The Man And The Hood

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The air inside the abandoned warehouse was thick with the smell of oil, rust, and stale blood.


The dim flickering overhead lights cast long, jagged shadows across the cold concrete floor. The walls, once pristine and sturdy, were now cracked, scrawled with graffiti and streaked with the remnants of forgotten fights. Old machinery lay dormant in the corners, their iron frames twisted and covered in a layer of grime.


The battered and bloodied young man lay on the cold, hard ground, his hands tied tightly behind his back. He groaned in pain, his bruised body trembling under the flickering light of the dimly lit warehouse.


Towering above him was the grinning menace of Gotham, the Joker. Dressed in his signature purple suit, the mad clown exuded an aura of pure malice.


The victim, none other than Robin, groaned in agony, his head snapping to the side as fresh blood trickled from his split lip.


His once-bright green tights were now stained with dark crimson, the blood seeping from countless cuts and abrasions that covered his chest, legs, and face. His mask, now ripped in several places, hung loosely around his face, exposing the raw, swollen skin beneath. His breath was shallow, the pain in his chest making it hard to draw air.


Each breath seemed to send a wave of agony through his body, and his vision blurred from the damage.


Above him, standing like a twisted specter, was the Joker—dressed in his signature purple suit, his green hair unkempt, and his lips pulled into a manic, bloodstained grin. His eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure as he surveyed his work, the cruel glow in his gaze never wavering.


The Joker was in his element here—this broken, dilapidated place, with its rusting remains of a once-thriving factory, now the backdrop to his chaotic kingdom.


"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" The Joker's voice dripped with mock concern as he crouched down, his face inches from Jason's. His gloved hand twirled a crowbar casually in his fingers. "You're a mess, little bird. Looks like Gotham's new favourite sidekick is finally learning the true meaning of pain."

Jason's bloodshot eyes flickered open, and his lips parted as he tried to speak, but the words came out in a strained rasp. "Y-you… bastard…"


The Joker's grin widened, his pale face lighting up with twisted joy. "Oh, that's cute! That's real cute." The Joker's hand swung the crowbar down with brutal precision, slamming it into Jason's jaw with a sickening crack. Jason's head jerked to the side as blood poured from the split in his lip, and a harsh cough wracked his body.


"Ow, that's gotta hurt," the Joker sang, almost in delight, his voice high and mocking. "But don't worry, this is just the beginning. We're going to have so much fun together."


The Joker moved around Jason like a predator circling its prey, each step deliberate, filled with malice. He stood behind Jason, dragging the tip of the crowbar along the ground with a sharp scrape, the sound sending a chill down Jason's spine. "You know, your predecessor—what was his name again? Oh, yes, Boy Blonder! That batty little rat had a bit more fight in him. He was a bit more of a challenge." The Joker's voice dropped, turning venomous. "But you? You're just… well, you're a disappointment."


Jason tried to push through the agony, trying to lift himself up, but the pain from his ribs and the gash in his side was too much. The Joker's words—twisted and mocking—stung worse than the crowbar ever could. The Joker wasn't just hurting him physically. He was attacking everything Jason stood for.


"Come on, pumpkin," the Joker's voice was now syrupy sweet, and before Jason could react, the crowbar came down again, landing on his forearm with a brutal 'THWACK' that sent waves of pain coursing through his body. The bones in his arm shattered, and he let out a ragged scream, his body convulsing in response.


"Wow, that looks like it really hurts," the Joker said, his tone dripping with sarcastic sympathy. He tilted his head, feigning concern as he crouched slightly to get a better look at his victim's battered face.


Then, with a sudden burst of manic energy, he swung the crowbar in his hand, delivering a brutal blow to the young man's already swollen jaw.


The Joker stood back, observing his handiwork with an almost childlike curiosity. "Hang on, that looks like it hurts a lot more," he remarked, patting the crowbar against his gloved palm. His grin widened as a gleeful glint sparked in his eyes.


"Okay, let's try and clear this up, pumpkin," he continued, the mocking endearment hanging in the air like a venomous taunt. He raised the crowbar high above his head, the motion slow and deliberate. "Which hurts more, hmm?"


Robin barely had time to react before the metal came crashing down again.


"A?" the Joker asked, his voice sing-song as he delivered another merciless strike. "Or B?" Another savage blow followed, each one accompanied by the sickening crunch of bone and muscle giving way.


"Forearm?" He swung the crowbar like a baseball bat, the force making Robin's arm buckle awkwardly.


THUD.


"Or backhand?" The next hit landed squarely on Robin's ribs, forcing a pained gasp from his cracked lips.


THWACK.


The Joker leaned back and surveyed Robin's pitiful form, his own face splitting into a wide, maniacal grin. "Decisions, decisions," he mused, chuckling as if he'd just told the punchline to a hilarious joke.


Robin's face was barely recognizable, swollen and smeared with blood. His body trembled as he tried to speak, his voice reduced to a faint mumble.


The Joker leaned in close, placing a hand to his ear theatrically. "Ehh, ehh, ehh… you gotta speak louder, lambchop!" he jeered, his breath hot against Robin's ear. He studied the boy with mock pity, tilting his head. "You know, I think you might have a collapsed lung. That always impedes the oratory."


With a deranged chuckle, the Joker reached out and ran his gloved fingers through Robin's blood-matted hair. But Robin, summoning what little strength he had left, spat a mouthful of blood into the Joker's face.


The clown prince froze, his grin faltering for just a moment. Then, his expression twisted into something far darker.


"Now that," he said, his voice low and venomous, "was rude." Without hesitation, he grabbed Robin by the hair and slammed his face into the cold, hard ground. The impact sent a fresh wave of blood splattering across the concrete.

Straightening himself, the Joker reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a crisp white handkerchief. He dabbed at his face, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "The first Boy Blunder had some manners, you know," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.


Despite the unbearable pain coursing through his body, Robin managed a weak, defiant smile. It was enough to reignite the Joker's fury.


"I suppose," the Joker said, drawing out the words as he tapped the crowbar against his chin, "I'm going to have to teach you some manners. You should learn to follow in his footsteps." He paused, pretending to consider the idea before waving it off with a dismissive laugh.


"Nah," he said, his smile returning, this time more sinister than ever. "I'm just going to keep beating you with this crowbar."

Jason's vision blurred as the pain threatened to overtake him. But even as darkness crept into the edges of his mind, there was one thought that lingered: he wasn't done yet. He wouldn't go down like this. Not by the hands of this monster. He couldn't.


The Joker's smile grew wider as he raised the crowbar high. Jason's body was on the verge of collapse as the beating continued, each strike punctuated by the Joker's unhinged laughter. The sound echoed through the empty warehouse, a chilling symphony of madness and cruelty that seemed to stretch on forever.


***



[Ra's al Ghul's POV]



Ra's al Ghul's sharp gaze turned toward his assistant as he strode into the room with an air of tension that mirrored the night outside. The man held a tablet displaying the latest update on the operation Ra's had so meticulously planned. Despite the apparent success of their objective, there was no word from their unpredictable ally, Joker—only the chilling report that Batman's protégé had been abducted.

"What is it?" Ra's asked, his voice calm yet edged with a dangerous curiosity.


The assistant hesitated for a moment, clearly reluctant to deliver bad news to his formidable master. "I'm afraid it's as you feared, sir," he said, bowing his head slightly.


Ra's turned from him, walking slowly to the massive window at the far end of the room. The ancient glass panes framed a view of the vast mountain range, their peaks cloaked in darkness and dusted with fresh snow. The night was cold, unforgiving, and utterly silent—much like Ra's himself when his plans went awry. He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture commanding despite the weight of the situation.

"And the Detective?" he asked, his tone betraying only a flicker of concern.

The assistant shifted uncomfortably. "On his way," he replied, his voice tight. "But I fear he won't arrive in time, sir. The boy… well, the situation appears dire."

Ra's exhaled slowly, his breath fogging slightly against the chill radiating from the glass. He shut his eyes, his expression unreadable. "Let us hope he does," he said, his voice low and contemplative.

Though his face betrayed no emotion, Ra's mind was racing. This wasn't how things were meant to unfold. He had anticipated chaos when aligning himself with the Joker—madness and bloodshed were always part of the clown's repertoire—but he had never intended for the young one to be caught in the crossfire. This was not his way, not his style. The boy had potential, after all, and Ra's was nothing if not a man who recognized the value of untapped greatness.

The assistant lingered in the doorway, unsure whether to speak or leave. Ra's sensed his hesitation and, without turning, dismissed him with a single wave of his hand. The man bowed slightly before retreating, leaving Ra's alone with his thoughts.


The snowfall outside thickened, the flakes swirling like restless ghosts under the pale moonlight. Ra's opened his eyes and studied the scene, a rare twinge of doubt tugging at his otherwise unshakable confidence. The Detective, Batman, had faced countless trials before and emerged victorious. But tonight, Ra's wasn't sure if even the Dark Knight could outpace the merciless clock ticking against him.


Joker was a dangerous gamble, a force of chaos that could never truly be controlled. Ra's had known this when he struck the deal, but desperation had clouded his judgment. Now, the consequences of that choice weighed heavily, not only on him but on the life of a boy who should never have been dragged into the depths of this madness.


As the moments passed, Ra's remained still, staring into the storm. For the first time in years, he felt a pang of regret—not for himself, but for the Detective. If Batman failed, it wouldn't just be his protégé who paid the price. It would be another crack in the fragile balance between order and chaos, one that even Ra's al Ghul might not be able to mend.


......

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[aymdrim]

you inverted your intro and your 1st chapter otherwise pretty good , for a beginning

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

you inverted your intro and your 1st chapter otherwise pretty good , for a beginning

Click to shrink...

Thanks for bringing my attention to it.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[After a while into the beating…]


It was quiet. Too quiet.


The kind of silence that seemed to seep into the bones, chilling the marrow, as though the world itself had decided to hold its breath.


The only sound that cut through the stillness was the frantic, pounding thrum of Jason Todd's heartbeat. It hammered in his skull, relentless, a grim reminder that life was slipping from him with each tortured beat.


His vision was a crimson blur—his blood, thick and sticky, dripping steadily from the gash on his forehead. His face felt cold, but the pain was an inferno. His limbs ached like they were being torn apart, each breath a struggle, ragged and shallow as if his lungs were too broken to draw in air properly.


He could feel the weight of his own body, the oppressive pressure of his wounds, and yet, all that registered in his mind was the pounding of his heart, each throb louder than the last, louder than everything else.


Somewhere, far away but painfully close, there was the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoing in the hollow vastness of the abandoned warehouse. The faintest hint of a presence that Jason could not escape. His eyes, barely open, flicked toward the source, but his blurred vision offered little clarity. What he could make out, though, was enough.


The Joker stood over Jason like a predator inspecting its prey, a wide, sickening grin stretched across his face. Bloodied and battered, Jason could barely lift his head to acknowledge him, but the Joker didn't seem to mind.




"Been fun, hasn't it, kiddo?" The Joker's voice was disturbingly casual, as though he were speaking to an old acquaintance, not someone he'd just beaten within an inch of their life.


His eyes sparkled with perverse delight as he casually twirled a bloodied crowbar between his gloved fingers. The sound of it scraping against the floor made Jason's skin crawl, but there was no strength left in him to even flinch.



Joker's laugh—high-pitched and unnervingly cheerful—rang through the warehouse.

"Aw, don't be like that, Boy Blonder. Giving me the cold shoulder already?" His grin deepened, and he straightened his tie with exaggerated flair, savoring the moment like it was a fine wine. "Maybe this wasn't as fun for you as it was for me, but hey, you can't win 'em all."



Jason's body was a wreck. His limbs were stiff, his muscles screaming in agony with every slow, deliberate move he managed to make.


He couldn't feel his fingers anymore, only the dull throb of the brutal hits to his chest and ribs. His breath came in strained, panicked gasps, a struggle to stay conscious.


Joker ignored him now, his hands moving to adjust his coat, speaking as though Jason were simply an afterthought. "Anyway, be a good little soldier. Finish your homework, and don't forget to brush your teeth before bed.


Oh, and tell Batsy I said… hello." His words were soaked in mocking affection, as though he were a warped, twisted father bidding his son farewell. The laughter bubbled up again, echoing off the crumbling walls, bouncing around the cold, empty space like a maniacal choir.


With a theatrical flourish, Joker swept his coat over his shoulders, the fabric swirling dramatically in the air.


His steps toward the door were slow and deliberate, each one a final punctuation mark to the twisted performance. And then, just as quickly, the heavy door slammed shut, and the sound of footsteps faded away into nothingness, leaving Jason alone in the stark, cold silence.



Jason's body trembled as he struggled to push himself up, the effort overwhelming his senses. His hands, still cuffed behind his back, scraped against the cold concrete floor.


Every inch of him felt like it was unraveling, but still, he fought against the overwhelming fatigue, the pain that threatened to crush him.


He rolled onto his side, gasping for air, each movement sending shockwaves through his ravaged body. His right hand reached for the cuffs, twisting painfully as he tried to bring them to the front. His face, streaked with blood, was a mask of exhaustion and determination. He would not die here. Not like this.


Every movement was an eternity. Jason managed to get his hands in front of him and pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaky, like they might collapse at any moment.


His mind raced, desperate for a plan, for a way out, but his body betrayed him. He stumbled, barely able to catch his balance, before crashing to the ground with a sickening thud, his head slamming against the cold concrete.

But Jason Todd was nothing if not stubborn. He dragged himself, inch by inch, his arms trembling with the effort. Each movement was a struggle, his blood pooling beneath him as he left a crimson trail across the warehouse floor.


Every inch forward felt like it could be his last, but he refused to stop. Not when the man who had done this to him was still out there. Not when there was still a chance to survive.

Through the haze of pain, a faint sound reached his ears—a low, mechanical beeping. His eyes, unfocused and blurry, darted around the room. He couldn't see it at first, but then… a faint shape, hidden under a tarp, caught his attention. A crate. And with it, the ticking of a timer.


His blood ran cold as he crawled toward the source. With trembling hands, he yanked away the tarp, revealing a cluster of dynamite sticks, wired to a timer counting down—ten seconds. Jason's heart skipped a beat.

He froze. Time seemed to stretch out around him, each second stretching into eternity, mocking him with its inevitability. His hands trembled as he reached for the timer, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn't disarm it. He couldn't escape.


Closing his eyes, Jason let out a shuddering breath, as if willing the pain to disappear, willing the world to stop spinning. He had fought. He had given everything. And now, there was nothing left but the inevitable.


Outside, Batman's motorcycle roared to a halt in front of the warehouse, its tires skidding on the icy ground. His cowl hidden the grimace of worry etched on his face, but his eyes were locked on the tracker blinking in his radar, showing him Jason's last known location. He was close—he had to be close.


He sprinted toward the door, urgency driving every step, but just as he reached for the handle, the ground shook beneath him. The explosion was deafening, a violent roar that ripped through the night and tore the building apart. The heat of the blast burned through the cold air, and the shockwave sent Batman crashing backward, his body slamming into the snow.


The warehouse erupted in flames, the sky now illuminated by the inferno, the fire curling up into the blackness above, roaring as though the very heavens themselves had opened in fury. For a moment, everything was still. Silent.


But then, slowly, the sound of debris settling and the crackling of fire was all that remained. Jason Todd was gone.



"Jason!" Batman's voice cut through the stillness, ragged and desperate, as he leapt to his feet and charged toward the charred remnants of the warehouse. His cape billowed behind him, but it was the sound of his boots striking the debris that filled the air—the only sign of his presence in the midst of the roaring flames.



The fire crackled, sending waves of heat into the night, but Bruce paid it no mind. His hands bled as he dug through the wreckage, recklessly scraping at the broken beams.


His gloves were slick with soot and blood—his own, perhaps, but more so from the boy he had failed to save. His heart thudded in his chest with every passing second, each beat pulling him deeper into the vortex of guilt that seemed to threaten to swallow him whole.


"Jason!" he called again, his voice hoarse with emotion. The flames hissed and popped around him, but he couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop.


And then, through the smoke and chaos, he found him.


Jason's body lay limp beneath a pile of twisted metal and shattered concrete. His face was ghostly pale, streaked with blood, his eyes closed in eternal stillness. His once vibrant, rebellious spirit was now a faint echo in the shadows. Batman's breath caught in his throat as he knelt beside him, his hands trembling as they gently cradled the boy who had once been his son.


"Oh no…" The words slipped from Bruce's lips in a broken whisper. The weight of his failure pressed down on him like a leaden cloak. He had failed to protect him, to keep him safe, and now there was nothing left but the crushing reality of loss.


He lifted Jason's body with the careful tenderness of a father, his own emotions threatening to tear him apart. "Jason…" His voice cracked, the sound raw and filled with an anguish he had buried for so long. It was too much. It was always too much.


***


Later, Bruce stood outside the morgue, the night heavy with the scent of rain. He had brought Jason's body there under the guise of his civilian identity, Bruce Wayne—donating a large sum to ensure no questions were asked, no details revealed.


The cause of death was registered simply as "explosion." The world would never know the truth of what had happened. But Bruce knew. And that knowledge, that brutal truth, would haunt him forever.



At Wayne Manor, Alfred, Barbara, and Dick gathered in the study, their faces grim, their hearts heavy with the weight of the tragedy. Bruce sat in silence, his head bowed, his hands pressed against his face. The clock ticked on, indifferent to the storm of emotions brewing within him.


Alfred, ever the steady presence, placed a gentle hand on Bruce's shoulder, offering the only comfort he could. "There was nothing you could have done," he said softly, his voice full of quiet understanding. "You didn't know he would be in Bosnia."


Bruce shook his head slowly, his voice barely a whisper as he spoke through clenched teeth. "For someone who's lost so many, you'd think I'd be used to it by now. But I'm not." His chest tightened with the weight of his grief, his failure. "I failed him, Alfred. I should've protected him."


Alfred said nothing more, simply allowing the silence to settle around them. Sometimes, there were no words that could ease the pain.


Dick, restless and torn between his own grief and the need for answers, stepped forward, his face a mixture of confusion and barely contained anger. "What exactly happened in Bosnia?" His voice was sharp, his frustration evident. "How did a mission tracking Ra's al Ghul lead to... this?"


Barbara, her eyes fierce despite her wheelchair, rolled closer to Bruce, her hand resting lightly on the arm of his chair. Her voice was calm but firm, a reminder to them all of the strength that remained even in the face of overwhelming loss.


"Not now, Dick," she said, her words cutting through the tension that had thickened in the room. "This isn't your fault, Bruce. You did everything you could."


Bruce didn't respond. He couldn't. He didn't have the strength to explain, to confront the questions that gnawed at him. He stood in silence, the weight of his failure settling deeper within him, suffocating him in the shadows of his own mind.


Without a word, he turned and walked toward the staircase. The quiet hum of the house, the faint murmur of his family behind him—none of it could drown out the voices in his head, the haunting echo of the Joker's laughter that still reverberated in his ears. The laughter that had led them here. To this point of no return.


As he ascended the stairs, his footsteps heavy with guilt and grief, the voices below him faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the cold, relentless sound of his own heartbeat.


And Jason's absence, more deafening than any laugh, echoed through the hollow halls of Wayne Manor.


.......

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The rain fell in torrents, a relentless downpour that seemed to mirror the sorrow hanging heavy in the air. Each drop splattered against the earth, the rhythmic sound a constant companion to the quiet procession making its way toward the small graveyard behind Wayne Manor.





The somber procession trudged through the rain-soaked grass, each step weighed down by the gravity of their grief. The storm seemed to seep into their very bones, an unspoken reminder of the pain that hung over them all.





Dressed in black, the Bat family stood united yet isolated in their shared loss. Their faces were obscured by a mixture of rain and unshed tears, their expressions unreadable beneath the wet fabric of their umbrellas.



The umbrellas offered little protection against the downpour; their fragile coverings barely held against the storm's fury. Still, they raised them high, as if attempting to shield themselves from the weight of the world pressing in around them.





At the front of the procession, Bruce Wayne walked with his usual commanding presence, though now it was as though an invisible weight had settled onto his broad shoulders.





His figure, always so imposing, now appeared hunched under the burden of grief. His face, usually masked in stoic determination, was softened with an unspoken sorrow, the anguish in his eyes betraying the calm exterior he fought to maintain.





To his right stood Alfred Pennyworth, the ever-faithful butler, whose face was a picture of quiet grief. His eyes, though calm, were shadowed by the pain of years spent alongside Bruce, witnessing the tragic losses that had marked his life. Alfred's unshakable composure did little to mask the heaviness in his gaze.



Behind them, Dick Grayson walked with his head bowed, his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. Once the bright and confident Robin, he now carried the burden of memories—some joyous, some filled with the bitterness of regret.





As Nightwing, he stood not only as a brother but as a man haunted by the loss of his sibling in arms. Beside him, Barbara Gordon moved forward with quiet determination, her wheelchair seeming to glide across the wet earth as if nothing could stop her. Her strength, her resilience, stood as a quiet testament to the unwavering love she had for those around her, despite the unbearable ache of their shared grief.



The grave was ready, the coffin standing solemnly beneath the darkened sky, draped in black. Red roses had been placed around it by those who had come before, their vibrant color a stark contrast to the rain-soaked scene.




The water pounded against the polished wood, creating a mournful rhythm that resonated in the silence that had fallen over the mourners. The only sounds were the rain, the wind, and the faint rustle of fabric as each person gathered around the gravesite, waiting for Bruce to speak.



He stepped forward, his movements deliberate and measured, though every step seemed to cost him more than the last. The others gathered behind him, their faces solemn, their gazes fixed on the coffin. Bruce paused before it, his jaw tightening as his eyes lingered on the polished wood. His thoughts seemed distant, his voice thick with emotion as he finally spoke.



