The Man And The Hood

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Jason didn't react with surprise. He'd expected the answer—even if he didn't like it. Still, he knew there had to be more to it than that.

His reflection paused, as if deliberately giving him time to sit with the revelation. Then it spoke again.

"I am more like your shadow-self. You could say I'm the part of your soul that was pushed down," it said calmly, "so the personality you woke up as could exist after the Lazarus Pit brought you back."

It tilted its head slightly.

"You were resurrected as a hollow body, with no memories, no sense of self—driven by a raw, instinctive need to fill the void the Pit left behind."

Jason stayed silent with his jaw clenched tight.

Taking that as permission to continue, the reflection pressed on.

"Your mind, wiped clean, was caught in a tug-of-war. On one side, the overwhelming hunger left by the Lazarus Pit. On the other, the moral framework Bruce drilled into us—Bruce, the only person we'd truly opened our heart to since our mother died."

Jason narrowed his eyes, turning the words over in his head.

It sounded insane. Absurd. And yet… it fit too cleanly to dismiss outright. He didn't fully believe it—but for the first time, he felt like he was being handed an explanation that wanted to make sense.

'Well. Everything about my life has been absurd.' Jason thought dryly as the man in the mirror went on.

"As a result of that internal conflict," the reflection said, "I was bound deep within your subconscious—chained there, waiting for the moment I could break free and surface again."

The words stirred memories Jason hadn't consciously reached for.

The League's first mission. The secluded island. The crime lord's compound. The metahuman guard who should have killed him outright. Jason remembered his vision blurring, blood spilling down his face, the world turning red as consciousness slipped—

—and the sound of chains.

He'd seen his shadow-self then. Had felt it.

Another memory followed. The bear attack. The gash across his mid torso. Darkness closing in, until he'd opened his eyes in the depths of the Lazarus Pit, the last thing he'd seen before blacking out being that same shadow-self watching him fade.

Both times, he'd been standing on the threshold of death. Either heading to, or right at the door.

'Damn,' he thought, a humorless edge creeping in as he realized how toobmany times he has almost lost his life. 'I really do have a habit of courting death.'

Even so, he could tell the reflection was holding something back. Not with malice, not like the bandaged figure, but with intent.

"So," Jason said at last, eyebrow arching, his tone edged with disbelief, "you're saying you're the real me?"

"Not exactly," the reflection replied.

Its expression twisted—subtly at first, then unmistakably.

"Let's just say…"

The grin that followed was sharp, malevolent.

The air thickened around Jason, pressing against his chest, and for the first time since waking, he found himself struggling to draw a full breath as he found himself at the receiving side of his bloodlusful aura.

"I am the man you become when you put on the hood."

Jason's eyes widened.

He'd suspected the figure in the mirror was the one taking control whenever he blacked out, but this was something else entirely. If that was true, then maybe the decisions he made, the emotions he felt, even the way his thoughts aligned whenever he wore the hood… all of it flowed from this version of himself.

Which raised a far more unsettling question.

'Then who am I?'

Who was Jason Todd?

And who, exactly, was the Red Hood?

He forced himself to steady his breathing, reining in the spiral of thoughts. The reflection felt fleeting—like it could vanish at any moment—and Jason still had too many unanswered questions.

One in particular clawed its way back to the surface. The words spoken by the bandage-wrapped demon.

"Why do I have a white streak in my hair," Jason asked, "but you don't?"

The reflection folded its arms, chin lifting as though looking down at him. Its expression settled into something neutral as it raised a hand to stroke its chin, considering.

"You already understand the basics," it said at last. "But I'll give you my interpretation."

It paused.

"It could be the result of extreme psychological trauma—what your mind and soul endured in purgatory, compounded by the strain of resurrection."

Then, more quietly, it added, "Or it could be because your soul was touched by Lady Death herself… after you won the fight for it."

Jason's expression tightened.

"It might be one," the reflection concluded. "Or the other. Or both."

Jason sank into thought, memories rising unbidden.

The abyssal void. Purgatory. The version of himself he'd met there—the one who claimed to be his conscience. The part of him that had kept him alive, that 'would' have kept him alive even longer if Jason hadn't rushed headlong toward Joker that night.

