Chapter Text
Chapter One : The Boy in the White Room
Jason Todd had died in Ethiopia.
That was the simple version of the story.
It was the version that existed in Gotham, buried beneath newspaper clippings, police reports, a memorial stone, and the carefully preserved silence of the Wayne family. Jason Todd had died at fifteen years old, murdered by the Joker in a warehouse in Ethiopia. Batman had failed to save him. The second Robin had been buried, mourned, and eventually turned into a ghost that no one spoke about unless they were standing in front of his grave.
But Jason Todd had never been particularly good at staying dead.
He had dug himself out of his own grave.
The memory came to him in fragments at first.
Dirt beneath his fingernails.
The crushing weight of the earth.
His lungs burning.
His hands clawing upwards through soil that should have been his final resting place.
He remembered screaming, though no sound had come from his ruined throat. He remembered crawling. He remembered the night air touching his face for the first time and not understanding why he was still alive.
He remembered Gotham.
He remembered the pain.
He remembered Batman.
And then, eventually, he remembered nothing.
The world had become a blur of fever and violence, of hunger and instinct. Jason had wandered through Gotham like a broken thing, his mind shattered and his body refusing to die. He had been found eventually—not by Batman, not by Alfred, not by any of the people who had once called him family.
Talia al Ghul had found him.
And Talia, unlike Bruce Wayne, had known precisely what to do with a dead boy who refused to remain dead.
She had taken him.
For a time, Jason had been nothing more than a body.
A beautiful, broken, furious body that had once been a boy.
Then the League had thrown him into the Lazarus Pit.
The pit had not healed him.
Not truly.
It had returned him.
There was a difference.
Jason had emerged screaming.
He had emerged with his mind burning and his memories tearing themselves apart inside his skull. He had remembered the warehouse. He had remembered the bomb. He had remembered the Joker's laughter.
He had remembered Batman choosing.
Or perhaps he had imagined it.
For months, Jason had not known the difference.
The League had taken advantage of that.
Ra's al Ghul had seen a weapon.
Talia had seen something that reminded her of a lost child.
And Jason had seen only enemies.
He had trusted none of them.
Not Ra's.
Not Talia.
Not the League.
Not himself.
Especially not himself.
The League of Assassins was not a place where children were permitted to remain children.
Jason had learned that quickly.
He had also learned that he was very, very good at surviving.
The training was brutal.
It was designed to be.
The League took everything that had once made Jason Todd human and sharpened it into a weapon. His grief became rage. His anger became focus. His pain became endurance.
He learned to fight until his bones cracked.
He learned to keep moving when his body begged him to stop.
He learned to kill.
And, despite everything, he learned to care.
It had started with Damian.
Damian had been small when Jason first met him.
Small, arrogant, vicious, and entirely too clever for his age.
He had also been lonely.
Jason had recognised that immediately.
Damian had been raised as the heir to the Demon, surrounded by tutors, assassins, servants, and expectations that would have crushed most adults. He had been trained from the moment he could walk. Every mistake had been corrected. Every weakness had been punished. Every achievement had been treated as proof that he could be pushed harder.
Jason had seen the truth beneath it.
Damian was a child.
A child who had never been allowed to be one.
So Jason had done what he had always done when faced with a child who needed someone.
He had stayed.
At first, Damian had hated him.
Then he had challenged him.
Then he had followed him.
Eventually, without either of them quite acknowledging when it had happened, Damian had started sleeping in Jason's room whenever nightmares became too embarrassing to admit to.
Jason had pretended not to notice.
He had also started stealing extra sweets from the kitchens.
Damian had pretended not to notice that either.
Jason had raised him as best he could.
He had taught Damian how to fight, yes. The League would have done that regardless. But Jason had also taught him how to read for pleasure. How to make tea. How to cheat at cards. How to recognise when someone was manipulating him.
He had taught him that being strong did not mean never being afraid.
He had taught him that there was no shame in wanting to be held.
Damian had never said thank you.
Jason had never expected him to.