"Jason Todd," he began, his voice steady, though laden with an undercurrent of pain. "Was more than just a partner. He was a fighter. Brave. Stubborn. Fierce." His voice cracked slightly as he continued, "He believed in the mission, in making Gotham a better place. Even when we disagreed... he never stopped trying to do what he thought was right."



The rain continued to pour down, but it did nothing to mask the tremor in Bruce's voice. He cleared his throat and pressed on, the words coming slower now, quieter. "He made mistakes, like we all do. But he was still... my son. And I failed him."





Dick stepped forward then, placing a hand on Bruce's shoulder, grounding him in the moment. His voice was soft, but firm. "You didn't fail him, Bruce. Jason knew the risks. He wouldn't have wanted you to blame yourself for this."



Bruce didn't respond, his eyes still fixed on the coffin as if he could will it to come back. The weight of his silence was unbearable, but he couldn't bring himself to look away.



After a long, still moment, he stepped back, making room for the others to say their goodbyes.



Dick knelt first, his movements slow, measured. His hand rested briefly on the coffin, and then he spoke, his voice tight with emotion.





"You were a pain in the ass, Jason. But you were my brother, and I loved you. I'll never forget that." His voice cracked as he placed a red rose atop the coffin. He stood and took a step back, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.



Barbara followed, her hands steady as she gripped the rose. She leaned forward and spoke quietly, though her voice carried an unmistakable weight of affection and regret. "You were reckless, but you had so much heart. Too much, maybe. I just wish you could've seen how much you meant to all of us." She placed the rose gently on the coffin and took a step back, her head lowered in reverence.



Alfred's turn came next. He approached with the calm dignity that had defined him for decades, his movements deliberate, each step filled with quiet resolve.




His hand trembled slightly as he placed his rose on the coffin, and his voice, barely audible above the rain, whispered the words that carried decades of care, loss, and fatherly affection. "Master Jason," he murmured, "you were far from perfect. But you were ours. Rest well, young man."





With the final rose placed, the coffin began its slow descent into the earth. The sound of the mechanism whirring as it lowered, combined with the steady beat of the rain, created an eerie dirge, a mournful soundtrack to their collective sorrow.





Bruce stood motionless, his face set in an expression of quiet torment, watching as Jason was slowly swallowed by the earth. The rain soaked through his coat, the cold seeping into his skin, but he remained frozen. A part of him wanted to reach out, to pull Jason back, to undo the irreversible, but he knew that it was impossible. Jason was gone.



As the grave was filled, a simple headstone was placed, bearing Jason's name, the dates of his birth and death, and the words: Beloved Son. Fierce Protector. Taken Too Soon.



The family lingered for a moment, each lost in their thoughts, their grief too heavy to speak of. Finally, it was Alfred who spoke, his voice gentle but firm. "Master Bruce, it's time to go. The rain will do us no favors if we linger much longer."



Bruce didn't move immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the headstone, his thoughts swirling with memories of Jason—the boy who had challenged him, frustrated him, and, above all, made him proud.





After what felt like an eternity, Bruce turned away, the weight of his sorrow too much to bear. The family began their slow walk back to Wayne Manor, the rain continuing to fall, relentless as ever, as though mourning alongside them.





Inside the manor, the silence was deafening. The rooms, once alive with the sounds of laughter and bickering, now felt hollow, as if Jason's absence had left an irreparable void. Bruce retreated to the Batcave, seeking solace in the work that had long been his only refuge. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not escape the memory of Jason's lifeless body, the image that haunted him even in his most isolated moments.



The others gave him space, understanding that grief was a battle Bruce had to fight on his own. But they, too, carried the weight of Jason's loss, each in their own way, each unable to escape the shared sorrow that lingered in the house like an unshakable shadow.





That night, as the rain finally ceased and the clouds parted to reveal a pale moon, Bruce stood alone in the Batcave, staring at the Robin suit encased in glass. His hand reached out to rest against the cold, transparent surface. The silence enveloped him, broken only by the faint sound of his voice, barely a whisper.



"I'm sorry, Jason. I should've been there. I should've saved you."



The suit remained still, its silent presence a stark reminder of what had been lost.



****



[Meanwhile]



Jason Todd drifted in the void, a dark, empty expanse where there was no light, no sound, no sense of time or place. The absence of everything was suffocating, an oppressive silence that pressed in from all sides. He had no sense of how long he had been there, but his thoughts were sharp—razor-sharp—and they cut through the nothingness with a clarity that felt almost wrong.





"Where the hell am I?" he muttered, his voice breaking the stillness, but even as it echoed into the void, it felt too quiet. He paused, staring into the vast blackness, and then the realization slammed into him like a freight train. "Oh. Right. I died."



The memories hit him all at once—raw, vivid, and unforgiving. The Joker's maniacal laughter, the sickening crack of the crowbar against his skull, the blinding explosion that followed. The pain, the panic, the final, fleeting moments of life. It all replayed in brutal detail, each image searing into his mind like a brand, a reminder of everything he had lost.



"Is this it?" Jason's voice cracked, the question escaping him before he could stop it. "Is this where people end up when they die? Some pitch-black nowhere?" He tried to move, to lift his hands, to do anything, but his body refused to cooperate. It was as though he was paralyzed, trapped in this empty space with only his thoughts for company. Helpless. Frozen. A prisoner in his own mind.



Then, suddenly, a voice broke through the silence—deep, mocking, reverberating inside his skull rather than his ears. It was a voice that seemed both familiar and alien, like a shadow of something he couldn't quite place.



"You finally ended up dead. Killed by a fucking clown, no less. How poetic."



Jason's heart—or whatever remained of it in this strange place—skipped a beat. The voice felt like a jolt of electricity, a surge of shock and confusion. "Who the hell's there?" he demanded, his voice sharp and filled with a sudden unease. He strained, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice, but it was everywhere and nowhere all at once, an omnipresent echo that seemed to invade every corner of his mind.



"You can't guess?" The voice taunted, a smug, almost gleeful tone dripping with a familiarity that made Jason's stomach twist. "Come on, partner. You should know this one."



Jason frowned, confusion beginning to replace his initial anger. He had nothing but time here in this void, so he might as well try to figure out what was going on. "Why do you sound like me?" he asked, his voice quieter now, but still sharp with suspicion.



The voice chuckled darkly. "That's because I am you. Or at least, I'm the part of you that's actually got some sense left. You know, the voice in your head that's been trying to keep you alive all these years. The one that's been screaming for you to ditch Bruce, to stop pretending you needed him. But you didn't listen, did you? You just kept crawling back, like some desperate mutt, begging for scraps of affection."



Jason's jaw tightened, his frustration starting to boil over. "Oh, great. I'm stuck in some twisted version of hell, and my tormentor is... me?"



The voice scoffed, as though Jason had missed the point entirely. "Hell? Nah, this isn't hell. Though, it might as well be, considering how royally you screwed up. Let's face it, kid: You spent your whole life chasing Bruce's approval. And what did it get you? Dead. Beaten to death by a damn clown. And where was dear old Batman when you needed him? Nowhere. He wasn't there to save you. And guess what? He doesn't even have the guts to admit he failed you."



Jason gritted his teeth, anger and frustration surging through him. "Alright, enough of the pity party," he snapped. "What is this place, then? If it's not hell, then what the hell is it?"



"Questions, questions," the voice mocked, its tone annoyingly calm, like a parent humoring a child. "Don't worry, we've got all the time in the world to get to the answers. But first, let's play a little game. How about a nice stroll down memory lane?





Let's revisit the events that led to your oh-so-tragic demise. Maybe seeing it all laid out will help you understand just how badly Bruce screwed up your life—physically and mentally."





Jason scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, sure. A recap of my greatest hits sounds like exactly what I need. Not like I have anything better to do, right?"



The void seemed to pulse in response, the oppressive darkness shifting as if acknowledging his words. Then, a faint light flickered in the distance.




At first, it was so small it seemed insignificant—just a pinprick of brightness in the endless blackness. But as moments passed, it began to grow, its light pulsing steadily, drawing Jason's attention like a moth to a flame.



..........

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

"Well, here we go," he muttered, resigned to the inevitable pull toward whatever awaited him.



The voice in his head chuckled again, low and bitter. "That's the spirit, partner. Let's start at the beginning. Walk yourself through it all—the choices, the mistakes, the moments you ignored every warning sign. Let's see if you can finally peel back those scales you've been so desperate to keep over your eyes."



Jason drew in a deep breath—or what passed for one in the strange, liminal space he now occupied—and focused on the distant light. As his thoughts narrowed in on the glow, the nothingness around him began to tremble, its emptiness folding and reshaping itself.









Faint colors bled into the blackness, slowly taking form, as if the universe itself was drawing a picture. The shadows sharpened, becoming familiar streets. Gotham. The past.





It was the Gotham he knew well, the one he had spent years fighting to survive in. The cracked pavement, the crooked alleyways, the constant hum of distant sirens—all the sights and sounds were there. The city hadn't changed. But Jason had.





And there, standing in front of the Batmobile, was a much younger version of himself—skinny, scrappy, and furious. His face was twisted with defiance as he glared up at the towering figure of Batman, whose silhouette was shrouded in the darkness of Gotham's alleyways. Jason's hands were covered in grease, the tires of the Batmobile already stripped away.







"Oh, great," Jason muttered to himself, his voice laced with irritation. He rolled his eyes. "This is where we're starting?"





"Where else?" the voice retorted, dripping with disdain. "This is where your story with Bruce begins. The moment he decided to 'save' you. The moment everything started going to shit."







Jason couldn't argue with that. The memory felt fresh, as vivid as if it had just happened yesterday. His younger self had been full of anger, frustration, and the reckless confidence of a street rat who thought he could outsmart the legendary Batman.







He remembered the desperation that had driven him to risk his life, to steal from the one person in the city who could ruin him with a single word.





The memory unfolded like a slow-motion movie, a younger Jason staring defiantly at Batman, daring him to make a move. He had felt untouchable, so confident like he was invincible back then. He was hungry for power, for respect, for something—anything—that could give his life meaning.







"Look at you," the voice jeered, its tone thick with mockery. "A scrappy little street rat, thinking you could outsmart the goddamn Batman. And what did he do? Instead of throwing you in a cell, he decided to make you his little project.







Congratulations, Jason. You got adopted by Gotham's most emotionally constipated billionaire."







Jason scowled at the voice, but couldn't shake the bitter sting of truth in its words. He had been a mess, no doubt about it. And Bruce—Bruce had taken him in, given him a chance. Or so it seemed at the time. Jason's mind raced, but before he could form a response, the memory shifted.











The streets of Gotham faded, replaced by the crisp, sterile atmosphere of the Batcave. Jason watched as the scene morphed into his early days as Robin.







The sparring sessions. The long nights spent training with Bruce. The adrenaline of their joint missions, side by side. There had been pride back then. Pride in proving he was worthy of the mantle. A strange sense of family too. A bond that felt unbreakable.



But the voice was relentless.



"And there it is," it taunted, its tone dripping with disdain. "The honeymoon phase. The part where you actually thought you mattered to him. But tell me, Jason—how long did that feeling last? A year? Two? Before you started to realize you were just another cog in his endless crusade?"







The scene flickered once more, fast-forwarding through the months of training, the missions, the escalating tension between them. Jason remembered it all—the way Bruce had kept him at arm's length, the unspoken distance that had grown between them.







The arguments had started small, but they soon became an undercurrent to everything they did. Jason had wanted more. He had wanted to be seen. To be valued.



Jason's fists clenched involuntarily. He wasn't sure if he was angry at the voice, at Bruce, or at himself for not recognizing the truth sooner. "I get it, alright?" he snapped, frustration building in his chest. "Things weren't perfect. But Bruce tried. He—"







"Tried?" the voice cut him off, its mocking tone sharp enough to make Jason flinch. "He failed, Jason. Over and over again, he failed you. And deep down, you know it."







With that the memory dissolved again, flashing forward, and suddenly Jason was standing in that warehouse as he was forced to recall the memory where he saw himself tied to the chair drenched in his blood as the dim light casted a long shadows on the walls.









The echoes of the Joker's cruel laughter filled his ears, cold and mocking, as the infamous crowbar gleamed in the dim glow. Jason could almost feel the weight of it, hear the sickening crack as it descended on him. His chest tightened, and his stomach lurched.







Jason turned away, his breath coming in shallow gasps, unwilling to watch the scene unfold once more. "I don't need to see this again," he muttered, his voice thick with anger and pain.







"Oh, but you do," the voice insisted, its tone cold and unrelenting. "You need to remember how it felt. How Bruce wasn't there. If only he had gone after Joker with you.







He knew you wouldn't be able to sit still when Joker was not too far from you in Bosnia, and would inevitably go after the mad clown. Yet he left you in pursuit of Ra's al Ghul, you died alone, "







The words hit him like a physical blow, and he felt a wave of nausea rise up in him. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but all he could do was stand there, helpless, as the memory played out once more.









The light dimmed around him, the scene fading into the darkness, leaving Jason alone once more in the void. His heart—or whatever remained of it—ached.







His hands were clenched into fists, his body trembling with the raw weight of the emotions crashing over him. He was silent for a long time, seething with frustration, guilt, and loss.







"We're just getting started, partner," the voice said as it broke the silence, its tone dripping with mockery. "Plenty more to unpack. Brace yourself."





The words hung in the air like a challenge, the weight of them pressing down on Jason's chest. He couldn't deny it. He didn't have a choice. This was where he was. And for better or worse, he was going to have to face what came next.









****



The void around Jason dissolved once again, but this time he wasn't drifting aimlessly. Instead, he was yanked back into a memory so vivid that it felt like it had just happened yesterday.







He could almost taste the adrenaline in the air, that heady rush of excitement that had pulsed through him like electricity. It was his first night in the Robin suit, and the world seemed to stretch out before him like an endless horizon.





He was invincible then. With the cape draped around his shoulders, and the mask on his face, he truly believed he could take down anyone, anything, that Gotham could throw his way.





That night, the target was The Riddler.





The memory was sharp, its details clear as crystal. Jason stood just outside the Gotham City Museum, the night air crisp and biting. A faint chill nipped at his exposed skin, but the cold did nothing to dampen the warmth in his chest.







His heart raced, not out of fear, but anticipation. Inside, he could hear the clinking of glass breaking and muffled voices—Riddler's goons had already started their work, ransacking the museum for priceless artifacts.







Jason's gaze flicked over to Bruce, standing in the shadows just a few steps away, as silent and imposing as ever.







With a simple, curt nod, Bruce signaled that it was time.







Inside, chaos unfolded in front of him. The Riddler and his crew moved through the museum like they owned it, dragging valuable paintings and priceless relics across the floor.









The golden frame of a large portrait shimmered under the low lighting, an eerie contrast to the thuggish activity unfolding around it.







Jason's pulse quickened. He could barely contain the excitement coursing through him. With a barely audible grunt, he leaped into action. From a nearby chandelier, he swung down with the grace of a predator, landing with a resounding thud on the floor in front of one of Riddler's henchmen.









The thug barely had time to register his presence before Jason's boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing to the ground with a satisfying thump.







"Are you guys having a party?" Jason quipped, his voice laced with feigned innocence, though his grin was anything but. The henchman groaned beneath him, but Jason wasn't slowing down.









He sprang to his feet, darting toward the next goon with lightning speed. With an elbow to the gut and a twist of his body, the thug crumpled to the ground, defeated.







The Riddler, standing at the center of the chaos, turned in shock at the sudden interruption. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of Jason, decked out in the Robin suit, sleek and shining under the museum lights.







"What the—?" The Riddler's words caught in his throat as he took a step back, not sure whether to retreat or fight.







"Guess our invite got lost in the mail," Jason shot back with a smirk, wiping his gloved hands together as if he'd simply been brushing off some dust after a long day.









The energy in his movements was boundless, every action filled with youthful enthusiasm and a sense of invincibility.







But then came the unmistakable presence of Batman. The air seemed to thicken as Bruce's dark silhouette descended from the rafters, landing with a soundless thud beside Jason.









Without a word, he dispatched another henchman with a single punch, sending him hurtling into a nearby display case with a crash.





"It's over, Riddler," Bruce's voice was low, commanding, the sound of authority that made the room fall into an almost unnatural quiet. The Riddler scowled, his eyes flashing with annoyance and determination.







"Over? Not even close!" he sneered, before making a swift dash for the nearest exit, his goons scattering in all directions.







Jason was already on the move before Riddler had finished speaking. His instincts kicked in, overriding everything else. He was out the door in an instant, shouting, "I'll get him!" as he propelled himself forward.









Using the shoulders of two stunned henchmen as a makeshift springboard, he launched himself toward the retreating villain, his body moving before his brain could catch up.



The crack of a whip split the air, aiming for his legs. Without breaking stride, Jason twisted and leaped, his nimble body moving in a blur of skilled precision.









The whip coiled around his ankles for a split second, but with a quick flick of his batarang, he severed it, watching it fall uselessly to the ground.



"Nice try," Jason muttered, his lips curling into a grin as he landed smoothly, unscathed. The Riddler was no longer in his sights, but Jason didn't have to chase far. The villain wasn't nearly as fast or agile as Jason was.





It didn't take long before he was standing in front of Riddler, his stance confident and relaxed, blocking the escape route.



"Riddle me this," Jason said, his voice dripping with cocky confidence. He raised an eyebrow, watching Riddler carefully. "What's green and purple but about to be covered in red and yellow?"





Riddler's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around his signature question-mark cane. Before he could retaliate, the cane swung toward Jason's head with a swift, calculated arc. Jason blocked the blow effortlessly with his batarang, spinning into a half-cartwheel to evade the next attack.









He landed gracefully behind Riddler, delivering a solid kick to his groin. The sound that escaped Riddler's lips was almost comical as he crumpled in pain.





"Wrong answer," Jason smirked, his chest swelling with the rush of victory as Riddler tried to creep away from him. He followed the Riddler down a small staircase, effortlessly landing atop him with a satisfying thud.



"You," Jason answered his own riddle, grinning. "When I land on your sorry butt." He remarked as he laughed at his own joke.



But as quickly as the victory felt real, the scene around him warped once more. The bright lights of the museum dissolved, and Jason was thrust into another memory. But there was something different this time around, this one felt different.







.......



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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

This memory felt different. There was a tension to it, a crackling energy that made the air around Jason feel heavier. It was a night of familiar conflict, one of those countless times he had butted heads with Bruce.







Their moral differences were like an ever-present rift, growing wider as time went on. One could say Bruce was the ever-calm protector, calculating and controlled, while Jason was the fierce and impatient kid who saw the world through a different lens—one that believed Gotham's worst criminals needed to face consequences— permanent consequences.



That night, they were targeting a drug gang holed up in an abandoned warehouse. The mission, though familiar, was about to go south fast.



The world around Jason felt thick with anticipation as they crept closer to the entrance of the warehouse. As they approached, the low murmur of voices and the occasional sound of metal scraping against concrete echoed from inside.



Everything felt still—too still. Then, like a cue, one of the gang members stepped outside for a cigarette. Jason's eyes snapped to him, his focus unwavering. The thug was an easy target.



The moment the thug saw him, his hand instinctively reached for his gun. The panic in his eyes was fleeting, but it was enough to ignite Jason's response.



"Don't move, or I'll—"



Jason didn't wait for him to finish the threat. "Or what? Shoot me?" he retorted, the sarcasm in his voice sharp and biting.



Before the thug could even bring the weapon into position, Jason was already in motion. His foot slammed into the thug's chest with brutal force, sending him flying backward through the warehouse door with a deafening crash. The other gang members, alerted by the sound, scrambled to grab their weapons, and the warehouse erupted into chaos.



Jason dropped to the ground in a perfect roll, his body moving instinctively, narrowly avoiding the hail of gunfire that streaked through the air above him. He didn't hesitate.









Springing up in a fluid motion, he reached for the nearest thug, his fingers closing around the man's collar before yanking him down into a brutal knee to the chin. The thug crumpled, his body going limp in Jason's grip. Without missing a beat, Jason propelled himself into the air, flipping onto a nearby table, his movements a seamless blend of speed and talent.



But the gang wasn't done. One thug, armed with a rapid-fire weapon, aimed directly at Jason. The muzzle flashed, but Jason was already moving.





He darted through the rain of bullets, evading the bullets as the fabric of his cape fluttered in the air like a blackened wing. In one swift motion, he hurled a small plasma disc at the thug's gun. The device sparked with electrical energy, paralyzing the man's arms and leaving him defenseless.



Jason was on him before he could react, taking the thug down with a quick strike to the chest, moving faster than most could process.



The fight was contained—at least for the moment. Jason approached the downed thug, his hands closing around the man's jaw, forcing him to look up at him. "Twenty rounds a second, and you were still too slow," Jason taunted, his voice low and mocking. His grip tightened for a moment, but before he could push further, a harsh voice sliced through the air.



"I'm not slow, punk!" The words were thick with anger. Jason turned to see an heavily weight man, his broad chest heaving as he raised a gun, aiming directly at Jason. There was no hesitation. The man fired twice, the shots ringing out in the silent night.



Jason swerved, his reflexes sharp, and dodged the first bullet. The second one grazed his shoulder, but the pain was nothing compared to the rush of the fight. "Me neither," Jason muttered, his voice low and laced with frustration.



Without wasting a second, he dove toward the shooter, closing the remaining distance in a heartbeat. Batman, always a step ahead, threw a Batarang that knocked the gun out of the man's hand before Jason could even land.



Jason's elbow shot forward with precision, a vertical strike aimed straight at the thug's right shoulder. The man's arm was outstretched, practically inviting the blow, and Jason didn't hesitate. His strike landed clean, the force of it driving through muscle and bone.





A sickening crack echoed in the air as the shoulder dislocated under the pressure. The thug staggered, his balance faltering as a guttural groan escaped him. The gun slipped from his fingers, forgotten in the dirt as he crumpled to his knees, clutching at the mangled joint.