That version had mocked him. Dragged him through his own memories while dealing a series of blows of brutal honesty. Then they'd fought—not with fists alone, but with will—for the right to exist as Jason Todd.

The son of Batman, beaten to death by the Joker…

Or the part of him that had been buried beneath Bruce's teachings—rules about lines that should never be crossed, restraint demanded even when criminals gave him every reason to abandon it.

Two selves.

One name.

One body, and an internal war that never truly ended.

He had wanted—so badly—to tread that line, to flirt with it just a little. That part of him, the side twisted by wrath and vengeance, could have won the fight. If it had, there was no telling what he might have become—back at the League, or worse… as the Red Hood.

"That should be enough for now. Until next ti—"

"One more question."

Jason cut him off before the reflection could vanish, earning an exasperated sigh in return.

"What is it?"

"Who… is the demon wrapped in bandages?"

The mirror's expression shifted instantly, darkening in a way Jason had never seen before. The casual, mocking demeanor vanished, replaced by something cold, serious.

"Do not… ever ask me about him," it replied.

Jason swallowed hard. Everything he'd learned so far had hinted at the creature being an unknown—but instinct told him it was something darker. Something that wanted his soul.

He theorized: perhaps the demon had been drawn to his soul by the Lazarus Pit, clinging to his essence during resurrection. Or maybe it was the physical manifestation of the bloodlust left within him by the Pit.

"You already know who—or rather, what—he is," the reflection added.

Jason's jaw tightened in frustration, but he stayed silent, letting it continue.

"What happened to your mind and soul is far more complicated than I've explained. Only he can give you the clues you need. Only he can reveal his true identity—and perhaps help fill in the three-year gap in your memories… and show you who the real enemy is."

Jason blinked, drowning in confusion. Just as he had begun to grasp even a fragment of understanding, the reflection suggested something that terrified him: he would have to confront his inner demon, literally, if he hoped to uncover the full truth.

"Wait… the true enemy?" The words stumbled out, weighed heavy with disbelief and curiousity.

With a sarcastic wave, the reflection dismissed him. "Let it go. Don't dwell on it. Remember… Joker wasn't the only hunt."

Jason straightened, shaking off the swirl of wandering thoughts. He forced himself to refocus, letting the reflection's words settle into the corner of his mind as he focused his attention.

"Don't you think the Red Hood has teased his little prey enough?" Mirror Jason said, smirking, the hint in his tone barely hidden.

"Roman," Jason muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing as thoughts of Black Mask surfaced. He had provoked, manipulated, and pushed the crime lord until Joker had been delivered on a silver platter.

Now it was time to dismantle the rest of him, another piece of Gotham's filth to be scrapped off the streets.

"Good to know Joker's death hasn't made you complacent," Mirror Jason said, voice smooth and honeyed, hypnotic almost, landing exactly where Jason's desires, and his ambitions were. "It isn't over yet."

He gestured vaguely, halfway raising his arms. "A revamp of Black Mask's empire under your sovereignty… would cement your influence over more of Gotham's streets. Just saying." And then he was gone, leaving nothing behind but the seed he knew Jason would nurture.

Jason lingered in front of the mirror, his eyes fixed on his reflection, the white streak cutting through his hair like a mark of everything he had endured.

"Sh*t," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Forgot to ask how I even got this boost in… everything." His mind buzzed with unanswered questions.

Not just about himself, or the mysterious "true enemy," but about what came next—how things would unfold with Batman, with the others, now that Joker was finally gone.

He left the bathroom and slipped into bed wearing nothing but his underwear.

Hours passed, and sleep refused him. He twisted, turned, rolled—changing position endlessly as his thoughts chased themselves in circles.

The encounter in the tub lingered in his mind, gnawing at him. He couldn't shake the fear that something similar might happen once he finally drifted off.

Eventually, he returned to the night's work: replaying what he had done to Joker, the finality of the clown's madness, and his long awaited revenge.

Less than half an hour later, exhaustion finally claimed him. His body relaxed, a faint, almost serene expression settling across his face as he drifted into sleep.

- - -

Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains, washing his room in a golden glow. Jason stirred, stretching as if he had slept a full night without a single worry. For once, it felt like the weight of the city had lifted, even if just for a moment.