Then, at seventeen, Jason had decided it was time to leave.
He had completed his training.
He had spent two years becoming something far more dangerous than the boy who had once worn the Robin costume.
He had learned the truth about what had happened to him.
He had learned what Batman had done.
He had learned that Gotham had continued without him.
And he had decided to go home.
Not because he wanted to be welcome.
Jason Todd did not expect anything from Gotham anymore.
He was going back because Gotham had taken him.
Because the Joker was still alive.
Because Batman had failed him.
Because the world had moved on as if Jason Todd had been nothing more than a footnote.
He was going back to make certain that nobody ever forgot him again.
The plan had been carefully constructed.
The Red Hood.
The drug trade.
The gangs.
The weapons.
The fear.
The confrontation.
Jason had spent months preparing everything.
He had even made arrangements for Damian.
The boy would remain with the League for now.
Jason did not like it.
He hated it.
But Damian was protected there in a way that Jason himself had never been. Damian was Ra's's heir. Talia's son. A precious possession.
Jason had believed that, at least.
He had been wrong.
He discovered that on the night before he was supposed to leave.
Jason had not trusted the League.
He never would.
That was why, when he noticed one of the guards entering a restricted corridor beneath the compound, he followed.
The corridor was not marked on any map Jason had ever seen.
That alone was enough to make him suspicious.
The League had secrets everywhere. Most of them were dangerous. The ones hidden beneath layers of magical wards, biometric locks, and security systems were generally worse.
Jason moved through the shadows without making a sound.
He was very good at that.
The first door opened beneath his fingers after less than a minute.
The second took longer.
The third had been designed to resist the League's own assassins.
Jason smiled without humour.
"That's cute."
He broke it.
The room beyond was cold.
Not the natural cold of underground stone.
The artificial cold of a laboratory.
Jason's smile vanished.
White lights glowed overhead.
The room stretched farther than he could see, filled with machines, medical equipment, sealed containers, and glass walls. The air smelled of antiseptic and metal.
Jason stepped inside.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then he saw the bed.
A small figure lay strapped to it.
Jason stopped.
The boy was young.
Too young.
He was perhaps seven or eight years old.
He looked exactly like Damian.
The same sharp features.
The same delicate bone structure.
The same small, furious face.
But his hair was white.
Not silver.
Not pale blonde.
White.
Jason's stomach dropped.
"No."
He stepped closer.
The boy was unconscious.
There were tubes in his arms.
A breathing tube had been placed down his throat.
His wrists and ankles were strapped to the table.
There were bruises everywhere.
Some old.
Some fresh.
There were scars.
Too many scars.
Jason stood completely still.
The League had hurt children before.
Jason knew that.
He had seen it.
He had been part of the system.
He had tried to protect Damian from the worst of it.
But this was different.
This was not training.
This was not punishment.
This was not even cruelty disguised as discipline.
This was a child who had been made to suffer for a purpose.
Jason turned towards the nearest terminal.
The screen was locked.
He hacked into it.
The information appeared.
Jason read the first line.
Then the second.
Then the third.
His hands went cold.
The boy was a clone.
The genetic material had been taken from Talia al Ghul and Slade Wilson.
Jason stared at the screen.
A genetic half-brother to Damian.
A child created in secret.
A child Ra's had hidden from everyone.
Even Talia.
Jason's eyes moved lower.
The purpose of the project was written in clinical language.
Organ compatibility.
Replacement tissue.
Emergency transplantation.
The boy had been created as a living organ bank.
Jason stared.
For several seconds, he did not breathe.
Then he looked back at the child.
"You're kidding me."
The boy did not move.
Jason looked at the restraints.
At the tubes.
At the bruises.
At the scar tissue.
At the cold white room.
Something inside him cracked.
He thought of Damian.
He thought of the little boy who had once crawled into his bed after a nightmare and pretended he had only come to complain about the pillows.
He thought of Damian's sharp voice.
His ridiculous pride.
His small hands gripping Jason's sleeve when he thought nobody was watching.