"Robin!" Batman's voice rang out, sharp and filled with disapproval. It was the kind of tone that sent a chill down Jason's spine.



The memory once again shifted without warning, and Jason found himself back in the Batcave, the familiar hum of the Batmobile providing a dull backdrop to the tension in the air. He leaned against the car, his arms crossed over his chest, the expression on his face a mixture of defiance and frustration. Bruce was pacing in front of him, his movements tight, his jaw clenched.



"I had to take him down," Jason said, his voice cold as he tried to justify his actions. He wasn't apologizing—not yet.



"You shattered his collarbone!" Bruce snapped, his voice rising with irritation. "We needed him alive! He would've talked!"



Jason didn't flinch. He raised an eyebrow, unmoved. "He's a drug-dealing pimp. I didn't think I had to prop up pillows and mattresses before I took him out."



"We needed information," Bruce shot back, his tone laced with barely contained fury. "And you put him into shock."



Jason glanced down at the floor, a flicker of doubt creeping into his chest as Bruce's words sank in. "Sorry, that was dumb," he muttered, his voice softer now, acknowledging his mistake. But his belief still lingered, strong and unwavering. "But he deserved it," he added, his eyes meeting Bruce's for the first time, a challenge in his gaze.



Before he could leave, Jason's subconscious voice cut through the silence, a quiet whisper that echoed in his mind.



"See what you did there?"



The voice was lower now, almost conversational, but it carried an air of authority. A mirror version of Jason which one can only assume was his subconscious, manifested before him, stepping forward just slightly, creating an invisible line between them—one Jason was reluctant to cross. "Thugs like that are the rot festering in Gotham, Jason," it said, its tone cool and assured. "And deep down, you know you were right."





Jason's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides as the words lingered. The accusation in his subconscious's voice was not new, but it felt sharper now, more personal. Still unwilling to accept the words of what seemed to be from his inner voice, he spoke up, his tone was neutral but defensive and sharp.



"For all the times I've questioned Bruce, you can't deny what he's done for the city," Jason shot back, his voice rising with the familiar heat of a well-worn argument. "Even with his flaws, he's done more good for Gotham than anyone else. And for the world."





The subconscious sighed, a long, frustrated sound, running a hand through its hair. It mirrored Jason's own frustration, the weariness evident in every motion. "You keep putting him on this pedestal," it said, its voice rising with intensity, "but it's time to face reality. Bruce isn't perfect. Hell, he's the furthest thing from it. He's part of the problem, Jason. He's part of what keeps Gotham in this endless cycle of decay."



Jason's mouth opened, ready to counter, but the voice pressed on, cutting him off with an intensity that left him no room to respond.



"Think about it," it said, leaning in closer. "How many lives has Bruce actually changed? How many criminals has he truly stopped? He fights the disease, but he refuses to cure it. And worse? He drags people like us into his crusade—kids who needed help, not spandex suits."







"I never wanted him to be perfect."





Jason's shoulders sagged, and the words caught in his throat. His voice faltered, losing the fire it once had. "I know Bruce and I don't agree on everything," he murmured, his words softer now, laced with doubt. "I get that. But he's still the only reason Gotham hasn't collapsed completely. He's—"



The words died in his throat, a faint tremor betraying the uncertainty that was starting to crack through his defenses. Even as he tried to defend Bruce, a small part of him wondered if it was the truth—or just a lie he told himself to keep moving forward.



The colour of the Batcave around him began to dissolve, its familiar shadows fading away to reveal a different memory. This one was darker, colder. The rain poured down in torrents, each drop hitting the ground like a drumbeat. Jason stood, watching a younger version of himself—Robin—arguing with Batman in the storm-soaked streets of Gotham.



"Why do we always have to let them go with a pointless punishment like Jail when we know they would just come right out and fall back into their way of crime? It's not enough to teach them a rehabilitating lesson." young Jason shouted, his voice raw with frustration. "They're just going to do it again when they get out!"



Batman stood firm, his silhouette towering over the drenched city, the cold light from the flickering streetlamps casting harsh shadows over his features. His voice was calm, but the finality in his words left no room for debate. "Because we follow the law, Jason. We don't decide who deserves a death penalty. That's not our job."



The memory shifted, molten and unstable, until Jason found himself on a familiar rooftop, crouched in the shadows like a ghost haunting his own past. He moved with the raw energy of youth, his movements quick and precise, taking down petty criminals with violent strikes that could leave each of them in critical conditions, going beyond Bruce's code of conduct.





"You always wanted to do more than just stop them," the voice of his subconscious rang out, cutting through the moment. "You wanted them to pay. You wanted them to suffer the consequence of their crime."



Jason's eyes followed the younger version of himself as he cornered a thug in an alley. The man trembled, hands raised in a desperate plea. "Please! Don't hurt me!"



But Jason's expression was cold, his fists clenched with quiet rage. "You deserve this," he growled before delivering a brutal punch. Blow after blow followed, the impact echoing through the alley. Batman's voice suddenly rang out from behind him.



"That's enough, Robin!" Batman barked, stepping forward to pull Jason away and memory came to an abrupt pause.





"Bruce couldn't save you from yourself because he tried enforcing his own belief upon you." it said, the words cutting deep. "I know all you've ever wanted was his love and acknowledgment, it had you continuously competing with his first and beloved first son, Dick-fucking-Grayson.





At the end of it all you ended up dead because of him, Jason. Because of his unreasonable choices. He brought you into this life, knowing the risks, knowing the pain it would bring. And what did it accomplish? Nothing. You died for nothing. And guess what? The cycle keeps going."



Jason's chest tightened, anger and sorrow mixing into a knot that threatened to choke him as he refused to accept the truth presented before him. "I know he saw loved me as much as he loved Dick." he said, his voice a shaky whisper. "I know, but… I just… I can't always see it sometimes."



The Batcave reappeared around him, cold and unfeeling. The familiar hum of the cave's machinery was absent, leaving only the weighty silence to fill the void. Shadows clung to every corner, seeming to grow darker with every echo of his subconscious's words.



"Now that that's sunk in, we can move on," his subconscious said, stepping back into the shadows. Its tone was calm, almost detached, but its presence lingered, a constant weight pressing down on Jason's shoulders as he struggled with his dilemma, turned between two parts of himself.



Before Jason could respond, the world shifted again. This time, he was floating, suspended in a vast, endless void once again. The darkness was oppressive, but it didn't feel like a prison. It felt like a blank canvas—a place where everything had been stripped away, leaving only the truth from his very soul.







***



After giving Jason enough time to self reflect, his shadow self materialized out of the void, a perfect reflection of himself, just as before.



"We've gone through your memories," it began, its voice steady but burdened with a sense of gravity. "We've dragged out the thoughts you've refused to confront and buried deep within yourself, under a pile of the lies you tell yourself as you sort acknowledgement.





And now it's time to face reality: like I said before, our death didn't change anything. We died for nothing, Jason. And Bruce? He's going to replace you. He always does."



Jason flinched at the words, but he forced himself to hold his ground. His voice wavered as he asked, "What are you saying?"



The eyes of his shadow self narrowed, its expression darkening. "You still don't get it, do you?" it asked, stepping closer. "The Bat family—it's not a family. It's a group of traumatized kids, thrown into the same cycle Bruce has been stuck in for years. And instead of helping us heal, instead of giving us a chance to be something more, he hands us a mask and a suit and throws us into his war against crime."



The words struck Jason like a physical blow. As it spoke, it's voice grew colder, sharper, each word laced with bitterness. "You were never more than a soldier to him. And now that you're gone, he'll train another Robin. Another kid, another life ruined. And the worst part? The cycle will never end."



Jason clenched his fists, his knuckles white. "It's only natural he gets himself another Robin," he shot back, his tone defensive. "Just as he made me his sidekick after Dick went off on his own. That's how it works."



His shado sneered, its expression twisting with disappointment. "Is that what you're telling yourself?" it asked, its voice dripping with disdain.





"That it's natural? That it's just how things are? Wake up, Jason. You're not a legacy. You're a replacement. A patch for the hole left by someone else. And now that you're gone, the hole you left will be patched too. Over and over, until there's nothing left but masks and the continued sequence of crime.



Jason opened his mouth to argue, but before he could speak, the void darkened further. The silence grew absolute, swallowing the world around him. Everything—the voice from his shadow self, the memories, even the faint echoes of his own breath—was gone.



He was alone now, suspended in the endless dark, his thoughts the only thing keeping him company.







.........



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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

A/N:



As you all must have noticed by now, this is a slow paced fic.



As most of us might know, there is a five year period time skip between Jason Todd's death and his metamorphosis into becoming Red Hood.



There is vaguely little to nothing on how he exactly spent those years, or how he developed his skills to the point where he is well known for his fighting prowess.



Among recent comics, Red Hood's new title proves he is better than anyone in the Bat-Family at one thing which caused Damian to acknowledge Red Hood as the superior tracker among the BatFamily, dubbing him with the title:—"Hunter."



Join me as we explore Jason's journey and his character development through those five years, and up to his return to Gotham City.



F.Y.I:— This isn't your DC 'classic' kind of narrative. It's an engaging slow paced fic with deeper insights into characters.




#####



[Jason Todd's POV]



From the void, the voice came again without its physical manifestation in my image. It didn't speak—it tore its way into my mind, a jagged intrusion that demanded to be heard.



It writhed and clawed, its presence so heavy and consuming it felt like it could split me apart.



"Here's a glimpse of what might have happened if, by some twist of fate, you had survived that explosion," it hissed. The words weren't just spoken; they were carved into my skull, each syllable a cruel twist of the knife.



The oppressive darkness surrounding me unraveled like smoke, giving way to something sharper, something painfully vivid. I wasn't floating anymore. I was alive—or something close enough.

The first thing that hit me was the smell: antiseptic, bleach, and something faintly metallic. It was sterile, suffocating, a stark contrast to the faint ache radiating through my body.



I was lying in my bed. The sheets were stiff, the air cold, and the room so quiet that the steady beep of the monitors felt deafening. Sunlight filtered through a crack in the curtains, but it was muted, weak, casting faint streaks of gold across sterile white walls.

It should have been calming. It wasn't.

I blinked against the light, disoriented, my throat dry and raw as if it had been scraped clean. "Am I… alive?" The words escaped me in a hoarse rasp, unfamiliar and fragile.



No answer. Not at first.



Then, Bruce stepped into view, He stood at the foot of the bed, silent, looming like a gargoyle. His face wore an expression of relief.



Beside him, Barbara appeared. Her expression was fragile, teetering on the edge of breaking.



She reached out, hesitant, her fingers brushing my arm as if I might shatter beneath her touch. "Yeah, Jason," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "You're alive. Somehow… you're alive."



On the other side of the bed, Dick leaned forward. His grin was crooked, forced, his usual confidence replaced by something brittle.

"That's quite a lot of stitches, Jay," he said, trying for humor but failing. "It kinda feels like you intend to beat my record. But hey… you're here. That's all that matters."



Further back, Alfred stood behind everyone, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. His calm demeanor was a stark contrast to the tension in the room, but even he couldn't hide the faint warmth in his gaze.



"Indeed, Master Jason," he said quietly, his voice steady and reassuring. "You have given us quite the fright. But it seems you are far more resilient than we dared hope."



"How long?" I rasped, forcing the words out past the rawness in my throat. My gaze locked onto Bruce, his face had on an expressing I have never see on him before, one of worry. "How long have I been out?"

The faint glimmer of relief in his expression disappeared, replaced by one of regret. "Seventy-two days," he said flatly.



Seventy-two days.



I tried to sit up, but pain exploded through my body, sharp and unrelenting. My ribs felt like they were on fire, and the tight pull of stitches across my chest forced me back down.



My hands instinctively went to my face, tracing the gauze that wrapped my head. Beneath the bandages, I could feel the sting of healing wounds, each one a grotesque reminder of how close I'd come to dying.



"Don't push yourself, Jay," Dick said quickly, his voice strained with worry. "You're still weak. Just… give it time."



Time. The word hung in the air as it resounded in my head, meaningless and hollow. Time wouldn't fix this.



Their faces blurred, their voices fading into static. I was covered in stitches, skin grafts, scar tissues. Seventy-two days bedridden.



The outside was healing, sure, but inside? Inside, it was a different story. It was like something had been stripped away, some veil that had shielded me from the ugliness of it all. It was as if something clicked inside of me, shattering the lies I tell myself.



It felt like I could finally see through the walls—not literal walls, but the lies, the facades, the pitying smiles they wore to hide their fear.



That's what they felt—fear. And pity. They pitied me.



To them, I was a victim. A failure. A reminder of what could happen to them. And you know what? They weren't wrong.



But the truth? The truth cut deeper than the pain from Joker's crowbar, hurt more than the twenty-seven shattered bones he left me with.



The truth was staring me in the face now, raw and undeniable: they're the real victims. Victims of Bruce Wayne.



My fists clenched, the sheets twisting under my grip as the anger burned hotter, spreading like wildfire.



Dick? A broken, abducted child, clinging to Bruce because of his mummy and daddy issues. Barbara? A bright and fearless woman crippled by a maniac of his creation.



And Bruce? What kind of damaged man mentors children to fight his war? How deranged does a person have to be that they would see a kid struggling to survive on the streets and decide to throw him into the line of fire?



I was doing fine before Bruce dragged me into his world. I was alive before I met this "family." Alone, sure. But alive. And now? Now I was just another casualty of their dysfunction. Another unfortunate victim of Bruce's endless crusade.

Never again.



No more family.



If by some miracle I got a second chance—if I somehow clawed my way out of this abyssal void—I'd do things differently. No more playing by Bruce's rules. No more bending to his hypocritical, self-imposed leash. I'd become exactly what they feared.



I'd take the fear Bruce uses to scare criminals and turn it into a weapon for me to utilize as I see fit.



****



[Deep within the mountains where the League of Assassin's base]



The cave pulsed with an unnatural, otherworldly glow, its light casting jagged shadows across the damp, uneven walls.



Deep beneath the earth, the silence was broken only by the rhythmic drip of water, each drop echoing through the cavern like the heartbeat of something ancient and alive. Shadows clung to every corner, thick and restless, as if they were watching.



Around a steaming, bubbling pool of luminescent green, figures cloaked in deep crimson cloaks, stood in a solemn circle.



Their hoods were drawn low, shrouding their faces in darkness, their collective stillness almost inhuman. Not one shifted, not one breathed loudly, as though the very air in the cavern belonged to the ritual they were witnessing.



Apart from them stood Ra's al Ghul, the new immortal leader of the League of Assassins, loomed tall and imperious. His sharp, angular face bore the lines of wisdom from the times of old, the glow of the Lazarus Pit casting stark shadows across his cheekbones.



At his side stood his daughter, Talia, a picture of poised elegance betrayed only by the tension in her stance.



Her sharp eyes were fixed on the churning waters, their usual calculating gleam softened by something rare: apprehension.



"It's not working, Father," Talia said, her voice a quiet whisper, but there was no mistaking the frustration laced within it.



Her fingers tightened at her sides, betraying her inner turmoil, worried her lover might loose one of his sons for good.



"The waters… he's not responding." Her gaze flickered to Ra's, searching his face for some sign of doubt, but his expression remained as unreadable as stone.



Ra's didn't look at her. His eyes stayed locked on the Lazarus Pit, its surface now rippling faintly, as though disturbed by an unknown force.



"Patience, my daughter," he said, his tone even, calm—a true man of patience who is accustomed to waiting centuries for his plans to come to fruition if need be.



"The Pit works in its own time." He added.



The hooded figures shifted imperceptibly at his words, their heads bowing slightly in reverence—or fear. Ra's crossed his arms behind his back, a faint glimmer of anticipation sparking in his eyes. The air seemed to grow thicker, the heat emanating from the bubbling pool more oppressive.



Seconds stretched into eternities. Talia's nails dug into her palms, her patience fraying. She opened her mouth to speak again, but the words froze on her tongue as the water erupted.



A violent burst of motion sent the green liquid scattering across the cave walls. Steam hissed upward in twisting, serpentine coils, and the once-faint ripples transformed into a boiling, chaotic frenzy.



"Father!" Talia's voice rose, her composure breaking as she gripped his arm. "The waters—they're reacting!" Her wide eyes reflected the pit's glow, her usual confidence replaced by awe and dread.



The cloaked figures leaned forward, their hidden faces catching the eerie light for fleeting moments. Some wore expressions of reverence, others fear, and a few curiosity—but all were transfixed by the spectacle before them.



The pit churned violently, its glow intensifying until it seemed to fill the entire cavern. The mist rising from its depths thickened, coiling around the pool like living tendrils.



Talia's voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the chaos. "Do you think he'll come back… whole?"



Ra's raised a hand, silencing her. "The Pit is not known for mercy," he said, his tone heavy with grim certainty. "It restores what it will, how it will. Whatever returns to us will bear the mark of the Lazarus."



As if on cue, the water surged violently, and a piercing scream tore through the cavern. It was a sound that seemed to come from beyond the grave, raw and guttural, scraping against the ears of all who heard it.



From the center of the pool, a figure erupted, breaking the surface in a violent, gasping convulsion. Steam clung to his form, curling around him like a shroud as he thrashed, his movements wild and uncoordinated.



Talia's breath caught. "Jason Todd…" she whispered, her voice trembling with both awe and dread. She took a step closer, her gaze fixed on the man now clawing at the air, his body wracked with pain.



Jason's eyes, once dull and lifeless, now burned with an unnatural green light. They darted around the cavern, wild and unseeing, as if he were trapped between two worlds.



His gasps turned to choked retches, his body convulsing as he struggled to purge the remnants of the Lazarus Pit from his lungs. His movements were erratic, animalistic, every muscle in his body taut with pain and confusion.



Ra's watched him intently, his expression unreadable, though his eyes betrayed a glimmer of fascination.



He stepped closer, his voice calm, almost gentle. "He is strong," he murmured, half to himself. "Stronger than most who have emerged from the Pit. But the madness… it lingers."



Jason staggered, his body trembling as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. His gaze locked onto the crimson-cloaked figures, then onto Talia and Ra's, and something primal flared in his eyes. Panic turned to fury.





Two figures stepped forward to restrain him, but Jason moved with a speed and ferocity that defied his weakened state. His fist collided with one man's jaw, the sickening crack of bone echoing through the cavern as the assassin crumpled to the ground.



The second man barely had time to react before Jason drove his thumbs into his eyes, a guttural snarl escaping his lips as the man screamed in agony.



"Enough!" Talia shouted, drawing out a gun in one fluid motion. She leveled it at Jason, her hands steady, though her eyes betrayed her hesitation.



Ra's placed a hand on her arm and pushed it down just as she pulled the trigger.



Jason's gaze snapped to them, his chest heaving as he fought for control. His eyes flickered with recognition, but it was fleeting, swallowed by the storm raging within him.



Without another word, he turned and bolted, toward the edge of the cavern, his movements erratic but fueled by sheer will.

Jason sprinted through the upper levels, his breath ragged but his resolve unshaken. Ahead, a large window loomed, its fractured surface catching the faint moonlight.





Without breaking stride, he launched himself through it, the crash of shattering glass echoing like thunder in the still air.

For a fleeting second, he hung suspended, weightless against the vast night sky. Then gravity seized him, pulling him into a freefall.





His scream tore through the air, raw and defiant, as he plummeted from the dizzying height of the mountain. The jagged valleys below rushed up to meet him, their rocky surfaces cloaked in shadow.





Ra's al Ghul arrived at the broken window moments later, his long cloak billowing behind him. He leaned forward, scanning the darkness below, his eyes sharp and searching.



The echo of the boy's scream still lingered, bouncing off the cliffs like a phantom haunting the mountainside.



But there was nothing. No sign of Jason. No trace of his descent. Just silence and the cold, unyielding night.



Ra's straightened, his expression unreadable. Whatever had just unfolded, it wasn't over—not by a long shot.

********



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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The night in Gotham was cold and suffocating, the kind of darkness that felt alive. Thick clouds smothered the sky, blotting out the moon and stars, leaving the city in an eerie gloom.



It wasn't unusual for Gotham to feel oppressive, but tonight, the air carried something else. Anticipation. As if the city itself knew what was about to go down.



On the rooftop of an old, crumbling building, Batman stood still as a statue, his cape rippling in the wind.



His figure was almost indistinguishable from the night, a dark silhouette against a darker backdrop. He stared down at the city below, his jaw tight, his expression hidden but his fury unmistakable.



He couldn't shake the memories tonight, no matter how hard he tried. Jason's funeral played on a loop in his mind, every detail vivid. The rain had been relentless that day, drumming on the coffin like some cruel punctuation.



Everyone had spoken in hushed tones, their words meaningless in the face of what they'd lost.



A coffin too small for someone who still had so much life to live. Batman's fists clenched at the thought, the leather of his gloves groaning in protest.



But this wasn't a night for grieving. Not this time. There was no Bat-Signal in the sky, no Commissioner Gordon waiting with another case. Tonight, the mission wasn't about Gotham, it was about him. About Jason. And the Joker.

He'd spent hours chasing whispers, fragments of rumors that barely qualified as leads, but he didn't care. He followed every single one.



Now, it had all brought him here, to the gates of an abandoned amusement park. The Joker's kind of place. It was perfect in that grotesque way only the clown prince of crime could appreciate.

The gates creaked on their rusted hinges as Batman pushed through, the wind making them groan like they were alive. Inside, the park was a ghost of what it once was.



Broken rides loomed in the dark, their faded colors dull under layers of grime. Clown faces were everywhere, grinning in a way that felt less cheerful and more like a warning.

He moved through the wreckage with practiced ease, every step calculated, every movement deliberate so as to not give away his presence.



The silence pressed in, heavy and almost suffocating, until it was shattered by a sound that made his blood run cold.

The Joker's laugh.