Even after everything his shadow self had told him the night before—the truths about who he was, the demons he carried—he felt lighter. There was a spring in his step, a sense of accomplishment that only came from finally waking up to a Joker-free world. Breakfast somehow tasted better, sweeter, more flavourful, more alive.

He wasn't planning to spend the day hunting Black Mask, not today. And sitting at home wasn't appealing either. Grabbing the remote, he lazily flipped through channels, half-looking, half-thinking about how best to spend his time.

"Li should be out of custody by now," he muttered, reaching for his phone. A few taps later, he dialed Mayor Stuart.

The call wasn't about pleasantries, or to thank him for his ignorant and unwilling contribution to the death of Joker. Jason's instructions was clear: make sure Li wasn't being dragged into Black Mask's web. On paper, she was just a secretary at his cosmetic company—a legal business, a legitimate front for his illegal activities.

A few pointed reminders, a subtle hint of what could happen if the Mayor failed to pull the right strings… and Li's protection was secured. She had her own network, sure, but Jason didn't want her tied to any illegal activity—at least, not on record.

He had plans for her to take over the empire upon the death of Black Mask, so he played that move to ensure the law wouldn't have anything on her.

Satisfied, he tossed the phone onto the couch and wandered to the window. Taking a deep breath as the city sprawled beneath him, with Gotham's skyline ever so jagged against the morning sky.

Streets teemed with life, cars crawling along avenues, people getting on with their daily lives. He might as well get on with he's.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The morning news blared from every screen in Gotham, the headline dominating every channel: 'Joker Dead at the Hands of Red Hood.' For decades, no one had managed such a feat. The Clown Prince of Crime, the city's most notorious nightmare, had finally been silenced—permanently.

For Gotham's citizens, it felt like a new era had begun. The streets would no longer echo with that maniacal laughter. Families could walk freely without the constant fear that Joker might escape from Arkham only to target them—or someone they loved.

The city's collective nightmare had ended, and for a fleeting moment, they all rejoiced within their hearts.

The media speculated, as they always did, that Black Mask had played a role in Joker's recent escape from Arkham. But there was no hard evidence, no concrete proof to validate the rumors. Just the kind of conjecture that thrived in Gotham's rumor mills.

Behind the scenes, Roman Sionis's legal troubles were quietly resolved. His team of lawyers worked methodically, flipping the narrative so that Black Mask appeared not as a co-conspirator but as a victim of Joker's chaos. A few well-placed pressures and discreetly greased palms later, Roman walked free.

Even Commissioner Gordon, as determined as he was, had little recourse. The city's legal system could only do so much when wealth and influence had already tilted the scales. One of the perks of being wealthy and well-connected in Gotham's upper echelons.

Of course, Roman's release came with consequences. The stock of his cosmetic company, the legitimate front for his far darker dealings, had taken a small hit during the controversy. But it was a minor setback, a blip on the radar compared to how much cash he would be railing in once he finally got rid of the Red Hood.

To the public eye, the Red Hood was no longer viewed as just the violent but contained threat he had once been portrayed as by earlier news coverage.

Joker's death had altered that perception irrevocably. What had once been speculation and rumor was now fact: the Red Hood was capable of ending even Gotham's most infamous monsters, and he would not hesitate to do so.

That realization fractured the city's opinion of him.

Across Gotham, perspectives diverged om different sense. Many saw the Red Hood as a dangerous vigilante walking a razor's edge, one step away from being branded a full-fledged criminal himself. His methods were brutal, and unchecked by law.

Yet for others—citizens worn down by years of recycled violence, his extremity represented the change Gotham had long been denied. To them, he wasn't the problem; he was the answer.

The broadcast cut to footage from the bridge that night. A reporter stood amid flashing lights and police tape, microphone extended toward a civilian who had witnessed the chaos firsthand. When asked what he thought of the wave the Red Hood had unleashed upon Gotham, the man spoke with blunt conviction.

He talked about Batman—about how the Dark Knight had fought criminals relentlessly for years, breaking bones and dragging them off the streets, only for the same names to resurface time and time again. He added the statement that Batman had gone soft compared to his earlier days as a vigilante.

