Hood said, his voice leaking from the helmet in a static, freezing rasp. He took a slow step toward him. "Little bird is more Nightwing's style anyway. I'm just gonna call you street rat."
Jason had a sarcastic, venomous, and profanity-laced comeback ready in his throat. He absolutely did.
If he could just stop the fucking shaking in his jaw and his knees, he would've spit that comeback right in the guy's face that exact second.
But he just couldn't stop shaking...
"So..." Hood said. He must have noticed the kid was shaking like a drenched stray, because this time, with a slow and entirely deliberate movement, he dropped down to one knee. He clearly held his black-gloved hands up in the air, showing his empty palms. He was trying to prove he wasn't a threat.
"Impressive work, man." Tilting his head slightly, he gestured to his own bike, which had already been half-dismantled with serious skill.
For a second, Jason could have sworn he had completely lost his sense of hearing.
What? Was the Red Hood seriously praising him for stripping his own bike?
What was the next move? Were they gonna hold hands and go grab dinner together?
Staring at the man across from him, still gripping the rusty crowbar like a shield, Jason couldn't utter a single rational word. His throat was bone-dry, and his brain had literally flatlined.
"So..." Hood continued, not dropping that relaxed, conversational tone for a second. "Where exactly were you planning on fencing those parts? I mean, you gotta give me a realistic name at least, so I know who I'm buying my shit back from tomorrow."
What. What, what, what?
Fuck. What the hell was going on here?
As Jason's eyes went wide with shock, Hood likely shrugged under the helmet and went on. "Actually, you know what, how about we just cut out the middleman?" He tilted his head with the casual air of proposing a pure business deal. "Straight up. How much do you want for those parts, man?"
Jason's jaw dropped involuntarily. The crowbar in his hand felt less like a weapon now and more like a lifeline he was clinging to.
Was the Red Hood... really going to pay the exact thief who robbed him, for his own damn bike parts?
Jason didn't understand a single fucking thing that was happening. The sudden, violent churn of adrenaline in his gut was so intense that if he hadn't gone days without swallowing a single bite, he absolutely would've puked his guts out on the wet asphalt right then.
What fucking luck, right? Good thing he was starving.
"I... you... you, I..."
Only those meaningless, broken syllables managed to spill from Jason's trembling lips.
Meanwhile, Hood just kept looking at the kid, his hands still raised in that surrender gesture. The mechanical voice filtering through the helmet was surprisingly genuine this time. "Look, man, I appreciate good work. And this... this is some seriously stellar work."
Jason's brain finally, completely gave out under the sheer weight of that sentence. He stumbled, his feet getting tangled on the slippery asphalt, and landed hard on his ass right in the middle of a puddle.
Instantly, Hood tensed up, letting out a muffled noise of concern through the helmet. He reflexively lunged forward, taking a quick step toward him to catch the kid before he hit the ground.
Jason literally fucking hated that idea.
He despised adults getting close to him, despised those big, shadowy hands reaching out for him. That’s exactly what happens when you go your whole life without meeting a single adult you could actually turn your back on or trust.
Gasping for air, Jason scrambled backward on the asphalt. Wet mud smeared all over his jacket as he slammed his back against the cold brick wall, pulling his knees tightly to his chest to shrink himself down into an invisible shield.
Hood froze in his tracks, as if he instantly understood this invisible, traumatic rule of the streets. The kid's terrified flinching had sent the message loud and clear. The crime lord slowly backed away, his body language as far from threatening as humanly possible.
"My bad, man," Hood said. That dangerous edge in his voice was completely gone, replaced by a strange, awkward sheepishness. "I should've thought that through. It's just... it's been an incredibly long and rough day, you know? Sorry about that."
Jason, with his back glued to the wall and his chest heaving rapidly, just stared at the guy without saying a single word. His eyes were still as wide and hyper-alert as an owl's.
Hood let out a deep breath, shrugging slightly. "Alright... Right then, rat. Look, I'm not exactly great at the whole communication thing. Honestly, this little interaction between us—or whatever this is—isn't going so well right now."
The man's massive, red-helmeted head tilted to the side gently, almost like a curious bird. "So... what do you say we just start over from the top?"
Sitting there in the middle of that dark, freezing street with his back against the wall, Jason could literally swear that the man behind that blood-red, soulless visor slowly blinked at him in that exact moment.
Tbc