Ra's had made another child.
A child who looked like Damian.
A child who shared Talia's blood.
A child who had been created for the sole purpose of dying piece by piece so that Damian could live.
Jason's fingers curled into fists.
"No."
The word came out softly.
Then again.
"No."
He turned towards the machines.
The alarms began immediately.
Jason moved.
The first guard came through the door and died before he could draw his weapon.
The second did not even see Jason.
The third lasted long enough to realise that something had gone terribly wrong.
Jason was faster.
Stronger.
More dangerous than any of them had expected.
The League had trained him.
They had made him.
They had forgotten that weapons could choose their targets.
Jason tore through the laboratory.
He destroyed the equipment.
He ripped out the cables.
He smashed the screens.
He broke every machine connected to the child.
The boy woke during the chaos.
His eyes opened.
Green.
Wild.
Terrified.
Jason froze.
The boy looked at him.
Then at the blood on the floor.
Then at the broken equipment.
He began to struggle.
Jason immediately stepped back.
"Hey."
The boy's breathing became frantic.
He pulled at the restraints.
Jason saw the fear.
Not the fear of a child who had just woken up in a strange room.
The fear of a child who had learned that every person who approached him wanted something.
Jason understood that fear.
He knew it intimately.
"Hey," Jason repeated, softer this time. "I'm not going to hurt you."
The boy stared at him.
Jason approached the table slowly.
One step.
Then another.
The boy watched him like a trapped animal.
Jason stopped.
"Can I get you out of there?"
The boy said nothing.
Jason looked at the restraints.
Then back at him.
"I'm going to remove the straps. I'm not going to touch you anywhere else. Understand?"
The boy's eyes narrowed.
Jason waited.
He had learned patience because of Damian.
He had learned that children who had been hurt did not trust promises.
They trusted patterns.
So Jason waited.
Eventually, the boy gave the smallest nod.
Jason reached for the first restraint.
The moment his fingers touched it, the boy attacked.
It happened so quickly that most people would not have seen it.
Jason did.
The boy twisted his wrist with impossible precision, using the loosened restraint to create leverage. His knee came up. His body moved with the trained efficiency of a killer.
Jason caught the strike.
The boy screamed.
Not in pain.
In rage.
He fought like someone who believed that losing meant dying.
Jason could have stopped him immediately.
Instead, he let him fight.
The boy struck again.
Jason blocked.
Again.
Again.
The boy's movements became increasingly frantic.
He was exhausted.
His body was weak.
But someone had taught him how to kill.
Jason recognised the techniques.
Some were League techniques.
Some were Deathstroke's.
The boy had been trained to be a weapon before he had ever been allowed to become a person.
Jason finally caught both of his wrists.
The boy snarled.
Jason held him.
Not painfully.
Not tightly enough to hurt.
Just enough to keep him from hurting himself.
"Stop."
The boy fought harder.
"Stop!"
Jason's voice cracked through the room.
The boy froze.
Jason was breathing heavily.
So was he.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Jason lowered his voice.
"I am not going to hurt you."
The boy stared at him.
"I am not going to take anything from you."
The boy's expression did not change.
Jason swallowed.
"I don't want your organs."
The boy went still.
Jason saw it.
The tiny change.
The way the boy's face emptied.
The way his eyes became distant.
Jason's grip loosened.
"Oh."
The realisation struck him with sudden, terrible force.
The boy had understood him.
Jason looked at the restraints.
Then at the machines.
Then back at the boy.
"How long?"
The boy did not answer.
Jason tried again.
"How long have they been doing this?"
Silence.
The boy's eyes moved towards the ceiling.
Jason followed his gaze.
There were cameras.
Of course there were cameras.
Jason looked back at him.
"Right."
He drew his knife.
The boy flinched violently.
Jason stopped.
Then, slowly, he turned the knife and cut the restraints.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The boy did not move.
Jason removed the tubes carefully.
The boy coughed.
His entire body trembled.
Jason immediately stepped away.
The boy sat up.
He looked very small.