That high-pitched, grating cackle that seemed to echo from everywhere at once. Batman froze for half a second, his muscles coiled like a spring.



Then, he moved, heading straight for the sound, his cape trailing behind him. His destination was clear, a funhouse at the center of the park, its garish neon lights flickering in and out, casting jagged shadows on the ground.



Inside, mirrors lined the walls, distorting his reflection into grotesque shapes. He ignored them, his focus unshakable as the Joker's laughter grew louder.



It was coming from somewhere deep within the funhouse, bouncing off the walls in ways that made it impossible to pinpoint.



"Joker!" Batman's voice was low and rough, a growl with the weight of suppressed emotions.



Then the man himself appeared, stepping out from the dark like he owned the place. His pale face almost glowed under the flickering lights, that red grin of his stretched wide, and his eyes sparkled with sick glee. He clapped his hands slowly, the sound deliberate and mocking.



"Batsy!" the Joker said, his voice dripping with that manic cheerfulness. "I knew you'd come! Took you long enough. I was starting to think you didn't care."



Batman didn't waste time. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, his first punch landing squarely on the Joker's jaw. The clown stumbled back, laughing even as the blow split his lip.



Batman didn't stop. His fists flew, each strike harder than the last. Every hit was fueled by the memory of Jason, of the pain and guilt he couldn't shake. Glass shattered around them as they crashed into mirrors, the shards raining down in glittering fragments.



"Still so serious!" the Joker wheezed, his grin never faltering. "You really don't know how to have fun, do you?" He said as he looked at blood stain on his suit. "I had so much fun with the kid, too bad he died at the end. What can I say, he was indeed a… Blunder."



Batman grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the nearest wall, the cracked glass spider-webbing out from the impact. His voice was a snarl. "This is for Robin."



The Joker's grin widened, somehow, his eyes alight with cruel amusement. "Oh, little Robin," he said, his voice softening to a mockingly tender tone. "He was such a good boy, wasn't he? Too bad…" He leaned in, whispering like it was a secret meant just for them. "…he couldn't take a blast."



Batman saw red. He struck again and again, the Joker's words cutting deeper than any blade.



The sound of shattering glass filled the air as the mirrors around them gave way, but all Batman could see were flashes of Jason, Jason alive, Jason gone, Jason lying still in that coffin.



Finally, he stopped, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. The Joker crumpled to the floor, blood smeared across his face, his smile somehow still intact. He coughed, then let out another laugh, hoarse but just as maddening.



"Go on," the Joker rasped, his voice a dare. "Do it. Finish it. You know you want to. Kill me. It's what the little bird would want, isn't it?"



Batman's fist hovered in the air, trembling with the force it took to hold back. He could do it, end it all right here, right now. One strike, and it would be over. Justice for Jason. Justice for all of them.



But deep down, he knew the truth. It wouldn't bring Jason back. It wouldn't even feel like justice. It would be surrender, giving the Joker exactly what he wanted.



With a sharp exhale, Batman tapped a button on his belt. The silent signal activated, and seconds later, the rumble of engines broke through the oppressive quiet. A prison van rolled into view, the armed officers inside ready for his cue.



He let the Joker fall, his grip releasing with a snarl. The clown hit the floor hard, shards of broken glass crunching beneath him as he crumpled in a heap.



"You're going back to Arkham," Batman said, his voice cold and clipped. "But this isn't over."



As the van screeched to a halt outside the dilapidated funhouse, the officers spilled out, their weapons trained on the maniac sprawled on the floor.



The Joker, of course, couldn't resist. He grinned up at Batman, blood smeared across his chin, his teeth still stained with that twisted, perpetual smile.



"Oh, Bats," he rasped, a wheezing chuckle bubbling up as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Always so predictable."



Batman ignored him, dragging the Joker to his feet before shoving him toward the waiting officers. They moved in swiftly, slapping on cuffs that clinked like a death knell.



"Way to ruin the finale, Batsy," the Joker said as they hauled him toward the van. He threw his head back, laughing through the pain. "I'll see you soon."



The echo of his laughter cut through the night, sharp and grating, and for a moment, Batman stood frozen, his jaw tight.



Commissioner Gordon approached, his boots crunching over the broken remnants of the Joker's chaos. A cigarette burned between his fingers, the ember casting a faint glow in the darkness.



"When you called earlier, I thought tonight might be the night," Gordon said, his voice heavy with something between relief and resignation. "Thought maybe you wouldn't hold back this time. Thought maybe it'd finally be the end of him."



He dropped the cigarette, grinding it into the ground beneath his shoe.



Batman didn't answer. He couldn't. He simply turned and walked away, the Joker's laughter following him like a taunting echo.



It clung to him as he stepped through the rusted gates of the park, the sound burrowing deep into the corners of his mind. He didn't look back. He couldn't. Not tonight.



The Batmobile waited just beyond the shadows, its sleek frame a sharp contrast to the decay around it.



He slid into the driver's seat, the familiar hum of the engine steadying his restless thoughts. When the car roared to life, it drowned out everything else, the laughter, the memories, even his own doubts.



The city blurred past him as he sped into the night, light and shadow streaking across the windshield. But no matter how fast he drove, he knew one thing for certain: that laughter would follow him long after the night ended.



Batman's thoughts weren't on the roads ahead. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as his mind wandered, dragged back to a past that refused to stay buried. Jason.



Even thinking his name felt like a punch to the gut, stirring a storm of emotions he couldn't control, grief, guilt, anger, and an ache that no amount of time or distance could dull.



Jason was a tough kid, all fire and fight, with a grin so wide it seemed to dare the world to knock him down.



Bruce could still hear his laughter, rare in Wayne Manor's somber halls, but so full of life that even Alfred couldn't help but smirk when Jason's antics got out of hand.



That laughter had been sunlight breaking through the darkness, a sound that made the weight of their mission feel lighter, if only for a moment.



"C'mon, Bruce!" Jason's voice echoed in his memory, sharp and vibrant. "You gotta loosen up! You're not just the Dark Knight, you're also a billionaire.



Billionaires are supposed to have fun, right?"



For the briefest second, Bruce felt the ghost of a smile tug at his lips, only to vanish beneath the crushing weight of reality.



Jason had been more than a partner, more than Robin. He was family. A son. Even if Bruce had never managed to say it aloud.



The Image of Jason's first meeting flashed through his mind. A scrappy, fearless kid trying to steal the tires off the Batmobile in the middle of Crime Alley.



There had been something in Jason's eyes that day, something raw and untamed. Bruce hadn't just seen a thief. He'd seen potential.



He'd seen himself, years ago, burning with the same anger and drive to make something better out of the chaos.



"Am I doing this right, Bruce?" Jason had asked during a quiet rooftop stakeout, his voice unusually uncertain. "I mean, really right? Do you think I'm good enough?"



Bruce could still feel the weight of his response, his voice steady and sure. "Jason, you're more than good enough. You're extraordinary. Don't ever doubt that."



But no words, no assurances, had been enough to keep Jason safe. That image—Jason's broken body, the blood, the stillness—was seared into Bruce's mind, a nightmare he couldn't wake up from.



He could still hear the explosion, the deafening silence that followed, the crushing realization that he had been too late.



The Batmobile's engine roared as he pushed the memory aside, forcing himself to focus on the present.



Jason was gone, and no amount of regret or anger could bring him back. But his loss lingered, woven into the fabric of Gotham itself, a shadow Bruce would carry forever.



When the Batmobile finally slowed, it was outside the Batcave. I, he made his way atop the rooftop of the Wayne Manor overlooking the city.



Batman stepped forward, letting the cold wind wash over him as he stared at Gotham's sprawling lights, glittering like scattered stars. Somewhere out there, Jason's memory lingered, refusing to fade.



"Master Bruce."



Bruce turned to find Alfred standing behind him, his expression calm but lined with quiet compassion.



"Alfred," Batman said, his voice low, raw. "I failed him. Jason's gone because of me."

Alfred stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on Bruce's shoulder, a small but steadying gesture.



"You did everything you could, sir. Jason knew the risks. He chose this life, chose to fight alongside you. Blaming yourself will not bring him back."



Bruce's fists clenched, the words like a bitter pill. "I was supposed to protect him. He trusted me. I let him die."



Alfred's voice softened, though his gaze remained steady. "Grief is a heavy burden, Master Bruce, but it's not one you must bear alone. Jason admired you. He believed in you. He wouldn't want you to lose yourself in guilt of his death."



For a moment, the words hung between them, raw and unvarnished. Bruce took a slow, steadying breath, letting them sink in.



He couldn't afford to let grief consume him, not when there was still so much work to be done. Jason's memory wouldn't be his undoing. It would be his strength.



"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said quietly, the words heavy with sincerity.



"Always here, sir," Alfred replied with a faint smile. "Now, perhaps it's time we head back down. Gotham isn't going to save itself, after all."

They returned to the Batcave, the silence felt heavier, broken only by the hum of machinery.



Bruce's eyes landed on the glass case where Jason's Robin suit had once hung. Now, it was empty, a painful reminder of a promise he hadn't been able to keep.



He stood there for a moment, his thoughts heavy, his heart heavier. "Jason…" he whispered, the sound swallowed by the cavernous space.



From the shadows, Alfred watched quietly, his usual stoicism softened by an undercurrent of sadness.



He knew better than anyone that Bruce's grief wasn't something words could mend. Still, he hoped that, in time, Bruce might find peace, or at least purpose in Jason's memory.



When Bruce finally turned away from the empty case, it was with renewed focus. He moved to the massive computer, its screens alive with data and surveillance feeds. The Joker had been taken down, but crime still lingered somewhere in Gotham's shadows.



*****

Crave for even more chapters ahead of my public release? Kindly visit my p@t to read ahead pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Talia al Ghul's POV]


"Father, we were unable to find a body." Talia reported, her tone calm but measured as she dipped her head in a brief bow. "It's impossible for anyone to survive that fall. He's undoubtedly dead."


Ra's al Ghul stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at the storm battering the mountainside.





Snow swirled in relentless waves, the howling wind a reminder of nature's indifference. Without turning, he replied, his voice quiet but heavy with thought.





"That would be the logical conclusion. Yet, even if by some miracle he survived the fall, this storm will finish the job.


Frostbite, hypothermia...or the weight of the snow burying him alive."


He exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible but laden with frustration. Turning to face his daughter, he studied her with sharp, discerning eyes.


For a moment, disappointment flickered across his face—a rare crack in the fortress of his composure. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the detached calm of acceptance.


"It pains me," he admitted after a moment, his voice low and deliberate, "that my actions have led to the death of such a promising young man. I sought to restore him, to make him whole again. And I failed."



Talia tilted her head, her curiosity breaking through the polished exterior she usually maintained. "Why do you care so much, Father? Why does it matter if that boy lives or dies?"


Her question hung in the air like the echo of a blade. It wasn't like him to fixate on the fate of a single life.


After all, Ra's al Ghul had sent countless soldiers of the League to their deaths without a second thought, believing every life expendable in service of his greater vision. Why was this different?


Ra's turned back to the window, his gaze distant as he watched the storm rage. "His death wasn't part of the agreement," he said simply. "The Clown acted on his own madness.


The boy's death was meant to torment the Detective—and I had hoped to make things right."



Talia studied him carefully. His words felt...odd. Compassionate, almost. But it didn't align with the man she knew, the man who rarely spared a thought for casualties unless they served his purpose.


"But that's not your mistake to fix," she said after a pause, stepping closer. "In his own twisted way, the Clown did this to spite Batman.


You chose the right distraction, Father. No one can control that madman. Least of all you."


She rested a hand lightly on his shoulder, a rare gesture of reassurance. "You shouldn't carry the burden of a lunatic's actions. Robin wasn't our responsibility."



Ra's turned to her, his sharp eyes narrowing—not in anger, but as if considering her words. Then, without another word, he strode toward the door. He paused at the threshold, glancing back briefly.


"My condolences to the Detective," he said, his tone cool and final. "But what's done is done."



With that, he disappeared down the hall, his footsteps fading into the distance, leaving Talia alone with her thoughts.


She turned to the window, staring out at the storm as it raged on, the snow swallowing the mountainside inch by inch. Yet, even as the cold winds howled outside, a thought began to form—a flicker of determination sparking in the depths of her mind.


Ra's had made his decision, but Talia wasn't one to leave things unanswered. If Robin was truly dead, they needed to confirm it. If there was even a sliver of a chance he had survived, she needed to know.



Her gaze sharpened as she made her decision. She would take two of her most resilient League members and venture into the storm. The boy's fate would not remain a mystery, even if it meant braving the unforgiving cold.


Talia turned, her resolve set. For better or worse, she would find him—or what was left of him—before the snow erased all trace of his existence.


****


[Jason Todd's POV]


Jason's pale skin seemed almost ghostly against the swirling white of the blizzard. Out of his mind and lost to any sense of purpose, he trudged through the relentless storm.



The wind howled mercilessly, biting at his exposed skin and cutting through the bandages wrapped around his body like knives.


Each step felt heavier than the last as the snow buried his feet, but Jason pushed forward. He didn't know where he was going—he just knew he couldn't stop.


Pain from freezing muscles and stiff joints had dulled into an almost comfortable numbness, his body too exhausted to feel anymore.



Eventually, his strength gave out, and he collapsed face-first into the snow. The bitter cold seeped into his bones, the edges of his vision beginning to blur.


His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, when a voice echoed faintly in his mind.


"Don't give in to the cold. Fight. Survive."

The words jolted him slightly, and he clung to the thread of consciousness they offered.


"We have to get our revenge," the voice whispered again, urgent and insistent. "We can't die here—not like this. Get up, Jason. Get up!"


A grunt escaped his lips as he pushed against the icy ground, managing to get one knee under him. But his body betrayed him, and he fell back into the snow.


The cold was suffocating, but as his head tilted upward, he spotted something in the distance—a faint orange glow. It was small but unmistakable: fire.


With every ounce of willpower he had left, Jason began crawling toward the light. Each inch felt like an eternity, but finally, he reached the mouth of a shallow cave. Inside, a fire crackled warmly, and next to it sat a rugged man—a hunter, judging by his attire—roasting fish over the flames.


Jason's focus locked onto the fish. His empty stomach growled faintly as he collapsed just inside the cave's entrance, barely conscious.


The hunter looked up, his eyes widening in terror.


"Ahhh!" he shouted, jumping to his feet. Jason's pale skin and the bandages covering his body gave him the appearance of some undead creature, and the hunter instinctively grabbed a machete.


But as he took a closer look, he realized the "mummy" before him was just a boy—freezing, starving, and barely alive.


"Hey, kid! Are you...are you alright?" The hunter's voice softened as he crouched beside Jason. Seeing no response, he slung Jason's arm over his shoulders and hauled him closer to the fire.

The warmth was overwhelming. Jason shivered uncontrollably, his teeth chattering as he finally began to feel the sensation returning to his frozen limbs.

The hunter sat him down on a log by the fire, draping his jacket over the boy's trembling shoulders.


"I'll be right back," the hunter said gently as he got up, watching as Jason stared blankly into the flames. "Gotta grab more kindling before the fire dies out."


The boy didn't respond, his focus consumed by the dancing flames.



****


Talia al Ghul and three of her best soldiers pushed through the unforgiving blizzard. She wasn't one to waste time on a fool's errand, but something told her the boy was still alive.


As they crested a ridge, Talia spotted a faint orange glow. She raised her hand, signaling her team to stop. With a few quick hand gestures, she directed two of them to flank the entrance of the cave while she and the other soldier approached from the front.


Inside, they saw Jason sitting by the fire, his expression blank, and a rugged hunter handing him a stick with a roasted fish.


"I'll be back soon," the hunter said as he stood. "Gotta grab more kindling before the fire dies out."

The hunter's steps faltered as he came face-to-face with a masked figure blocking the cave entrance. A knife pressed against his throat, freezing him in place.


Jason looked up, his eyes narrowing as he took in the four masked figures now surrounding the cave.


"See?" a sly voice whispered in his mind. "You haven't even been here five minutes, and he's already sold you out. Typical."


Jason's lips moved faintly, forming a whisper. "Maybe they're his associates. Maybe this was all a setup."


The hunter turned slightly, panic flashing in his eyes.


"Or maybe he just doesn't care," the voice hissed again. "Make him pay."


Jason's gaze shifted to the flames, his mind sharpening with sudden clarity. Without hesitation, he grabbed the nearest object—a bottle of alcohol—and hurled it at the closest masked figure. The glass shattered on impact to the forehead, and he followed up by swinging a burning log into the face of another attacker as they screamed in pain.


The sudden violence sent the hunter stumbling backward, only to be caught by Jason, who drove a jagged piece of broken glass into his neck. Blood sprayed as the hunter dropped to the ground, gurgling his last breath.

Talia's eyes widened in shock as she watched Jason's brutal efficiency. The boy turned his attention to the remaining masked soldier writhing on the ground, his face burned from the firewood.


Without hesitation, Jason kicked them into the flames, their screams echoing through the cave.


"Stop!" Talia commanded, her voice steady despite the chaos. She stepped forward cautiously, observing the boy who had once been Batman's second Robin.


"I see death lingers around you now," she said softly.


Jason turned his fiery gaze toward her but said nothing. She extended a hand, her tone calm and persuasive. "Come with us. You don't belong out here, freezing to death."


Jason didn't respond. His body moved on instinct as he lunged at her with a kick. Talia dodged, sweeping his planted leg out from under him. He rolled with the motion, landing on his feet and charging again.


The fight was brief but fierce. Talia and her remaining soldier skillfully avoided his wild, desperate attacks. With one well-placed strike, Talia delivered a sharp chop to Jason's neck, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

"Take him," she ordered, straightening her posture as her soldier hoisted Jason over their shoulder. Talia cast a final glance at the carnage Jason had left behind, her thoughts swirling.


'Was this the Lazarus Pit's influence...or his true innate nature revealed?'


Without another word, she led her team back into the storm, Jason's limp form carried away into the night.


****


At the break of dawn, the training hall echoed with the sharp clatter of weapons and the grunts of men in combat. At the center of it all stood Ra's al Ghul, shirtless and unarmed, surrounded by a circle of skilled foot soldiers armed with a variety of weapons.


This was no ordinary drill—it was a deadly training exercise where every soldier was tasked with attacking Ra's with the intent to kill. Despite their lethal intent, the Demon's Head moved with astonishing precision and grace.


Ra's weaved through their attacks effortlessly, his movements as fluid as water. Every strike, every blow directed at him was either dodged, countered, or redirected.


His bare feet danced across the floor with the agility of a man decades younger, and his fists and open palms struck with pinpoint accuracy, sending soldier after soldier crumpling to the ground.


Talia al Ghul entered the hall silently, observing her father's exercise without interruption. She crossed her arms, her eyes following Ra's as he flowed seamlessly from one movement to the next.


For a man approaching five centuries of life, his speed and reflexes were unparalleled, and the power in his strikes betrayed none of his years.


A soldier loosed an arrow at close range, the projectile whistling through the air. Ra's caught it mid-flight with ease, pivoted on his heel, and sent it flying back toward its origin.


The arrow nicked the shoulder of its shooter, a calculated move to incapacitate without causing undue harm.


In mere minutes, the floor was littered with unconscious soldiers. Ra's stood at the center of the carnage, his sweat-soaked chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.

A soldier approached cautiously, bowing before offering him a towel. Ra's took it without a word, wiping the sweat from his brow.


Though his body bore the years of his immortal life, he looked no older than a man in his early fifties, his physique as sharp and disciplined as his mind.


"I trust my performance was satisfactory, daughter?" Ra's asked, his voice calm yet commanding as he walked toward Talia.


She inclined her head in a respectful bow. "As always, Father. No matter how often I watch you train, I'm still in awe of how effortlessly you blend so many fighting styles. It's as if combat flows through you."


Ra's offered a small nod, his expression unreadable. "Thank you, my child," he said, draping the towel over his shoulders.


Without breaking stride, he continued toward the exit, his movements as measured as ever.


Talia followed a few steps behind, her tone shifting to one of formality. "Father, I've received news. Our guest has regained consciousness. He's awake as we speak."



Ra's paused mid-stride, his back still to her. Slowly, he turned his head to glance at her over his shoulder, his piercing eyes sharp with interest.


"How long has it been?" he asked, extending his arms slightly as two attendants stepped forward, draping a finely embroidered robe over his shoulders.


"It's been almost a week, father," Talia replied.


Ra's hummed thoughtfully, fastening the robe at his waist. "Get him something to eat and help him relax," he instructed, his tone firm but not unkind. "His mind will likely still be rattled from the ordeal."


"Yes, Father." Talia bowed again, though she couldn't help but wonder why her father was so invested in keeping the boy alive. There was a time when Ra's would have left such matters to fate, yet this was different.


"I will see him when he has calmed and regained his sense of self," Ra's added before turning away and disappearing down the dimly lit corridor, his silhouette fading into the shadows.


Talia remained behind for a moment, her thoughts lingering on the boy who was brought back from the dead, and the unusual interest her father seemed to have in him. Whatever plans Ra's had for Jason Todd, she would have choice but to go along with it for her father knows best.


******


Craving for even more chapters ahead of my weekly public release? Kindly visit my p@t to read ahead pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Jason Todd's POV]


I laid there for three days, unconscious, completely comatose—but strangely aware of my surroundings. It felt like I was trapped in a haze, my mind wide awake but unable to move.


Every day, I saw him. He was me, but different. His skin was burned, parts of his body charred and blackened as if he'd been from hell itself.


"You know what we must do, right?" he said to me, his bloodshot eyes glaring with a crazed intensity. There was madness in his stare, a twisted kind of obsession.


He hovered around me, pacing like a predator, before finally sitting down beside me. His breath was warm against my ear as he leaned in close. "I hope Bruce hasn't killed Joker yet… We must get our revenge," he whispered, his voice laced with venom.