According to him, the Red Hood was exactly what Gotham needed now: someone willing to end the cycle rather than preserve it.

Several voices around him murmured in agreement. Others shouted over the crowd, condemning the Red Hood as too dangerous, too unstable to be allowed free rein over the city, saying the police should lock up his ass.

While Gotham debated, the underworld listened—and took note of the change that has been on the rise for the past couple of months.

Within the criminal networks that thrived beneath the city, the Red Hood's name carried new weight. His reputation spread quickly, earning him an unprecedented level of prestige, recognition, and fear among Gotham's underbelly.

Some, particularly those who had never encountered him firsthand, dismissed the stories. They believed he relied on fear as a tool, cultivating a legend to keep others in line. To them, he was all bark and no bite, another masked figure exaggerating his cruelty to intimidate rivals.

That belief died the moment Joker's death became undeniable.

If the Red Hood was unhinged enough to kill the Clown Prince of Crime, something no one had managed to accomplish for decades—then he was no bluff. Fear took root in their minds despite their resistance, as a grim truth which the others have tried to tell them— settled in: this was not just another vigilante.

This was Batman without restraint.

For years, criminals had continued operating despite Batman's presence because they understood the limits. He would break them, cripple them, leave them hospitalized for months—but he would never cross the line of taking a life. As long as they could still breathe, there was always another chance to return to the streets. Crime was not just a profession to them; it was a way of life.

The Red Hood erased that certainty.

If he put a bullet in someone's head, there was no recovery or even a prison sentence, just the end of their life.

Now, Gotham's criminals were forced to live with a new reality. They no longer feared only the Bat or the law. They feared the Red Hood, a presence lurking somewhere in the city, one none of them ever hoped to encounter because he was basically Batman with lethal wespons he wouldn't hesitate to use.

- - -

[The Batcave]

Dick's fingers clicked continuously on the mouse, switching from one news channel to another. Every monitor displayed the same story: Red Hood. Headlines flashed across the screens, all echoing the same message.

"Great," Dick muttered, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Looks like your son is officially on Gotham's list of big bads." He extended an arm, pressing a button to mute the monitors, the reports no longer needing to compete for his attention.

"Gone soft?" Damian interjected, his tone sharp, eyes narrowing as he considered the words of a civilian who clearly had no understanding of what it meant to bear the mantle of Batman.

Dick shrugged, leaning back. "The mayor even refuses to make a statement directly addressing Red Hood." He turned to Bruce, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Remember the way the press slandered you for years when Batman wasn't acknowledged as a hero?" He paused, hoping to get a reaction—but Bruce remained silent. Dick let the comment drop, conceding the point.

"So he finally got his revenge and killed Joker… now what?" Dick asked rhetorically, shifting his attention back to the largest monitor, where footage of Batman's recent fight with Red Hood replayed endlessly.

Bruce's eyes stayed fixed on the screen. He had kept the recording on loop ever since briefing them on his encounter with Jason, analyzing how Jason fights.

"There's no telling what's going on in his head," Bruce said, his eyes still the footage of Jason. "Crime can't be stopped completely—but it can be controlled." He rested a hand on his chin, deep in thought, and Damian raised a brow at the unusual tone in his father's words.

"Something Jason said… that must be his goal," Bruce clarified, as if reading his own thoughts aloud.

"Great," Dick muttered with a dry smirk. "We've got one of our own setting up shop in Gotham's underworld."

"That could take months," Bruce replied, eyes narrowing at the screens. "What we need to know now is his next move." He reviewed Red Hood's pattern of actions, but it was messy—chaotic even. Jason never took a direct route; every move was meant to serve for a didferent purpose that demonstrated.

"How about Black Mask?" Damian asked, pointing to a potential thread that could reveal Jason's next target.

"Jason only began his feud with Black Mask to manipulate him into helping free Joker from Arkham," Dick explained. "He's already accomplished that goal. By now, he might be done with Roman."

"Not entirely," Bruce interjected, his voice firm and precise.

"What do you mean?" Dick asked, both sons turning their attention to their father.

"Jason is unpredictable," Bruce said. "We need to account for every piece on the board, even the ones we think are inconsequential. Any of them could draw Red Hood back into our path."