The laboratory suddenly seemed far too large around him.
Jason took off his coat.
The boy flinched again when Jason moved.
Jason stopped.
"Can I give you this?"
The boy stared at the coat.
Jason placed it on the table instead.
The boy looked at it.
Then at Jason.
Then back at the coat.
Finally, he reached for it.
He pulled it around himself.
It swallowed him.
Jason looked away for a moment.
He had seen enough.
He had seen too much.
He had been fifteen when he died.
He had clawed his way out of the ground.
He had been brought back only to be used again.
He knew what it was like to be treated as something that could be broken and replaced.
He knew what it was like to have people look at you and see only what you could be made to do.
He was not going to let another child live that way.
Jason turned back towards the boy.
"Come on."
The boy did not move.
Jason sighed.
"I know. You don't trust me."
The boy's eyes narrowed.
"Good. You shouldn't trust people easily."
That seemed to confuse him.
Jason crouched so that they were closer to eye level.
"But you can come with me anyway."
The boy stared at him.
"Why?"
The question was so quiet that Jason almost missed it.
Why?
Jason had no good answer.
He could have said because the boy was Damian's brother.
He could have said because he hated Ra's.
He could have said because he knew what it was like to be abandoned.
Instead, Jason told the truth.
"Because you're a kid."
The boy stared at him.
Jason's expression hardened.
"And somebody should have cared."
For the first time, the boy looked away.
Jason stood.
He did not reach for him.
He did not try to carry him.
He simply walked towards the exit.
After several seconds, he heard footsteps behind him.
Small.
Unsteady.
But following.
Jason did not look back.
He kept walking.
Behind him, the boy followed.
And for the first time in his life, he was leaving the laboratory without being taken somewhere to be cut open.
Jason did not know what he was going to do with him.
He did not know how to raise a child who had been created in a laboratory.
He did not know how to make him trust the world.
He did not know how to protect him from Ra's al Ghul.
He did not know how to keep him hidden while returning to Gotham.
He did not know how to be a brother.
But Jason Todd had never known how to do anything before he did it.
So he would learn
Ra would probably discovered about the missing child by an hour.
But by then, Jason was already gone.
Jason moved through the night with the boy wrapped in his coat and held against his chest.
The child had fought him when Jason first tried to carry him.
Then exhaustion had won.
Now, he slept.
Or something close to sleep.
His fingers remained twisted into the fabric of Jason's shirt.
Jason looked down at him.
White hair.
Green eyes, hidden behind closed lids.
Talia's son.
Slade Wilson's son.
Damian's brother.
A child created by Ra's al Ghul and abandoned to a laboratory.
Jason's jaw tightened.
The League had given him a name.
Respawn.
Jason hated it.
It was not a name.
It was a function.
A reminder of why the boy existed.
Jason would never call him that.
He would find another name.
A real one.
One that belonged to him.
But not tonight.
Tonight, Jason had one job.
Get the kid out.
Keep him alive.
Jason disappeared into the darkness.
Behind him, the League of Assassins began to hunt.
And somewhere deep within the compound, Ra's al Ghul learned that one of his weapons had escaped.
He would eventually come looking.
Jason knew that.
He knew Ra's would come.
He knew the League would come.
He knew that Gotham was waiting for him.
He knew that Batman was waiting.
He knew that the Joker was still alive.
He knew that the plan he had spent months building would have to change.
Not completely.
Never completely.
Jason Todd still wanted his revenge.
He still wanted the world to remember him.
He still wanted Batman to understand what he had done.
But now there was a child sleeping against his chest.
A child who had never seen the ocean.
Never eaten ice cream.
Never gone to school.
Never had a birthday party.
Never had anyone ask him what he wanted.
Jason looked down at him again.
The boy shifted in his sleep.
His grip tightened.
Jason's expression softened.
"Yeah," he whispered.
The boy did not wake.
Jason adjusted his hold.
"You're coming with me."
And for the first time since he had clawed his way out of his grave, Jason Todd did not feel entirely alone.