Now, I couldn't tell if my mind was playing tricks on me or if we were two separate entities sharing the same body.


It was hard to admit, but a part of me was okay with dying. I'd accepted the idea, even told myself it was fine if Bruce took vengeance in my place. This whole life, this rollercoaster of pain and anger—it wasn't worth it anymore.


He was the part of me I didn't want to acknowledge, the angry side, the side I buried deep. No, he was more than that—he was my repressed thoughts and emotions, a manifestation of everything I couldn't process.

He disappeared for a moment, only to reappear at the window, his anger intensifying. "Even if Joker's dead, Gotham's parasites must pay for their sins." His voice was loud, sharp with fury, ranting on and on.

This went on for days—him disappearing, reappearing, spewing vengeance into my ears. It had been 72 hours, but now, I was awake.



For the first time in days, I felt my fingers twitch. Slowly, I clenched my fist, then my other hand. My legs finally felt like they were mine again. It was like my nerves had finally reconnected, the spark of life returning to my body.

I threw the blanket off and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My body felt so weak, like I had to build up the strength just to stand. It took all my focus, all my energy to make the next move.

I wasn't going to let myself fall back into that motionless state, not again. I wouldn't let that hallucination of me, all burned and twisted, keep rambling in my head while I couldn't move.

With every ounce of willpower, I pushed myself to my feet. I made it. One step forward. The excitement surged within me, and I tried for a second step—but my legs buckled beneath me, and I hit the ground hard, my head slamming into the edge of a wooden stool.


"Shit!" I groaned, vision blurry, my frustration boiling over as I slammed my fist against the floor.


Then, I heard the door open, the sound of hurried footsteps. A voice called for help.


The light above me dimmed, and my vision started to fade as they lifted me up, carrying me back to the bed.


The last thing I saw was the flash of eyes—eyes I couldn't quite make out. Maybe they were wearing masks, or maybe scarves were covering their faces, but their eyes—those I could see clearly.


And then, in the backdrop of the room, there he was. The figure standing in the corner, his wide, sinister grin staring back at me. His body was burned, just like the vision of me, but worse.


As I slipped into unconsciousness, his voice echoed through my mind—calm, assured, like a dark promise. "You can no longer run from this…"

And with that, the world went black.


****



Once again, I regained consciousness. Blinking slowly, I took a closer look at my surroundings, and the strangeness of it all hit me like a freight train. Everything looked unfamiliar, alien.


"Oh, shit. Where am I?" I muttered under my breath, my voice hoarse as if I hadn't used it in days.


I scanned the room, searching for something—anything—that might clue me in. Yet, even as I tried to piece things together, a bigger, more nagging question clawed at the back of my mind: 'Who am I?'


I racked my brain, desperate for a sliver of memory, anything to explain this situation. A fragmented flash struck me—masked individuals dragging me, their hands gripping me tightly as they hauled me into… this room? This bed?


The disjointed memory only left me more disoriented, and I found myself staring at the ceiling, the question looping in my head: Who were they? Why was I here?


Sitting up slowly, I propped myself against the bed frame, my movements sluggish as if my body was still catching up from a deep sleep. The room was spartan yet strangely luxurious.


I took in the carved wooden furniture, the faint flicker of a dimly lit lantern, and the faint scent of something herbal lingering in the air.


"Where the hell am I?" I muttered again, feeling a rising sense of unease.

The door swung open suddenly, startling me. A tall, older man stepped inside, his posture commanding, his green eyes sharp and piercing. He radiated an air of authority that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.


He walked to my bedside without a word, his eyes locked onto mine like he was studying me. I met his gaze, refusing to look away, as if we were in some sort of unspoken staring contest.

After a long silence, he finally spoke, his tone calm yet firm. "Relax, Jason. I know this must be overwhelming for you, waking up in a strange place. You're probably wondering where you are right now. But rest assured, you are safe. You'll be taken care of."


His words made me freeze.

Jason?

That name echoed in my mind like a distant bell. Was that my name? It had to be. I replayed his words over and over, trying to make sense of them. I'm Jason.

I looked around the room again, this time with a different lens. The man in front of me must know me—must know something about how I ended up here.


"Wh-Who are you?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly as I squinted at him, trying to read his expression.


He raised a brow, surprised by my question. "You don't remember me?"


I shook my head. "I don't remember much of anything."


His expression shifted, concern creasing his features. He stroked his beard thoughtfully before responding. "I see. Then tell me, what do you remember?"


"Nothing," I admitted, frustration lacing my tone. "It's like my mind's completely blank. I've been trying to pull up something, but the only thing I can picture is…" I hesitated, wincing as a dull pain throbbed in my temple. "A clown's face. Just a clown. That's it."

The image of the clown lingered in my mind, disturbing and vivid. The more I focused on it, the more it made my head ache, like trying to force open a locked door.


"And nothing else?" he asked, his voice laced with a mix of both disappointment and curiousity .

"Nothing else," I replied, shaking my head.


He nodded, though he looked troubled. "I see…" He gestured toward the door with a sweep of his arm. "Why don't you come with me?"


"To…?" I asked, suspicion creeping into my voice. I wasn't about to follow this guy blindly, no matter how calm he sounded.

"To the dining hall for dinner," he explained. "You must be starving after nearly a week of sleep." He turned on his heel, heading toward the door.


I stood slowly, my legs shaky but holding firm. That's when I realized I was wearing a black robe—nothing underneath. I hesitated, feeling a bit exposed, but before I could say anything, the man stopped at the door and knocked twice.


A masked guard entered silently, his face obscured by a scarf.



"Yes, my lord," the guard said, bowing slightly.


"Fetch the boy some proper clothing," the older man instructed. "He must be feeling overwhelmed enough as it is."


"Yes, my lord." The guard bowed again and left as quickly as he had come.


The older man turned back to me. "There's a bathroom over there," he said, pointing to a door on the far side of the room. "Freshen up and get dressed. Then join us for dinner."


"Us?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"Yes. My daughter and I. We try to have breakfast together when time allows. I thought you might join us. Perhaps it will help jog your memory," he explained.


Before I could respond, the masked guard returned, placing a neatly folded set of clothes on the bed. Without a word, he disappeared again.


"Okay," I agreed reluctantly. The man gave a faint smile before stepping out of the room.

As soon as the door shut behind him, I wasted no time heading to the bathroom. The sight of hot water pouring from the faucet was a welcome relief.


I stepped into the shower, letting the warmth wash over me, easing my stiff muscles and numbing the chill I hadn't realized I'd been carrying.


The water felt like a reset, like the first step to piecing myself back together—whoever I was.


*****



[General POV]


Jason emerged from the bathroom, the towel slung lazily around his neck. He dressed quickly, his movements brisk and efficient, though his mind was a storm of conflicting thoughts.


He didn't want to leave the room—his instincts screamed at him to stay put, to avoid the people outside. But hunger gnawed at him, and curiosity about his circumstances was even harder to ignore.


Grimacing, he pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway. A masked figure stood there, silent and imposing. The guard motioned for Jason to follow, and with a reluctant sigh, he complied.


The halls of the building were cold and dimly lit, the walls lined with intricate carvings and tapestries that hinted at an ancient, almost mythical history.


Jason's eyes flicked around, cataloging exits and potential threats as they walked. His paranoia, though simmering just below the surface, felt justified. He didn't trust this place—or the people in it.


Eventually, they reached a large dining hall. It wasn't extravagant, but there was a sense of refined grandeur to the long, polished table and the dimly glowing chandeliers overhead.


Seated at the table were two people. One was the man Jason immediately recognized as "the geezer"—Ra's al Ghul, the man who radiated an aura of quiet authority.


The other was a woman whose familiarity stirred something in Jason's memory.


Her striking features, the sharpness in her gaze—Jason couldn't place her, but it was clear she knew him. Her dark eyes studied him with an intensity that made his skin crawl.

"Oh, welcome," Ra's said, gesturing toward a chair a few seats away from him. The gesture was calculated—close enough to engage in conversation, but distant enough to avoid crowding Jason's space.


Jason hesitated, his gaze flicking over the table. The smell of the food was intoxicating, his stomach growling loudly in response. Embarrassed but too hungry to care, he pulled out a chair and sat down, his movements slow and deliberate.

A plate was placed in front of him, the food steaming and aromatic. His stomach growled again, louder this time, urging him to dig in. He picked up a spoon and took a cautious bite.


The flavor was rich and satisfying, but Jason's mind remained sharp. He ate slowly, instinctively watching the others out of the corner of his eye. Trust was a foreign concept here, and he wasn't about to lower his guard.

Ra's allowed him to eat in silence for a while, his piercing gaze never leaving Jason. Finally, he broke the quiet. "How do you feel?"

Jason paused, swallowing his food and placing the spoon down. He stared at the plate for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "I feel… hollow," he said finally, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.



Ra's tilted his head slightly, as though analyzing the weight of Jason's words. "Hmm… I see."


Jason's gaze flicked to the woman at the table. She hadn't said a word yet, but her presence was palpable. He caught her watching him, her expression curious but guarded.



"This is my daughter, Talia," Ra's introduced, his tone light but tinged with pride. "She is the one who found you. You were lying in the cold, on the brink of death. It is thanks to her that you are alive to sit here today."


Jason tilted his head slightly, studying her face more closely. There was something achingly familiar about her, but the memory danced just out of reach.


"You don't remember anything?" Talia asked, her voice calm but edged with suspicion. Her dark eyes narrowed slightly, searching his face for any flicker of recognition.


Jason stared back at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Instead of answering, he turned his attention back to Ra's. "What happened to me?"


Ra's leaned back in his chair, his expression grave. "You were met with an unfortunately traumatic experience which assured everyone you were dead. Infact, you were dead."


Jason raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "Okay-y," he drawled, his tone dripping with disbelief.


"He's not joking," Talia interjected, her voice sharper now. There was no trace of humor in her expression.

Jason chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "Right. So what's the punchline? Because last I checked, dead people don't sit around eating dinner."


Talia sighed, her patience thinning. "You were dead," she said firmly, "and my father brought you back with the help of the Lazarus Pit. It's a sacred ritual, one that is not without risks."

Jason's smirk faltered as her words sank in. His hand instinctively went to his temple as a sharp pain suddenly pierced through his skull. He winced, groaning as he leaned forward, clutching his head.


"What's wrong?" Ra's asked, his voice calm but tinged with concern.


Jason waved him off, gritting his teeth. "I… I'm fine," he muttered, though the pain was anything but. It felt like his head was splitting open, memories flashing and fading like broken film reels. "Just light-headed for a second."

He kept his head down, breathing deeply as the pain began to subside. But when he opened his eyes, there was a subtle shift in his demeanor—a quiet, simmering anger that hadn't been there before.

Ra's exchanged a glance with Talia, the unspoken tension between them growing. They both knew that whatever Jason had been through, the real fight was only just beginning.


Jason wiped his mouth with a napkin and let it fall to the table, landing upon a gleaming fork. He sat still, his face hidden behind the curtain of his unkempt hair.


"Thank you for the meal," he muttered, his voice low, laced with an edge of bitterness.

"But I don't think I can manage this much food. The news of being brought back from the dead…" He trailed off, his hand slowly reaching under the napkin as he added, "…has a way of killing one's appetite."


Ra's al Ghul, seated at the head of the grand table, watched the young man intently. "I see," Ra's said thoughtfully, his tone measured.


"Do not fret, young Jason. With time and discipline—perhaps a few mental exercises—you will regain your full strength and memories. Resurrection can be…"


Before Ra's could finish, Jason's hand shot out, clutching the fork hidden beneath the napkin. In one fluid motion, he hurled it across the room, the sharp prongs aimed directly at Talia al Ghul.


She was mid-bite, her guard lowered as she dined casually at the far end of the table.


"Daughter," Ra's said with eerie calm, not moving from his seat.


Talia barely glanced up before her hand snapped out, catching the fork between her fingers just as it was about to strike her throat. The steel trembled in her grip for a moment before she dropped it onto the table, her eyes narrowing.


But the distraction had served its purpose.


******


Craving for even more chapters ahead of my weekly public release? Kindly visit my p@t to read ahead pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Jason had already closed the distance between himself and Ra's, a glinting kitchen knife now in his hand. His movements were swift and precise, honed into his muscle memories from years of training—he thrust the blade toward the elder man's chest, aiming to end the Demon's Head in one strike.



The attack was intercepted.



A masked League of Shadows guard, who had been standing silently in the corner, reacted instantly. He caught Jason's arm mid-thrust and slammed his head into the table with a dull thud.



The knife clattered to the ground, skidding out of reach.



Jason gritted his teeth, refusing to yield. Using his free elbow, he drove it into the guard's face with enough force to make the man stagger back. But the grip on his arm was ironclad.



Thinking quickly, Jason stomped on the guard's foot, leveraging the pain to push himself upward. He kicked off the edge of the table, twisting mid-air like a wildcat, and landed behind the guard, finally freeing himself from the hold.



Ra's remained seated, his expression passive. He observed the scuffle as if it were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. Talia, however, was now on her feet, her body tense, while the masked guard took a low, balanced stance, preparing for the next move.



Jason lowered himself into a neutral stance, his eyes fixed on the ground, hair hanging over his face. "What kind of monsters play with the dead?" he muttered, his voice barely audible. His shoulders rose and fell with each ragged breath. "What kind of sick people disturb the souls of the resting?"





Ra's cocked his head slightly, his curiosity piqued.



Jason slowly lifted his head, his face shadowed but his eyes unmistakable. They were a dull, unnatural shade of green, devoid of any spark or reflection. They were dead eyes—empty and haunting.



"Jason?" Talia's voice softened as she addressed him cautiously. "Are you… there?"



Jason's gaze shifted toward her, but it was as if he was looking through her rather than at her.



Without warning, he lunged, aiming to take Talia down. But the masked guard intercepted him with a perfectly timed strike, blocking Jason's advance.



The guard opened with a series of swift, calculated jabs aimed at Jason's torso and head, each blow designed to disorient.


Jason countered with raw aggression, parrying the strikes and delivering a brutal knee to the guard's ribs. The guard staggered but immediately retaliated, sweeping low to trip Jason.



Jason leapt over the sweep, using the momentum to deliver a spinning kick to the guard's shoulder. The impact made the guard stumble, but he recovered quickly, locking Jason in a grapple.



The two struggled, each vying for dominance. Jason headbutted the guard, loosening the hold, then twisted free, landing a vicious elbow strike to the man's jaw.



The guard faltered but adapted, using Jason's momentum to throw him toward the table. Jason hit the edge, knocking over plates and glasses, but he didn't stay down.



Grabbing a broken plate shard, he flung it at the guard, forcing him to block. In that split second, Jason surged forward, his fists a blur as he overwhelmed the guard with a barrage of punches.



The guard managed to catch Jason's wrist, twisting it to disarm him. But Jason, ever resourceful, used his free hand to strike the man's throat.


The guard gasped, losing his balance, and Jason capitalized on the opening. He swept the guard's legs out from under him and delivered a final, decisive blow to the back of his head, leaving the man unconscious.



Jason turned, his focus shifting to Ra's. Talia was now on the opposite side of the room, her expression wary. Jason moved toward Ra's with a dangerous calm, his fists clenched and his steps deliberate.



Ra's, unbothered by the chaos, simply extended a hand. Jason swung his fist, but Ra's caught it effortlessly, pulling Jason forward and delivering a precise strike to his temple. Jason's body went limp, collapsing onto the floor in an unconscious heap.



"What just happened?" Talia asked, her voice tinged with both concern and frustration.



Ra's stood, examining Jason's lifeless form with a critical eye. "It appears," he said slowly, "that this is a side effect of the Lazarus Pit. A temporary surge of overwhelming anger, perhaps… or something deeper."



Talia glanced at Jason, her brow furrowed. "And what do we do with him now?"



Ra's smiled faintly, his tone as cold as ever. "We wait. The answers will reveal themselves in time."


****



At sunrise Jason stirred awake, his bleary eyes blinking open to the same dimly lit ceiling he had seen before. "Why does this feel like déjà vu?" he muttered to himself, shifting slightly on the bed.


He tried piecing together memories of the previous night. The last thing he could recall was dining with Ra's and Talia al Ghul. Beyond that? Nothing.



"Must've had too much to drink," he concluded with a faint groan. The lack of clear memories didn't bother him much—after all, losing his memory was already a recurring theme in his life. "Cut me some slack," he muttered under his breath.



Jason sat up, letting his eyes adjust to the faint glow of the torches in the room. His attention snagged on something different this time: a masked figure standing silently by the door, watching him. A shiver ran down his spine.



"Great," he muttered. "Either I'm hallucinating, or the creepy patrol has officially arrived."


Shaking off the unsettling thought, Jason swung his legs off the bed and reached for the slippers placed neatly beside it.



He crossed the room to the adjoining bathroom, freshened up, and returned, towel-drying his hair. As he glanced back at the door, the figure was still there, unmoving.



"Not a hallucination after all," he noted grimly, tossing the towel aside as he got dressed.


The silence was unbearable. "Hey, what's your deal?" Jason called out, addressing the figure. The masked person remained eerily quiet, their gaze fixed straight ahead.


Jason frowned, stepping closer. "You're just gonna stand there? No explanation? No ominous warnings? I feel like I'm starring in some low-budget thriller."


Still nothing.


"Alright, fine. I'm out," Jason declared, striding toward the door. But as he reached for the handle, the figure moved swiftly, blocking his path with an assertive sidestep.


Jason raised a brow. "Last warning, get out of my way."

The figure held firm. Then, to Jason's surprise, a woman's voice broke the silence. "Lady Talia has ordered that you remain here until she arrives."


Jason smirked. "Oh, so you do talk. And you're a lady. I was hoping for that. Otherwise, it'd be even creepier having some dude standing there, watching me sleep."


Before she could respond, Jason reached up and tugged the mask from her face. The woman gasped, revealing striking features marred by a bold scar running diagonally across her cheek. Snatching the mask back, she quickly pulled it over her face again.


"A pretty one, too," Jason remarked, his tone neutral but laced with cheek.


The woman's voice sharpened. "Do not ever do that again."

Jason's smirk deepened. "Feisty, huh? Look, I wouldn't be bothering you if you just let me out of this room."

"My orders are to ensure you stay put. Lady Talia will come for you when she have your time." She snapped, her tone all business.

Jason rolled his eyes. "Right. Because waiting around in a glorified dungeon sounds like a blast."

He stepped forward, brushing past her, but she moved with lightning speed, pulling his arm over her shoulder and attempting to flip him. Jason instinctively adjusted his stance, flipping himself to land squarely on his feet.


The exchange escalated. She threw a punch, which Jason caught, followed by a kick that he narrowly dodged.


The fight ended abruptly when she jabbed two pressure points on his shoulder, rendering his arm limp. Jason stared at his useless limb, then cast an intense gaze at the woman, a wave of raw bloodlust radiating from him.


The woman faltered for a moment, her instincts urging her to step back. She regained her composure, widening the distance between them.

Before Jason could retaliate, the door swung open.

"What is going on here?" Talia's voice cut through the tension as she entered the room. Her sharp gaze flicked between Jason and the masked woman.

Jason pointed accusingly. "She creeped on me all night and refused to let me leave."


The masked woman stood at attention, speaking curtly. "I followed your orders, Lady Talia. He refused to comply."

Talia studied Jason with a raised brow. "How do you feel?"

"…Peachy," Jason deadpanned.

Talia nodded, dismissing the guard with a wave. The woman bowed stiffly before leaving, not without casting one last hostile glare at Jason.

"Do you remember what happened last night?" Talia asked, her tone probing. From the lack of light in his eyes when he acted hostile, she assumed the might have not been himself and probably wouldn't remember much of his actions that from the previous night.



Jason frowned, trying to recall. "Not much. I remember dinner and… then waking up in my bed without the slightest memory of how I got back to my room last night.. What happened? Am I going to keep losing chunks of my memory like this?"



Talia hesitated, then gestured for him to follow. "Come with me. My father will explain."

Jason sighed, trailing after her. "Sure, why not? I'll just ignore the whole magical schizophrenia vibe I've got going on." He deadpanned, sarcasm practically dripping down his words.


"That's what we're about to find out, now stop with the sarcasm and follow me," she said, exasperation evident in her voice.


"Finally," Jason muttered, ignoring her tone as he fell into step behind her.


Stepping out of his chambers, the hallways were dimly lit by flickering torches mounted on stone walls. Shadows danced across the ancient, worn floors, adding an eerie ambiance to the fortress.



Jason couldn't help but notice the masked individuals patrolling in silence, their movements purposeful. Every one of them was armed—knives, swords, and other weapons glinted faintly in the torchlight. His eyes lingered on a guard adjusting a strap on his chest.

"Who are you people, anyway?" he finally asked, his voice breaking the heavy silence.


Talia glanced at him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, as though she found his question amusing. They made a sharp turn, entering a narrower, more secluded hallway guarded by two imposing figures who stood like statues, their faces obscured by dark masks.


As they passed the guards, she mused aloud, "We are part of an organization that was long thought to be a myth—an invention of Ra's al Ghul to keep his followers in line. But in reality, we exist to stop humanity from destroying itself. That is our sacred duty."


Jason frowned, trying to process what she had just told him. "So, you guys are like some kind of… world-saving vigilantes?"


Talia chuckled softly. "Something like that. But we've been doing this for over a thousand years. While the world remains blissfully ignorant of us, we carry on with our mission."


As they approached a grand wooden door adorned with intricate carvings, her pace slowed. The air here felt heavier, the faint scent of incense lingering in the corridor.

Jason smirked faintly. "I wouldn't be surprised if you told me the old man was some kind of immortal vampire."

This earned a genuine laugh from Talia, light and melodic. "Not quite. He is no vampire, but he is indeed centuries old. A man of great power and unparalleled knowledge." She gestured at the door. "We're here."