Damian's eyes darkened with curiosity. "Father… when we finally reach him, what's the plan? Do you intend to send him to Arkham?" His question had been gnawing at him ever since he'd watched the footage of the intense fight between Batman and Red Hood.

"No," Bruce said sharply. "If we can't convince him—or stop him outright—we at least prevent him from taking more lives in his pursuit of a safer Gotham."

"Messing in his business is going to get him pissed," Dick commented, leaning back as he recalled past encounters with Jason.

"His methods violate our code," Damian admitted, voice low, "but even I can't deny the results. Has it ever crossed your mind, Father, that maybe Gotham needs both of you? Batman and Red Hood?" He kept his tone casual, but inside, he quietly approved of Jason's actions, something his father clearly saw as his eyes narrowed.

"Oh, so good cop–bad cop?" Dick teased, catching the implication. He knew Bruce didn't condone the bloodshed Jason brought with him, but he understood Damian's point.

"Either way, we need some kind of understanding," Dick continued. "A truce, at least, so he doesn't see us as hostiles. I don't wish to have a pistol at my face and a frigging sword on my neck just because decide to say hi when we cross paths." His voice carried a hint of grim humor.

He recalled being trapped in a cellar with Jason, feeling the heat of the flames around him when Jason left him, he was convinced he might die any second.

Then the memory of the gas station incident flashed in his mind, Jason had almost ruined his reputation as a hero in that one. And let's not forget how Jason had manipulated Black Mask just to get to Joker. Dick realized then that Jason's logic operated on a completely different wavelength from everyone else's.

"With that mouth of yours, I wouldn't be surprised if he shot your leg," Damian remarked with a smirk as though he'd delight in that sight.

Dick shot him a sharp glare but ignored it.

While Damian kept his eyes glued to the endless replay of Batman's encounter with Red Hood. Something about the way Jason moved, calculated yet brutal, pulled him in. He couldn't look away as he studied it.

- - -

Jason hadn't been able to reach Li that afternoon. With no intention of spending the day cooped up at home, he decided to treat himself to lunch at a restaurant known for its high-quality, expertly cooked steaks. It was his way of celebrating a Joker-free Gotham—and, admittedly, giving himself a small pat on the back. Even if the victory didn't feel as satisfying as he had imagined, a win was a win, and revenge well-earned deserved recognition.

A waiter, moving with the precise grace of a butler, led him to a table. Jason ordered three of the restaurant's specialty steaks, and it wasn't long before they were placed before him.

"Your meal, sir," the waiter said, bowing slightly.

Jason's eyes roamed over the dishes. The sight, the aroma, even the subtle hiss of juices on the plate—it all made his mouth water. Without hesitation, he reached for the knife and fork, slicing into the first piece and bringing it to his mouth.

The first bite was a revelation. He closed his eyes halfway, nodding in appreciation, savoring the flavors as if his mood had been lifted by the simple act of eating.

"Too bad I couldn't reach Li… I'll bring her here another time," he murmured to himself, already planning a small outing for her.

After finishing his lunch, he ordered a steak to go and left the restaurant, heading to the parking lot where his black bike waited. He had work to do—stalking Roman Sionis, studying his routines in case his arrest caused further changes, and determining the perfect moment to strike. Now that Joker was gone, Black Mask would surely tighten his security since his trump card has been sent to the grave.

'My daily life as a part-time stalker,' Jason lampooned in self deprecation. Most of his time since returning to Gotham had been spent surveilling and monitoring his targets like some overzealous shadow.

He pulled on his biking helmet, revved the engine, and shot off into the city. The sky was a muted gray, the afternoon sun hidden behind Gotham's persistent smog. He thought of the last time Black Mask had set a trap with KGBeast, almost crippling him in the process. 'That really sucked,' he recalled grimly, taking note to be catilous this time around because Black Mask was sure to get another, but the question was who.

As he wove through the streets, a sudden realization hit him. He swerved to the curb, bringing the bike to a stop. Around him, the city wore hints of holiday decor; building windows glimmered with festive lights, and a small café displayed a miniature Christmas tree in its front window.

"That's right… it's almost Christmas," he said softly, removing his helmet. He looked up at the clouded sky. "Looks like we're in for a late snow this year."