She knocked lightly, her voice soft but firm as she called out, "Father."

A deep voice responded from the other side. "Come in, daughter."


******

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Hms Scarborough]

not therad marked

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

She opened the door and stepped aside, motioning for Jason to enter. The room was grand, almost intimidating. The walls were lined with shelves crammed full of ancient tomes, scrolls, and books.



Paintings depicting battles, landscapes, and symbols Jason didn't recognize hung in ornate frames. Swords and statues in black, gold, and jade adorned various pedestals, each placed with deliberate precision. A large window dominated one side of the room, revealing snow-capped mountains under a pale gray sky.



Ra's al Ghul sat behind a grand mahogany desk, his sharp features illuminated by the warm glow of an oil lamp. A jade dragon statue sat on the desk, seemingly watching over the papers scattered beneath it.



His piercing eyes studied Jason for a moment before he subtly gestured for Talia to bring the boy closer.



Jason, still captivated by the snowy expanse outside, took a few steps toward the window, ignoring Ra's for the moment. Talia cleared her throat softly, drawing his attention.

Ra's rose gracefully from his chair, clasping his hands behind his back. His presence was commanding, his movements deliberate. "How are you feeling today, boy?" His voice was calm, yet carried a weight that demanded attention.



Jason turned to face him, his expression guarded. "Aside from this weird emptiness in my chest and the fact that I can't remember anything meaningful beyond my name? I'd say I feel just fine." His tone was sarcastic, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of frustration.

"Also, blacking out last night and waking up in bed with no memory? Yeah, that's concerning."



Ra's nodded slowly, his gaze shifting to the window. He spoke without looking at Jason. "What do you remember from last night?"



Jason hesitated, briefly glancing at Talia before answering. "Everything up until the moment you told me I was dead and brought back to life. After that, I felt... sick, like something was clawing at my insides. The next thing I knew, I woke up in bed. It was like I blinked at the dining table and found myself elsewhere."



"And you recall nothing of what transpired during that time?" Ra's inquired, turning his head slightly to observe Jason's reaction.



Jason shook his head, his brows furrowed. "No. Nothing."



Ra's exhaled softly, as if weighing his next words. "I see."



Jason crossed his arms, his tone growing sharper. "So, since I've answered your questions, how about someone tells me what actually happened?"



Talia glanced at her father, who gave a subtle nod of approval. She spoke carefully, her voice steady. "You blacked out. In that state, you attacked everyone in your line of sight."

Jason's eyes widened, disbelief etched across his face. "You're kidding, right?"

"I am afraid she's not," Ra's interjected, his voice as composed as ever.

Jason took a step back, running a hand through his hair. "Being brought back from the dead was one thing—I'm still wrapping my head around that. But going on some rampage without remembering it? That's... terrifying."

"You must calm yourself," Talia interjected, her tone firm but not unkind. "And mind your tone when speaking to my father."



Jason shot her a glare but bit back a retort. "Calm down? What if it happens again? What if I hurt—or kill—someone and don't even know it?"

Ra's stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Jason's shoulder. His gaze was firm but understanding. "Your concerns are valid, child. Rest assured, we will help you recover your memories and rid you of whatever lingers from your resurrection. You are not alone in this."

Jason took a deep breath, his jaw tight as he wrestled with his emotions. "Fine. But what about my family? Do they know I'm alive?"

Ra's offered a faint, enigmatic smile. "With every step you take on this journey, answers to your questions will come. For now, trust us. Trust the process."

Jason's eyes narrowed slightly, skepticism flickering in his expression, but he said nothing. What choice did he have? He didn't understand what was happening to him, and for now, this place—the League—was his only option.



After a moment of silence, Jason exhaled heavily. "Fine. How long is this gonna take?"



Ra's stepped back, his posture relaxed but commanding. "That depends on you. For now, you are one of us. You will be treated as family, not as a stranger."

Jason mulled over the words, uncertainty lingering in his eyes.

Ra's extended his hand toward Talia. "My daughter will see to it that you settle in and have all you need."



Jason finally nodded. "When do we start?"

Ra's allowed a small smile. "Right now. Follow me."

Without another word, the two men left the room, leaving Talia behind. She watched them go, her expression unreadable as the heavy door clicked shut behind them.

Ra's al Ghul led Jason to a dimly lit chamber, its air thick with the earthy scent of aged stone and faint traces of incense. The room was minimalistic, almost austere, with four mats neatly arranged in a square formation on the cold ground.



The only illumination came from a few candles placed in the corners, their flickering flames casting long, wavering shadows.



"Sit," Ra's instructed, his tone calm yet commanding. Jason obeyed without question, lowering himself onto one of the mats.



The atmosphere became heavy with silence, broken only by the distant crackle of the candles. Jason glanced around, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. The space felt ancient, sacred even, as though countless rituals had taken place here over the centuries.

Ra's settled onto the mat opposite Jason and reached for a matchstick. He lit two sticks of incense from the bundle placed in the center of the square, their thin trails of smoke spiraling upward and dispersing into the air.

"Earlier, you mentioned feeling a sense of emptiness within," Ra's began, his voice steady as the smoke drifted between them. "Could you elaborate on that?"



Jason hadn't given the feeling much thought before, but now that Ra's mentioned it, he let his mind wander, searching for the words to explain. "It's not the kind of emptiness you'd feel when you're missing something obvious—like my memories, for instance. It's… different."



Ra's hummed softly, a thoughtful sound that invited Jason to continue.

Jason's brows furrowed as he tried to articulate the sensation. "It's more like a hunger—something deep and insatiable. No matter what I do, it feels like nothing could ever fill it. But I don't know what it's craving."



Ra's regarded him with a contemplative expression, his fingers steepled in thought. "That feeling could be a side effect of your resurrection. Death often leaves its mark in ways we cannot immediately see or understand. Or—" he added after a pause, "it could stem from a lack of purpose."

Jason's jaw tightened slightly, mulling over the implications of Ra's words. Before he could respond, the quiet creak of the door drew their attention.

A League member entered silently, his movements fluid and respectful. He carried a tray with a small ceramic kettle and two delicate cups.



Without a word, the man approached, set the tray down near Ra's, and bowed deeply before retreating back into the shadows, the door clicking softly shut behind him.



Ra's poured tea into the two cups with a practiced grace, the liquid steaming faintly. He handed one to Jason, who accepted it with a raised brow.



"This tea is brewed from a rare herb," Ra's explained, his tone calm and measured. "It soothes the mind and nerves, preparing one for introspection."



Jason took a tentative sip, the warmth spreading through him as the earthy, slightly bitter flavor settled on his tongue. Ra's waited until Jason had taken another sip before speaking again.



"In two minutes, we will begin meditating."



Jason frowned slightly. "Meditating?" His skepticism was evident.

Ra's gave a faint, almost amused smile. "Yes. Meditation is a powerful exercise. In your case, it will help calm the storm within and allow you to look inward. This space is intentionally secluded to free us from distractions."



Jason's frown deepened. "I'm not exactly the meditative type."

Ra's remained unperturbed. "You need not worry. I will guide you. Do not expect immediate results, but with time and practice, meditation may reveal what your soul seeks—and perhaps fragments of your memories."



Jason hesitated but eventually nodded. "Alright. Let's give it a shot."

Ra's positioned himself with his legs crossed, his posture regal yet relaxed. Jason mirrored him, albeit less gracefully.

"Do not attempt to silence the voice and thoughts in your mind," Ra's began, his tone gentle but firm.

"That voice isn't you but thoughts swirling around the universal consciousness. identifying with it and then resisting it will only create struggle within yourself. Instead, focus on your breathing and take no thought. Let your gaze rest on the smoke from the incense. Take deep, measured breaths and detach from that voice."

Jason inhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the swirling smoke. The room seemed to shrink, the world beyond its walls fading into insignificance.



"Now, close your eyes," Ra's instructed. "Focus solely on your breathing. Let every other thought pass by like a stream. Do not hold onto them. Let them flow."



Jason closed his eyes, his breathing steady but tentative. The sound of his own breaths filled his ears, mingling with the faint crackle of the candles. For the first time in what felt like forever, his mind began to quiet.

****

[Later that evening]



Talia approached her father's chambers, her soft knock barely audible against the thick wooden door. "Father," she called.



"Enter," came Ra's measured reply.



She stepped inside, finding him standing by the large window, his silhouette framed against the moonlit expanse of snowy mountains. He seemed deep in thought, his hands clasped behind his back.



"Did I catch you at a bad time?" Talia asked, her tone polite but curious.

Ra's turned, his expression unreadable but calm. "It is fine."

Talia stepped closer, her mind teeming with questions. As the one tasked with overseeing Jason, she needed clarity. "How did the exercise with Jason go?"

Ra's exhaled softly, his gaze steady. "It was a first step. There were no visible results, but progress is not always immediate."

Talia nodded, her thoughts drifting to the events of the previous night. "What do you think happened to him? You saw his eyes, didn't you? There was… nothing there but darkness."

Ra's sighed, his voice carrying the weight of his thoughts. "I did. From what I observed, his mind appears fractured—disjointed. The disunity between his body, mind, and soul is evident."



Talia tilted her head, her brows knitting in confusion. She understood the words, but the implications unsettled her. Still, she pressed on. "And this emptiness he spoke of? Do you think recovering his memories would sooth that feeling?"

Ra's turned back to the window, his gaze distant. "I doubt it. The scar of death is imprinted on his soul. Even if his memories return, the cold sense of emptiness may remain."



Talia studied her father's profile, sensing there was more he wasn't saying. She knew him well enough to recognize the subtle tension in his shoulders.



"There's more, isn't there?" she asked, her voice quieter now.



Ra's finally met her gaze. "Resurrecting someone is not without consequence. The universe has a way of maintaining balance. I fear we do not yet know the price Jason has paid for his soul—or how the Lazarus Pit has influenced his return."



Talia's lips pressed into a thin line. The weight of her father's words settled heavily on her. The act of bringing Jason back wasn't just an extraordinary feat; it was a gamble with stakes they couldn't yet comprehend.



For the first time, doubt crept into her heart. Had they truly helped Jason? Or had they simply chained him to a burden no one could bear?



*****



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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Jason Todd's POV]







Jason sat by the window in his dimly lit room, the moonlight painting soft streaks across his face. His dinner tray lay untouched on the nearby table, save for a piece of bread he'd nibbled on absentmindedly.



"This place is like a fortress," he muttered, his voice carrying softly into the stillness. His gaze lingered on the crescent moon hanging high in the sky.



"Meditating with that old geezer actually relieved some of the pent-up stress," he added with a faint, self-deprecating chuckle.



His room was simple, almost barren, with few personal touches. He glanced around, searching for anything to occupy his restless mind. His eyes landed on a corner of the room where a tall, ornate mirror hung. He hadn't noticed it before—it was tucked away, unobtrusive.



Curiosity piqued, Jason rose and approached it. His reflection stared back at him, sharper and more defined than he remembered.



His dark hair was disheveled from a restless evening, but one feature stood out, a streak of white cutting through the dark locks at the front.



"Have I always had that?" he murmured, running his fingers through the streak. The question lingered, but he dismissed it with a shrug. His attention was soon drawn to the suffocating quiet of his room.



"This is boring as hell," Jason muttered. He grabbed a shirt, slipping it over his toned frame as he made his way to the door. "Might as well look around before I lose my mind."



Jason cracked the door open just enough to poke his head through, scanning the dimly lit corridor. To his surprise, no guards were stationed outside.



"Huh. I guess I'm not a prisoner after all," he mused. He stepped into the hallway, keeping his footsteps light.



Jason wandered through the labyrinthine halls of the compound, passing guards stationed at intervals.



He noted two distinct groups: those in gray uniforms patrolling with firearms and another, more ominous group dressed in black with masked faces and traditional weapons strapped to their waists.



The masked ones intrigued him. They didn't patrol like the others; instead, they stood watch at specific points or moved with purpose, as if on important assignments.



"Special ops, maybe," Jason muttered to himself.



The sharp clash of metal against metal drew his attention. The sound grew louder as he followed it to a wide courtyard illuminated by torches. Jason leaned against a wall, crossing his arms as he took in the sight before him.



A child—no more than five years old—was sparring with two masked men. The boy wielded a sword with skill and precision far beyond his years, pushing back his opponents despite their size and experience.


Jason let out a low whistle, yet not all that impressed. "Damn, kid's got moves."


"You're impressed?" a familiar voice asked from behind him. Jason turned to see Talia al Ghul approaching, her steps graceful and deliberate.


Jason smirked, his attention still on the boy. "Not judging, but shouldn't a kid his age be dreaming of becoming an astronaut or something?"



Talia chuckled softly, her gaze fixed on the child. "For most children, perhaps. But Damian is not like most children."



Jason raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I got that much. What's the deal? He some kind of child prodigy?"



Talia's expression softened with a hint of pride. "He's my son. And yes, Damian is exceptional. While other children play and dream of the future, he is already mastering the art of war."



Jason's brow furrowed. "Art of war? He's barely six."



Talia met his gaze, unflinching. "Age is irrelevant. The world is dangerous, Jason. He will be prepared for it."



Jason turned back to the courtyard. Damian had disarmed one of his opponents and was now holding his ground against the second, moving with startling agility.



"And what about the rest of you? Did everyone here grow up like this?" Jason asked, gesturing vaguely to the compound.



Talia tilted her head, considering the question. "Not everyone. Many here came to the League seeking purpose. Some were lost, broken, victims of war or circumstance.



The League gave them a home, a purpose—to make the world a better place, even if it must be done from the shadows."



Jason let out a low hum, skeptical but not entirely dismissive. "And the kid? He doesn't get a say in any of this?"







Talia's tone turned firm, though not unkind. "Damian understands his duty. He is destined for greatness."



Jason's focus returned to the boy, who had now disarmed his second opponent and was sparring barehanded against a third. "He's got talent," Jason admitted.



"Would you like to try?" Talia asked, a smirk tugging at her lips.



Jason blinked, caught off guard. "You mean fighting? Against them?" He nodded toward the courtyard.



"Why not?" Talia pressed. "You might surprise yourself."



Jason let out a dry laugh. "I doubt it. Unless you'd get some kink from watching zombie-boy here get his ass handed to him." He replied, referring to himself in third person.



Talia laughed lightly at his self-deprecation. "I haven't laughed this much in a long time. At least you haven't lost your sense of humor along with your memories."



Jason's expression turned neutral, her words sparking questions he wasn't sure he wanted to ask. "You knew me before all this?"



"Our paths crossed," Talia said casually. "But we weren't friends."



Before Jason could press further, the sparring match ended. Damian stood victorious, his expression calm despite his obvious effort.



"Be here at dawn," Talia said, turning to leave. "We'll begin your lessons."



Jason watched her retreating figure, her words echoing in his mind. He glanced back at Damian, who was now sheathing his blade with practiced ease.



"Lessons, huh," Jason muttered. "Guess I'd



better not disappoint."




****


The crisp morning air greeted Jason as he stepped into the courtyard, dressed in the dark training attire that Talia had sent over.



The fabric was light yet durable, a stark contrast to the rough, utilitarian outfits he felt more at home in. His boots made a dull thud against the stone ground as he walked, his eyes scanning the gathered group.



The training grounds of the League of Assassins were as unforgiving as their philosophy. The air was dense with the scent of sweat and sand, the ground beneath Jason's feet uneven and littered with worn patches where countless warriors had fought before him.



The sun hung low, casting long shadows that danced across the stone walls surrounding the arena.



Every face was obscured by a black mask, revealing only sharp eyes that seemed to size him up as he approached. The uniformity made them appear as a singular, cohesive unit—disciplined, focused, and utterly lethal.



Jason smirked. "Guess I missed the memo about the dress code."



A few of them exchanged glances but said nothing. The silence was unnerving, but Jason wasn't about to let it shake him.



Talia made her appearance, her presence commanding as always. She was dressed similarly but without a mask, though her air of authority set her apart. "You're on time. Good," she said, her tone neutral.



Jason shrugged. "Wouldn't want to keep the 'Assassin Academy' waiting."



Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but she quickly regained her composure. "This is no academy, Jason. This is survival. And today, you begin your training with weapons."



Talia led Jason to a long table in the center of the courtyard. Spread across it was an arsenal of weapons: swords, daggers, staffs, throwing stars, and more exotic tools of the trade.



"Each of these weapons requires practiced precision, discipline, and respect," Talia began, her voice steady. "You will start with the basics, the sword and dagger. From there, you will progress to more advanced weapons."



Jason raised an eyebrow. "Start with a sword? Shouldn't I be learning to crawl before I run?"



"You don't have the luxury of time," Talia replied sharply. "The League demands readiness. You'll adapt."



She motioned to one of the masked assassins, who stepped forward and handed Jason a simple, unadorned sword. It was heavier than he expected, the cold metal pressing into his palm.



"Your first task is to familiarize yourself with the weight, balance, and reach of the blade," Talia instructed. "Begin."



Jason swung the sword experimentally, feeling its weight pull at his arm. His movements were clumsy, the blade slicing through the air with no real purpose.



"You're overcompensating," Talia said, observing him. "Relax your grip. Let the blade do the work."



Jason adjusted his hold, his movements becoming slightly smoother but still lacking finesse. He could feel the eyes of the other assassins on him, their silent judgment palpable.







"This isn't exactly beginner-friendly," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.



"Mastery comes through struggle," Talia replied coolly. "Now, again."







After an hour of drills, Talia stepped forward. "Enough practice. It's time to test your instincts." She motioned to one of the masked assassins, who stepped forward with their own sword.



Jason squared up, gripping his weapon tightly. His opponent moved with practiced ease, their strikes swift and precise. Jason, however, was awkward and defensive, barely managing to block each attack.



The fight was short and brutal. Jason was disarmed within minutes, the tip of his opponent's blade resting against his chest.



"Again," Talia commanded, her tone firm.


Jason retrieved his sword, his jaw tightening. The second bout was no different—the assassin overwhelmed him with speed and skill.



By the third round, Jason started to find a rhythm. His movements, though still rough, began to flow more naturally. His old habits kicked in, and he started to anticipate his opponent's attacks. He dodged a strike aimed at his ribs and managed to counter with a swing of his own.



It wasn't enough to win, but it was progress.



Talia nodded approvingly. "You're beginning to adapt. That's enough for today."



Jason sheathed his sword, his arms trembling from exertion. "Great. I'll be a master swordsman by the time I'm eighty."



Talia allowed herself a small smile. "You underestimate your potential, Jason. With time and discipline, you'll surpass even your own expectations."



Jason exhaled heavily, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Despite the bruises and the fatigue, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. It wasn't worth much but he was getting better—slowly but surely. And for the first time since arriving, he felt a strange sense of purpose.




****



The morning greeted Jason with no fanfare, only the dull ache of his muscles from the previous week's training. As he pushed himself out of bed, the soreness reminded him of every failed block and strike. He muttered under his breath, "Nothing like waking up to feel like a truck hit you."



A quick, cold shower did little to ease the tension in his body, but it woke him up enough to throw on the dark training attire that had been left at his door again.



He glanced at the mirror as he tightened the straps on his boots, catching a glimpse of the faint shadow under his eyes and the white streak in his hair that refused to blend into the rest of his dark locks.


"Let's see what fresh hell they have planned for me today," he muttered, heading out of the room.


Upon arrival, he noticed courtyard was already alive with activity. The masked assassins moved with precision, their blades cutting through the air in synchronized patterns.


The sound of metal on metal rang out like a macabre symphony, the rhythm punctuated by the dull thuds of fists meeting flesh.


Jason stepped into the training ground, his boots crunching against the gravel. He didn't have to wait long before Talia appeared, her presence as commanding as ever.



"You're late," she said, though her tone lacked true reproach.



"Or maybe you're all just early," Jason shot back, cracking his neck.



She smirked faintly. "Today, you'll be sparring without weapons. Hand-to-hand combat is the foundation of your training. Master your body before you master your blade." That phrase earned her a sarcastic look from him.



Jason rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness in his joints. "Great. Because yesterday wasn't brutal enough."



Talia signaled one of the masked assassins to step forward. This one was lean but muscular, their stance radiating confidence.



The assassin moved like a shadow, their feet silent on the gravel. Jason barely had time to brace before a fist shot toward his face. He ducked instinctively, the air whooshing past his ear as he narrowly avoided the strike.



"Good reflexes," Talia commented from the sidelines.



Jason didn't have time to feel smug. The assassin's next move was a lightning-fast kick to his ribs, landing with a sickening crack. Pain exploded in Jason's side as he stumbled back, clutching his torso.



"Okay, that's how it's gonna be?" Jason growled, straightening up.



The assassin didn't respond, instead rushing forward with a flurry of blows. Jason managed to block two punches, his arms screaming in protest, but the third hit his jaw with enough force to snap his head back.



Stars danced in his vision as he staggered, spitting blood onto the ground. With a sudden taste of metal in his mouth, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the pain. "You hit like a pissed-off gorilla."



The assassin's only reply was another attack, this time aiming low. Jason anticipated it, stepping to the side and throwing a punch of his own.



His knuckles connected with the assassin's shoulder, the impact reverberating through his arm. It wasn't a clean hit, but it was something.



The assassin recovered quickly, grabbing Jason's arm and twisting it behind his back. The pressure on his shoulder was unbearable, but Jason gritted his teeth and drove his heel into the assassin's shin. The hold loosened, and Jason broke free, spinning around to face his opponent again.



After a brief break, Talia ordered Jason to fight another assassin. This one was stockier, their movements less fluid but more powerful. Jason was already exhausted, his body screaming for rest, but he stepped into the ring without hesitation.



This time, something clicked. As the assassin charged, Jason didn't just react—he anticipated and moved at his own pace. His body moved on instinct, ducking under a wide swing and delivering a sharp elbow to his opponent's ribs. The satisfying thud of impact spurred him on.



The assassin retaliated with a punch aimed at Jason's temple, but he blocked it with his forearm, the force rattling his bones. Ignoring the pain, Jason followed up with a knee to the assassin's gut, driving the breath of air out of them.



"Better," Talia remarked from the sidelines, her voice calm but approving.



Jason didn't let up. He dodged a clumsy jab and countered with a swift uppercut, his fist connecting with the assassin's jaw. The crack of bone meeting bone echoed through the courtyard, and the assassin stumbled back, dazed.



For the first time since he'd arrived, Jason felt a hint of pride. He wasn't just surviving—he was somehow fighting back.







By the time the training session ended, Jason was covered in sweat and bruises, his knuckles raw and bleeding. He leaned against a stone pillar, trying to catch his breath as the adrenaline ebbed away.



"You're doing quite well," Talia said as she approached.


Jason snorted, wincing as he adjusted his stance. "If by improving, you mean I'm getting my ass handed to me slightly less, then sure."



Talia smirked. "Pain is a teacher, Jason. And you're a quick study."



He glanced at his bruised hands, flexing his fingers. Despite the pain, he felt stronger, and with a more focused train of thought. "So, what's next?"



Talia's smirk widened. "Tomorrow, you will try this one more time then we'll see how you fare against multiple opponents."



Jason groaned, letting his head fall back against the pillar. "Can't wait."



But beneath the sarcasm, a part of him was eager.





*****


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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The courtyard was eerily silent as Jason stepped into the ring for his final sparring session of the day. The air hung heavy with the scent of sweat and blood, and the faint hum of cicadas served as a haunting backdrop.


His body ached from hours of relentless training, but beneath the fatigue, something darker simmered—a bubbling, restless anger he couldn't quite name.



Talia stood nearby, her arms crossed as she observed him. "This will test your endurance and control," she said, her voice calm but firm. She gestured to three assassins, each masked and armed with dulled practice blades. "They will fight as a team. Show me you can hold your own."

Jason's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. Control. That word gnawed at him. There was something inside him that resisted control, a storm he couldn't suppress. But he stepped forward, his muscles taut as he prepared for the onslaught.

The assassins didn't waste time. The first lunged at him, blade aimed for his chest. Jason sidestepped, his movements sharp and instinctive. His fist shot out, catching the assassin's ribs with a sickening crack.


The second attacker came at him from behind. Jason ducked under their swing and spun, his elbow smashing into their face. Blood sprayed from their nose, and they staggered back, groaning.


The third assassin was faster, they threw a precise kick, slicing toward Jason's neck. He barely managed to block it with his forearm, the force rattling through his bones. A growl escaped his lips, low, guttural, animalistic.

"Focus, Jason!" Talia's voice cut through the haze.



But he wasn't listening. The world blurred around him, his vision tinged with red. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else.



The first assassin recovered and charged again, but Jason was already moving. He grabbed their wrist mid-strike, twisting it until the blade fell from their hand. Then, with a feral roar, he drove his fist into their jaw. The sound of cartilage snapping was deafening.


Jason didn't stop. He yanked the assassin forward, slamming his knee into their gut. They crumpled to the ground, coughing and gasping, but Jason didn't even glance at them.


The second assassin hesitated, their stance faltering as they saw the fire in Jason's eyes. He pounced, his movements more beast than man. His fist collided with their temple, sending them sprawling.


Before they could recover, he was on them, his fists raining down like hammers. Each strike was accompanied by the wet, meaty thud of flesh giving way. Blood splattered across Jason's knuckles, but he didn't care.

"Jason, stop!" Talia's voice was sharp now, tinged with urgency.


He didn't hear her. The third assassin made a desperate move, swinging their blade at his back. Jason spun, catching their arm mid-swing. With a savage twist, he disarmed them and shoved them to the ground.


Something inside him snapped. He grabbed the fallen blade and stood over his final opponent, his chest heaving. The assassin looked up at him, fear evident even behind their mask.

Jason raised the blade, his hands trembling—not with hesitation, but with the sheer force of his rage.


"Enough."


The single word cut through the chaos like a blade of its own. Jason froze, the blade hovering inches above the assassin's throat. He turned, his bloodshot eyes locking onto the figure standing at the edge of the courtyard.


Ra's al Ghul.


The Demon's Head approached with measured steps, his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze was sharp, piercing, but there was no judgment in his expression. If anything, he seemed… intrigued.


Jason's chest heaved as he dropped the blade. It clattered to the ground, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence. The red haze began to lift, leaving him staring at the bloodied, broken bodies around him.


"I told you to stop," Talia said, stepping forward. Her tone was stern, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes—concern, perhaps.



Ra's held up a hand, silencing her. His attention remained fixed on Jason. "Remarkable," he said softly.


Jason's hands were still shaking as he turned to face Ra's fully. "I—I didn't mean to…"


"You lost control," Ra's interrupted. "You surrendered to the animalistic nature which gnaws within you."


Jason blinked, his breathing still uneven. "What the hell are you talking about?"


Ra's stepped closer, his voice calm but commanding. "The Lazarus Pit has left its mark on you. It has awakened something primal, something powerful. Most would be consumed by it, reduced to madness. But you…" He gestured to the carnage around them. "You harnessed it. Unrefined, yes, but the potential is undeniable."


Jason looked down at his bloodied hands, his mind racing. The anger, the rage—it had felt like a monster inside him, clawing to get out. But in that moment, it had also felt… exhilarating.


"You are wasted in group training," Ra's continued. "From now on, I will train you personally."


Talia's eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing.

Jason met Ra's gaze, his jaw tightening. "Why?"

Ra's allowed a small smile. "Because you could be great, Jason. If you learn to wield your bloodlust, to temper it with discipline, you could become a weapon the likes of which this world has never seen."


Jason didn't respond immediately. He wasn't sure if Ra's words were a promise or a threat. But deep down, he couldn't deny the allure of it—the chance to master the storm raging inside him.


"I'm in," he said finally, his voice steady despite the chaos in his mind.


Ra's nodded, his expression unreadable. "Then let us begin."



****



It's been a couple of days since then and Ra's only had him engage in physical training so he could master his body. But today, he was to finally engage in combat training.



Jason stood in the center, his fists clenched at his sides. His body still ached from days of conditioning—push-ups until his arms gave out, running until his lungs burned.


Yet, none of that compared to the nervous energy coiling in his stomach as he faced his opponent, a veteran League assassin clad in black, whose calm expression betrayed nothing.


"Begin," Ra's al Ghul's voice rang out from the sidelines, sharp and commanding.


The assassin struck first, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Jason barely had time to register the movement before a fist slammed into his ribs. The impact drove the air from his lungs, and he staggered backward, clutching his side.

"Too slow," Ra's observed, his tone devoid of sympathy.


Jason grit his teeth and lunged forward, throwing a wild punch. His opponent sidestepped with ease, grabbing Jason's wrist and twisting it painfully.


Before Jason could react, a kick swept his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. The coarse sand bit into his skin as he rolled, coughing.


"Get up," Ra's ordered.


Jason pushed himself to his feet, his hands trembling with both exertion and frustration. The assassin waited, motionless, his stance a perfect combination of offense and defense. Jason's mind raced. He had no formal technique, no strategy, but instinct urged him forward.


This time, he feinted a right hook and pivoted sharply, aiming a knee at his opponent's midsection.


The move caught the assassin off guard, earning Jason a grunt of pain as the knee connected. A flicker of triumph flashed in Jason's chest, but it was short-lived.


The assassin recovered almost instantly, grabbing Jason's leg and yanking him off balance. Jason hit the ground hard, his vision swimming. The assassin loomed over him, pressing a knee into his chest.

"Yield," the assassin said coldly.


Jason glared up at him, defiant, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Screw you," he spat.


A faint chuckle escaped Ra's. "Enough. Let him up."


The assassin released Jason, who rolled onto his hands and knees, spitting out sand. His body throbbed with pain, but a fire burned in his chest, a refusal to give up.

Hours later, after being given only a brief respite, Jason was summoned again. His muscles screamed in protest as he stepped back into the arena.


This time, a younger, less experienced opponent faced him. Jason thought he might stand a chance, but Ra's had made one thing clear, no opponent in the League was weak.


The second fight began with a blur of motion. Jason tried to focus, watching for openings. His opponent moved with fluidity, every strike precise and controlled. Jason blocked a series of punches, his arms absorbing the brunt of the blows.


Then it happened. His institutive muscle memories began to serve as his guide. All he had to do was assimilate the situation and take the initiative.


When his opponent aimed a kick at his head, Jason ducked and countered with a swift uppercut that snapped his opponent's head back.


Without thinking, Jason followed up with a low sweep, taking the younger fighter's legs out from under him. His opponent hit the ground, and Jason pounced, pinning him with an elbow to the chest.


For a moment, Jason felt a surge of pride. He'd done it. He'd won.


But his opponent wasn't done. With a burst of strength, the younger assassin bucked Jason off and scrambled to his feet. Jason hesitated, and that split-second delay cost him. A flurry of strikes overwhelmed him, ending with a powerful kick to the sternum that sent him crashing into the dirt.


"Still raw," Ra's commented, stepping forward. "But there is potential."



Jason groaned, clutching his chest as he struggled to sit up. "Potential? I just got my ass handed to me. Twice."


Ra's leaned down beside him, his expression unreadable. "And yet, you displayed moments of brilliance. That uppercut was instinctual. The sweep, effective. These are the fragments of a warrior buried within you, Jason. We will unearth them."


Jason looked up at him, his jaw tightening. "Then teach me how to fight."


A rare smile tugged at the corners of Ra's lips. "Oh, I intend to. For now go and take a shower, it will be meal time soon. Also ensure you get plenty of sleep." He left as Jason remained on the floor a while longer as Ra's made his exit.



*****



Visit my p@t to read ahead pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Barbara Gordon's POV]


It's been barely a month since we lost Jason, and every member of the Bat-Family is coping with the loss in their own way. Some are more open about it, while others try to bury it deep, but the weight is unmistakable.


Jason's absence isn't something you can ignore, it lingers in every corner, in many unspoken word.


Alfred, as always, is the glue holding us together. He's been trying to console everyone with his calm, all-knowing words of encouragement, often starting random conversations just to distract us whenever he catches us staring off into space, probably thinking about Jason.


I know he's hurting too. How could he not? Although rebellious, Jason was like a grandson to him. But Alfred being Alfred, he puts on a brave face for our sake.


He refuses to let us all fall apart at once. Someone has to keep the pieces together, and it's no surprise that it's him. Still, I catch glimpses of it sometimes—the quiet moments when Alfred pauses mid-task, his gaze distant. I know he's thinking about Jason, just like the rest of us.


I've been visiting Wayne Manor more often lately. It's a strange comfort being here, even though the air feels heavier than usual. It's not like I can do much else—going out on patrol or punching my frustrations out isn't an option for me anymore. Not since the Joker took my legs, my freedom, and my identity.


That clown. He's already stolen so much from us. My dreams, my future as Batgirl, and now Jason's life. He keeps taking and taking, leaving nothing but pain in his wake.


Dick's been dealing with it the way he knows best, by throwing himself into the fight. He's been hitting the streets hard, putting every ounce of his grief into beating the crap out of Bludhaven's criminals.


I've caught him a few times scrolling through old pictures of Jason, the ones where Jason would surprise him with selfies while they were out in costume.


The candid ones where Dick is mid-sentence or caught off-guard, looking annoyed but secretly amused. Jason had that way about him, bringing a little chaos and laughter wherever he went.

I know Dick misses those moments, more than he'll admit. But he's Dick. He's always been resilient, the kind of person who finds his way through the storm. He'll be fine… eventually. Once he's finished grieving in his own way.


Then there's Bruce. Let's just say you don't want to be on the wrong side of Batman right now. Over the past few weeks, criminals who cross his path don't just end up in jail—they end up in the hospital first.


And not just with minor injuries, either. I'm talking broken ribs, shattered kneecaps, the works. No life insurance is going to cover that, and once they're patched up, it's straight to Blackgate or Arkham.


I think, deep down, Bruce blames himself for Jason's death. He's been pulling back from letting Dick take on the more dangerous jobs whenever he offers to lend a hand, assigning him to boring stakeouts and routine patrols while Bruce goes after the heavy hitters alone.


It's like he's trying to shield Dick from danger, but it's obvious what he's really doing. He's terrified of losing another son. The guilt is eating him alive, even though none of us blame him for what happened. But Bruce? He'll carry that weight forever.


I just wish he'd stop punishing himself. Jason wouldn't want that. None of us do.

And then there's me. Sometimes I feel so helpless. My days as Batgirl are over, thanks to the Joker, but that doesn't stop the itch to do something—anything—to help. Watching Gotham from the sidelines is torture.


I want to be out there with them, fighting back, making a difference. But all I can do is sit here in this chair, watching the people I care about crumble under the weight of their grief, unable to do anything to ease it.

Jason's death left a hole in all of us. He was more than just a teammate or a member of the family. He was this fiery, stubborn, reckless kid who had a way of leaving an impression on everyone he met. And now he's gone. And we're all just… trying to figure out how to move forward without him.
If that's even possible.





****


The next morning, Jason's body protested every movement as he trudged toward the training grounds. Every muscle felt like it had been put through a blender, but he clenched his jaw and pushed through the pain.


The League wasn't a place for weakness, and he had no intention of giving Ra's or anyone else the satisfaction of seeing him falter.


This time, the arena was lined with racks of weapons—blades of every size and shape, bows strung taut with expertly crafted arrows, staves, and chains glinting menacingly in the sunlight. Ra's stood at the far end, observing Jason with that ever-present air of calculated detachment.


"Today, you will begin your training in weapon mastery," Ra's announced. His voice carried authority, sharp as a blade. "A true warrior is not defined solely by his fists. The League has honed its techniques over centuries, each weapon an extension of the body and mind. You will start with the basics."


Jason glanced at the array of weapons. His gaze lingered on the swords, their polished edges gleaming like invitations to carnage. He reached out, his hand hovering over the hilt of a katana.


"Not that one," a young voice piped up behind him, sharp and dismissive.


Jason turned to see a small boy—barely five years old—standing with his arms crossed. His dark hair framed an unnervingly confident face, emerald eyes brimming with arrogance.


The boy was clad in the same training attire as the other assassins, though it seemed almost comical given his diminutive size.

"And why not?" Jason asked, arching a brow.

The boy smirked, stepping forward with the swagger of someone who thought they owned the world. "Because you'll just embarrass yourself. That blade is too advanced for someone as... unrefined as you."


Jason chuckled, his grip tightening on the katana. "Unrefined? Big words for someone who probably needs a stool to reach the weapon rack."


The boy's eyes narrowed, his smirk deepening. "I don't need a stool, toddler. I've been training with these weapons since before you were dragged out of the gutter."


"Dragged out of the gutter? You're bold for a kid who probably still needs a bedtime story," Jason shot back, though his tone remained light, refusing to let the boy's arrogance get to him.

Ra's interrupted the exchange with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Jason, meet Damian. My grandson and the heir to the League of Assassins."


Jason blinked, momentarily thrown. "Your grandson?" He looked Damian up and down, taking in the boy's confident stance and piercing gaze.

"Well, that explains the attitude." His mind then flashed back to the night Talia introduced her kid, the one he saw training at the courtyard about a week ago.


"Unlike you, I don't need explanations," Damian said, brushing past Jason and walking toward the centre of the arena.

"Perhaps you should focus less on talking and more on not embarrassing yourself in front of Grandfather." He added.


Jason raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, his attention shifted to the two assassins who entered the arena, both fully armed. They surrounded Damian, their movements calculated and precise.


Jason crossed his arms, intrigued. "What's this, babysitting duty?"


Ra's glanced at him. "Hardly. Watch closely, Jason. You may learn something."

Jason watched as Damian sprang into action. The boy moved with an efficiency that belied his age, darting between the two assassins with a blade in each hand.

His strikes were sharp and precise, his small frame making him a difficult target. One assassin swung a staff toward him, but Damian ducked effortlessly, countering with a quick slash that disarmed his opponent.


The second assassin came at him with a flurry of strikes, but Damian deflected each one with almost casual ease. Within moments, both assassins were disarmed and on their knees, Damian standing over them with a triumphant smirk.


Jason let out a low whistle. "Alright, I'll give you this—kid's got moves."

Damian wiped the blades clean and sheathed them before turning to Jason. "Of course I do. I'm Damian al Ghul. And you, whoever you are, will never match me."


Jason smirked, stepping closer. "Maybe. Or maybe one day, you'll look back and realize this 'unrefined' guy you're talking to is the one who kicked your ass."

Damian's eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Ra's clapped his hands, signalling the end of the session.

"Jason," Ra's said, motioning to the weapon rack. "Choose your weapon. Let's see if you have the discipline to wield it."


Jason grabbed a staff, its weight feeling unfamiliar but manageable in his hands. As he walked toward the centre of the arena, he glanced back at Damian. "Hey, kid," he called. "Stick around. You might learn something from me."


Damian scoffed, turning on his heel. "Highly doubtful."


Jason chuckled, shaking his head. "Cute kid," he muttered, stepping into the arena and preparing for the gruelling training ahead.


Jason stepped into the arena, gripping the staff tightly in his hands. The weight felt unnatural, but not unwieldy.


Across from him stood one of the League's seasoned instructors, a towering man with a scar running down his left cheek. The instructor twirled his own staff with ease, the movement smooth and intimidating.


"Begin," Ra's commanded, his voice sharp and unyielding.


The instructor struck first, closing the distance in an instant. His staff came down in a brutal arc aimed at Jason's shoulder.

Jason barely raised his weapon in time to block, the force of the blow reverberating up his arms and nearly knocking the staff from his grip.


"Hold your ground, Jason," Ra's called out, his tone calm but expectant.


Jason gritted his teeth and shifted his stance, planting his feet more firmly in the sand. The instructor didn't give him a moment to recover, following up with a series of quick jabs aimed at his ribs and legs.


Jason dodged the first two strikes but miscalculated the third. The staff struck his shin with a sickening crack, and he stumbled, hissing in pain.


"You're overthinking," Ra's observed, his voice cutting through Jason's haze of pain. "Stop trying to predict his moves. React."


Jason growled under his breath, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the staff.


The instructor came at him again, but this time Jason stepped into the attack, deflecting the blow and countering with a wide swing aimed at the man's midsection.

The instructor blocked it easily, but Jason noticed something—a flicker of acknowledgment in the man's eyes. For the first time, Jason wasn't feeling completely outmatched.



The fight continued, the instructor pushing Jason harder with each exchange. The strikes came faster, more brutal, testing Jason's endurance and resolve. Each blow he blocked sent shockwaves through his arms, but each time, he recovered a little quicker.


As the fight wore on, something shifted. Jason stopped trying to match the instructor's technique and instead leaned more into his instincts.


When the instructor swung low, Jason leapt back with a fluidity that surprised even himself. When the instructor aimed for his head, Jason ducked and jabbed his staff upward, catching the man in the ribs.


The strike wasn't strong enough to do any real damage, but it was enough to create an opening. Jason surged forward, his staff a blur as he unleashed a flurry of strikes.


The instructor blocked most of them, but Jason's aggression forced him to take a step back—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.


"You see?" Ra's said from the sidelines, his voice laced with approval. "When you stop hesitating, you begin to see the rhythm of the fight."


Jason didn't reply. He was too focused on the instructor, whose expression had shifted from calm indifference to guarded respect.

The man came at him again, faster this time, his movements a blur. Jason's instincts screamed at him, and he reacted without thinking, sidestepping the attack and spinning his staff in a wide arc.


The strike connected with the instructor's shoulder, and the man grunted, stumbling slightly. Jason pressed his advantage, following up with a quick jab that caught the instructor in the stomach.


****

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The instructor recovered quickly, his movements now more measured. Jason could feel his body beginning to falter—the pain in his shin throbbed with every step, his arms felt like lead, and his breathing was ragged. But he refused to back down.


The final exchange was brutal. The instructor swung with enough force to shatter Jason's staff if it connected. Jason ducked, narrowly avoiding the blow, and pivoted on his uninjured leg. He swept his staff low, aiming for the man's legs, but the instructor jumped, avoiding the strike entirely.


Jason barely had time to register the counterattack before the instructor's staff slammed into his ribs, knocking the wind out of him. He hit the ground hard, the staff rolling from his grasp.


"Enough," Ra's said, raising a hand.



The instructor stepped back, lowering his weapon. Jason lay on the ground, gasping for air, his body screaming in protest.


"You lost," Damian's voice chimed in, smug and condescending. "Again. No surprise there."

Jason pushed himself up on shaky arms, glaring at the boy. "Keep talking, kid. One day, I'm going to wipe that smirk off your face."

Damian rolled his eyes. "Doubtful. But watching you stumble around is mildly entertaining."


Ra's approached, his gaze fixed on Jason. "You fought well for a beginner," he said. "Your instincts are sharp, but your technique is lacking. That will change with time and discipline."

Jason nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "I'll do better."


Ra's offered a faint smile, placing a hand on Jason's shoulder. "I expect nothing less."

As Jason limped away from the arena, Damian's voice followed him. "Try not to embarrass yourself tomorrow."


Jason smirked despite the pain. "Enjoy the show while it lasts, kid. It won't be long before I'm giving you pointers."

Damian scoffed but said nothing, watching as Jason disappeared into the shadows of the compound.




***





The cavernous Batcave felt colder than usual. Its usual hum of activity was subdued, weighed down by the unspoken grief that permeated its every corner.


Nightwing stood at the edge of the main platform, staring at the void beyond. The familiar scent of oil, old leather, and damp stone filled the air, but they were no comfort tonight.

He watched Bruce—no, Batman—moving like a ghost between the Batcomputer and the array of monitors that cast flickering light across the space. Bruce hadn't looked at him once since he arrived.

"Bruce," Dick began, keeping his tone soft but firm. "We need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about." Batman's gruff reply came without pause, his back still turned.

"Nothing?" Dick's voice rose slightly, the frustration seeping through. "Jason is dead. You're shutting me out. You're—"


"I'm handling it," Bruce snapped, cutting him off. He finally turned, his jaw clenched, his eyes shadowed behind the mask. "I don't need your help."

"Handling it?" Dick gestured broadly at the empty cave. "You call this handling it? You've been running yourself ragged, Bruce. You won't talk to anyone, not Alfred, not me. You're barely even sleeping."

Bruce turned back to the monitors. "I have work to do."

Dick crossed the space between them, his boots scuffing against the platform. "Fine. Then let me help. Let me patrol with you tonight. You don't have to do this alone."


"No."

The single word was final, a wall slamming down between them. Dick's fists clenched at his sides.

"You can't keep doing this, Bruce. Jason—


"Jason is dead," Bruce interrupted harshly, his voice cracking like a whip. "And it's my fault. I won't let anyone else pay for my mistakes."

Dick flinched, the raw pain in Bruce's voice hitting him like a blow. For a moment, he didn't know what to say.

"You're right," he said finally, his voice quieter but no less determined. "It was a mistake. But shutting everyone out isn't going to fix it. Jason wouldn't want this."

Bruce said nothing. He simply turned away again, his cape swishing behind him as he walked toward the Batmobile.

"I'm going on patrol. Stay here."

Dick watched him go, his chest tight with frustration and worry. But he wasn't about to let Bruce self-destruct out there.

"Yeah, right," Dick muttered to himself. "Like I've ever been good at following orders."




***



[Dick Grayson's POV]



The streets of Gotham were slick with rain, the city's ever-present gloom amplified by the storm clouds overhead.


Batman moved like a shadow through the alleys, his cape billowing behind him as he pursued his targets for the night. A drug gang that had been expanding its territory into the Narrows.


Unbeknownst to him, Nightwing followed at a careful distance, keeping to the rooftops.


It didn't take long for Batman to locate the gang's hideout, a decrepit warehouse near the docks. He scaled the building silently, his grappling hook securing his ascent. From his perch on the roof, he peered through a cracked skylight, his sharp eyes scanning the scene below.


A dozen gang members were gathered around a table piled high with bricks of cocaine and stacks of cash. Guns were strewn about carelessly, their owners laughing and shouting as they celebrated their latest score.


"Subtle as always," Dick whispered from the shadows, perched on a neighboring rooftop.


Batman dropped silently onto a catwalk inside the warehouse, his movements precise and calculated. He activated a device on his belt, jamming all outgoing communications in the area. The gang wouldn't be calling for backup.


"Alright, big guy, how about a little help," Dick murmured to himself with a smirk.

As Batman prepared to strike, a sudden creak echoed through the warehouse.


One of the gang members looked up, his eyes narrowing.


"Hey! Did you hear that?"


Batman cursed silently. He hadn't accounted for the warped metal on the catwalk. The element of surprise was gone.

"Surprise!" Nightwing's cheerful voice rang out as he swung in through a window, landing gracefully on the floor below.

The gang members froze in confusion, their attention split between the blue-clad vigilante and the shadowy figure looming above them.

"Who the hell are you?" one of them demanded, raising his gun.


"Nightwing," Dick said with a grin, spinning his escrima sticks. "And you're about to have a very bad night."


Chaos ensued.


Batman dropped from the catwalk, his fists finding their mark with brutal efficiency. He moved like a force of nature, every strike precise and devastating.


Meanwhile, Dick darted through the fray with the agility of an acrobat, his quips flying as fast as his punches.


"Hey, nice jacket," he called to one thug, dodging a wild swing. "Is that real leather? Hope you kept the receipt, it's about to get scuffed."

He flipped over another attacker, landing a solid kick to the man's back.

"Seriously, you guys should unionize. Better benefits, maybe dental. That guy's missing three teeth, at least."

Batman growled as he disarmed a particularly large gang member, tossing the man's gun across the room.


"Focus, Nightwing."


"I am focusing," Dick shot back, deflecting a pipe with his escrima sticks. "Multitasking is a thing, you know."

Despite his annoyance, Bruce couldn't deny that Dick's presence was making a difference.

The younger man's agility and relentless energy kept the gang off balance, giving Batman the openings he needed to take them down efficiently.

As the last thug fell to the ground, groaning, Batman turned to Dick with a glare.

"You shouldn't have followed me."


"You're welcome," Dick said, twirling his sticks before holstering them. "You're seriously telling me you'd rather get shot at alone than accept a little help?"

"This isn't a game, Dick."

"I know that," Dick replied, his tone uncharacteristically serious. "But you don't have to do it alone, either."

Batman was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable beneath the cowl.


"Jason—"

"Jason would've wanted us to stick together," Dick interrupted gently. "He wouldn't want you to push everyone away."

Bruce looked away, his fists clenching at his sides.

"I can't lose anyone else," he said quietly.

"And you won't," Dick said firmly. "But that doesn't mean you have to carry all of this by yourself. Let me help you, Bruce. We're a team. We always have been."

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the rain outside. Finally, Bruce nodded, just once.

"Let's get back to the Cave."

Dick smiled, a hint of relief in his expression.


"See? That wasn't so hard."

Bruce shot him a look.

"Don't push it."

"Too late," Dick said with a grin as they headed out into the night.


For the first time in weeks, Bruce felt a small weight lift from his shoulders. He wasn't alone. And maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to be.



***


[Jason Todd's POV]



The training courtyard buzzed with the faint sounds of sparring soldiers, but Jason Todd's focus was drawn to the unfolding match in the center.


Damian stood there, small but fierce, facing an opponent nearly three times his size. Jason tilted his head toward Ra's al Ghul, who stood beside him, hands clasped neatly behind his back, observing the fight with his usual cool detachment.


"So, what's this exercise all about?" Jason asked, his voice laced with curiosity as he watched Damian take his stance. "The kid doesn't seem nervous.


He looks… intense."


Ra's stroked his beard, eyes never leaving the combatants. "This exercise is more advanced than the ones you've been through," he began.


"In your previous matches, Talia and I acted as the referee, intervening when necessary and declaring a winner. Here, there are no mediators. Victory is determined only when one opponent is rendered incapable of continuing."


Jason hummed in acknowledgment, shifting his gaze back to the sparring match as Damian swiftly dodged a massive punch.


Despite his opponent's towering frame, the boy moved with fluid precision, his small stature an advantage rather than a hindrance.

"Go all out until someone's down for the count, huh?" Jason mused, watching Damian leap into the air. The boy twisted mid-flight, aiming a kick at his opponent's face. It was blocked, but Damian used the man's arm as leverage, vaulting backward to create space.


Ra's allowed himself a faint smile. "He is gifted, isn't he? A prodigy, unmatched in skill among his peers. Like you, Jason, he's a diamond in the rough."


Jason raised a skeptical brow, glancing sideways at the Demon's Head. "Why does he push himself so hard? He's got centuries to train, doesn't he? You know, thanks to the Lazarus Pit and all."

Ra's finally turned to meet Jason's gaze, his expression unreadable. "Damian is my legacy. I am forging him into a weapon capable of inheriting my mantle, one who will lead humanity into a new era.


He trains harder than anyone because he must. Just as you have great potential, so does he. Perhaps more." His tone carried a note of finality, but Jason couldn't help noticing the subtle pride in his voice.

In the ring, Damian executed a flawless takedown, wrapping his legs around his opponent's neck in a crushing grip. The larger man flailed, his masked face turning an alarming shade of red as his airflow was cut off. Despite the brutal hold, Damian's expression remained calm, almost cold.


Jason watched with a mix of unease and admiration. "Kid's got skills, I'll give him that. Guess that explains the ego."


Ra's inclined his head, his eyes gleaming. "Indeed. He is stubborn, like his father. But also relentless, like me."


The opponent finally tapped out, his hand weakly slapping the ground as he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness.

Damian released him without hesitation, standing over the defeated man like a predator surveying its prey.


"Your turn," Ra's said, his tone a challenge as silence resonated across the courtyard.


Jason stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as he sized up his opponent, a seasoned League warrior whose cold, calculating eyes betrayed his eagerness to dismantle the newcomer.

***

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The match started violently. Jason's opponent closed the distance in an instant, delivering a spinning kick aimed at Jason's head.

He barely raised his guard in time, but the force sent him stumbling. A follow-up punch to his solar plexus knocked the wind out of him, dropping him to his knees.

"You've got to be kidding me," Jason muttered through gritted teeth, clutching his abdomen. He could feel Damian's judging stare from the sidelines. The kid didn't even bother to hide his irritation.

Shaking off the pain, Jason pushed himself back to his feet. This time, he held his ground, waiting for his opponent to make the next move.

The man lunged forward with a ferocious punch, but Jason sidestepped just in time. Wielding his intuitive sense of muscle memory, he landed a sharp elbow to his opponent's ribs, eliciting a grunt of pain.

For a brief moment, Jason felt a surge of pride. But his opponent was relentless. A brutal knee struck Jason's side, followed by a punch that connected squarely with his jaw. Blood sprayed from his split lip as he hit the ground hard.

Flashes of memory assaulted him—blurry images of a clown, his manic laughter, and the crowbar that shattered his body. Rage ignited within Jason, primal and all-consuming. His vision blurred, but his movements became sharper, faster.

As his opponent leaned in to deliver another blow, Jason caught the man's fist mid-air. The spectators gasped as Jason twisted the arm with a sickening crack, bone shards piercing through the skin. The man screamed in agony, but Jason wasn't done.

Standing at the center, his chest heaving, eyes blazing with unbridled rage. His opponent lay sprawled on the ground beneath him, coughing up blood as Jason drove a savage knee into his ribs.

The sickening crack of bone echoed through the courtyard, and the man let out a guttural scream that was cut short as Jason pounced on him.

Jason's fists were a blur, slamming down with relentless fury. Each punch was accompanied by the wet, sickening sound of breaking cartilage and splattering blood.

His lips twisted into a feral grin, the adrenaline coursing through his veins fueling his every strike. The victim's face was already a ruined mess, swollen beyond recognition, yet Jason didn't stop.

In the haze of his rage, a voice—low and gravelly—echoed in the back of his mind. It was a voice he hadn't consciously thought of in weeks but one he couldn't shake.

"We do not have to go that far to stop them, otherwise we wouldn't know when we cross the line. And then nothing will differentiate us from them."

It was Bruce's voice, calm yet firm, but Jason couldn't place it in his current state. His arm froze mid-punch for the briefest moment, as though his body hesitated to obey his bloodlust.

The voice faded just as quickly as it came, drowned out by the pounding of his heart and the hunger for violence.

Jason's hesitation vanished as quickly as it appeared. He let out a guttural roar and slammed his fist down again, crushing what little remained of the man's face.



Blood splattered across Jason's hands, his arms, even his face. His breathing was ragged, and his body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer intensity of his bloodlust.



"Enough!"



The sharp command cut through the chaos, but Jason didn't register it. Ra's al Ghul's voice carried authority, but Jason's primal rage drowned out everything else.



The surrounding soldiers exchanged uneasy glances but remained silent.

He raised his fist again, preparing to bring it down one more time, but the League soldiers were already moving.

Two of them rushed in, grabbing Jason by the arms and yanking him off the unconscious man. Jason thrashed violently in their grip, his muscles straining as he fought to break free.

His wild eyes darted around, seeking another target, his mind still caught in the haze of the Lazarus-induced bloodlust.

"Jason."

Ra's voice rang out again, calm but commanding. It wasn't a yell this time, but the tone carried more weight than the sharpest blade.

Jason froze, his chest heaving as his body began to register the carnage around him. The two soldiers holding him loosened their grip, sensing the shift in his demeanor.

Jason's gaze flicked to Ra's, standing tall on the edge of the circle. His emerald eyes burned with something akin to both disappointment and intrigue.



The courtyard fell into silence, save for Jason's labored breathing and the faint groans of his victim. The man's blood pooled on the ground, seeping into the cracks between the stones.

"Dismiss." Ra's announced, ending the training exercise as the soldiers dispersed in various directions, while others prepared to take the unconscious soldier to the infirmary.

Ra's stepped forward, his boots clicking softly against the stone. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression calm but unreadable.



"What was that?" Ra's asked, his voice as smooth as silk but carrying an undeniable edge.

Jason swallowed hard, his fists still clenched at his sides. "He wasn't backing down," Jason muttered, his voice rough. "I did what I had to do."

Ra's raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smile. "What you had to do? Look around you, boy. This is not a battlefield; this is training. He was already defeated, yet you continued."

Jason's jaw tightened, and he looked away, his gaze falling to the blood staining his hands. "I… I don't know what happened," he admitted through gritted teeth. "It was like something took over. I couldn't stop."

Ra's studied him for a long moment, his piercing gaze seeming to cut straight through Jason's defenses.

"The Lazarus Pit is a gift, but it is not without its price," he said, his tone measured. "It amplifies everything within you—your strength, your instincts… and your rage."

Jason looked up, his eyes blazing. "Then why the hell did you bring me back with it?!"

The question hung in the air, raw and charged.

Ra's tilted his head slightly, his expression unchanging. "Because you are valuable, boy. You are a diamond in the rough. You are a force of nature—a force I intend to shape and refine."

Jason let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "A force of nature? You mean a monster."

Ra's stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "A monster? No. You are something far greater. But only if you learn to master yourself."



Jason's gaze hardened, the fire in his eyes refusing to waver. "And if I don't?"



Ra's smiled faintly, the expression cold and calculating. "Then you will destroy yourself—and everything around you."

The words sent a chill down Jason's spine, but he refused to show weakness. He straightened, clenching his jaw. "I won't let that happen."

Ra's nodded approvingly. "Good. Then let today be a lesson. Restraint is not weakness, Jason. It is strength—strength that separates the predator from the beast."

Jason didn't respond, his thoughts swirling as he glanced back at the unconscious man being placed into a stretcher. The sight of the blood made his stomach churn, but he forced himself to look.

Ra's turned away, addressing the soldiers. "Take him to the infirmary. Ensure he is tended to."

The soldiers moved quickly, lifting the broken man with care and carrying him out of the courtyard. Jason stood alone in the center, his fists still stained red.

Ra's paused at the edge of the training grounds, glancing back over his shoulder. "Tomorrow, we continue your training. You will learn to control the darkness within you, Jason. Or it will consume you."



Jason didn't respond as Ra's disappeared into the shadows, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the cold, unyielding weight of his actions.



****



The sun dipped below the jagged peaks of the mountain, casting the League of Assassins' fortress in hues of gold and crimson.



The cold wind whistled through the stone corridors, but Damian barely noticed. He had grown habituated to the chill, accustomed to the relentless demands of life within the League.

His body ached from his daily climb to the summit and back, a grueling exercise meant to sharpen both his physical and mental discipline. Yet, despite his exhaustion, his mind refused to rest.

Jason face kept surfacing in his thoughts. Damian couldn't shake the memory of the young teenager's wild, unrelenting fury as he mercilessly beat his opponent into unconsciousness earlier that day.



It wasn't fear that gripped Damian—he wasn't afraid of Jason. But there was something about the raw, untamed anger Jason wielded that left him unsettled. It was a kind of rage that felt almost animalistic, primal, and unrestrained.

Damian's frown deepened as he trudged through the dimly lit corridor toward his quarters, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor.



Every few steps, flashes of Jason's unhinged expression filled his mind—his clenched jaw, his wide, feral eyes. Damian shook his head, muttering under his breath.

"Why can't I stop thinking about it?"

As he turned a corner, the hallway leading to his mother's chambers came into view. The ornate double doors, carved with intricate designs, were faintly illuminated by flickering torches. Damian slowed his pace, an idea forming in his mind.

'Mother must be back from her mission by now, he thought, glancing toward the door. Maybe she'll have some insight about him. She always knows more than she lets on.'

Without hesitation, Damian veered off course, quickening his steps as he approached her chambers.

The faint scent of jasmine drifted through the cracks of the door, a scent he had long associated with her. Raising his hand, he knocked twice, firm and deliberate.

"Enter," Talia al Ghul's smooth, composed voice called from within.

Damian pushed the door open and stepped inside without uttering a word. Warmth greeted him immediately, a stark contrast to the cold stone corridors outside.

A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Near a tall window, Talia stood with her back to him, gazing out at the fading sunset. She was still dressed in her mission attire, her long black cloak draped elegantly over her shoulders.

"Damian," she greeted softly without turning. "I was expecting you."

Damian frowned slightly, shutting the door behind him. "You always say that.

One of these days, I'll surprise you."

Talia turned to face him, a faint smile gracing her lips. "You are my son. There is little you do that surprises me."

Leaning against the doorframe, Damian studied her. She looked tired, though her sharp eyes still held their usual intensity. "How was your mission?" he asked.

She waved a hand dismissively, crossing the room to pour herself a glass of wine from a nearby decanter.

"Routine," she said, her tone casual. "Nothing worth discussing." She paused, glancing at him with a knowing look. "But I suspect you didn't come here to ask about my mission."

Damian hesitated, dropping his gaze briefly before meeting her eyes. "It's about Jason," he admitted, his tone more serious now.

Talia's expression remained composed, though her eyes sharpened with interest. She took a sip of her wine, gesturing for him to continue.

"I can't get the image of him out of my head," Damian said, pushing off the doorframe to pace the room. "During training today, the way he grinned while violently bashing the face of his opponent—it wasn't just bloodlust, Mother. It was something darker."

Setting her glass down, Talia folded her arms and watched him closely. "Jason died in an unfortunate accident and in an attempt to rectify his mistake, your grandfather resurrected him with help of the Lazarus pit."

This came as a huge shock to Damian as he halted his pacing and turned to her with a confused expression, but she ignored and continued.

"The prowess of the Lazarus Pit is a total mystery, even to your grandfather." She said after a moment as Damian continued to pace back and forth, trying to process the reveal.

"What's happening to Jason are side-effects of his resurrection through the pit." She added.

Damian stopped pacing, turning to face her once more. "You're saying the Pit did this to him?"

She nodded slowly. "Partially. But the Pit only amplifies what is already there. Jason's anger, his pain, even the overwhelming bloodlust—all of it has been magnified. He is fighting a battle within himself, one that will not be easily won."

Her words made sense, but they didn't ease Damian's unease. He saw Jason as a danger to everyone around him and most of all... to himself.

"And what if he can't win that battle?" he asked quietly. "What if he loses himself completely and goes on a killing spree while we sleep at night?"

Talia stepped toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her touch was firm but comforting.

"Then it will be up to us to guide him," she said resolutely. "Your grandfather sees potential in Jason, and so do I. But he must be taught to master his violent impulses, or it will consume him."

Damian searched her face, her calm certainty both reassuring and maddening. "You really think he can be saved?"

Her expression softened, and for a moment, Damian thought he saw a flicker of hope for Jason who he saw as a lost cause. "I do," she said. "But it will not be easy. Jason's path is his own to walk, and he must choose to fight for his humanity."



Damian nodded slowly, though doubt lingered in the back of his mind as he recalled how much Jason seemed to enjoy his earlier act of insane violence.

To him Jason was an enigma, a storm barely held together by force of will. But if his mother and grandfather believed in him, perhaps there was a chance of redemption for that lost cause.



"Thank you, Mother," Damian said, stepping back toward the door.

Talia returned to her place by the window, her gaze drifting back to the darkening horizon. "Goodnight, Damian," she said softly.



As Damian left her chambers and made his way back to his own, he couldn't shake the questions swirling in his mind. Could Jason truly overcome the darkness within him? Or get consumed by it. The thought stayed with him long into the night.



****

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

A month passed. The fortress courtyard was alive with the clashing of swords, the grunts of soldiers, and the rhythmic hum of disciplined training.



The air was thick with sweat and tension as the League's warriors honed their skills under the watchful eyes of their commanders. But Jason Todd was absent from the crowd this morning.



Instead, he was with Ra's al Ghul in a secluded chamber, its walls lined with ancient weapons and scrolls depicting the League's philosophy.



The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a single skylight that bathed the center of the room in an ethereal glow. Jason stood in its center, his shirt discarded, his chest heaving as fresh cuts oozed blood. Ra's loomed over him, his sword poised at Jason's throat.



"That is enough for today," Ra's said, his voice calm but authoritative.

Jason grinned despite the pain, spitting out blood as he struggled to rise. "Not done yet, old man," he rasped, his tone defiant. His body ached, every muscle screaming for rest, but the adrenaline coursing through him drowned out the pain.



Ra's arched an eyebrow, intrigued by the boy's resilience. "As I said, enough," he repeated, sheathing his sword with a decisive click.



Jason scowled but reluctantly sank back to the floor, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath.

Despite his disappointment, a small part of him was relieved. The relentless training was exhilarating, but it pushed him to his limits—and sometimes beyond them.



"You continue to show improvement," Ra's remarked, pacing slowly around Jason. "Your movements grow sharper with each session."



Jason wiped blood from his lip, smirking. "Yeah, it gets easier after a few fights. But here's the kicker—how come I can pull off moves I don't even remember learning?"

Ra's stopped, his piercing gaze meeting Jason's. "The mind may forget," he said, "but the body remembers."



Jason's eyes flicked toward the courtyard, where soldiers sparred with mechanical precision. "Weird. It's like instinct takes over sometimes," he muttered. "Almost like I'm watching someone else fight through me."

Ra's nodded, pleased by the observation. "Your subconscious mind is blending what it once knew with what I am teaching you now."



Jason tilted his head, considering this. Deep down, fragments of his past nagged at him—blurry images of a shadowy figure, a sinister laugh, and a crowbar flashing in the dark. But he kept those memories to himself.

"What if I never get my memories back?" he asked, his voice quiet but steady.

Ra's paused, his expression unreadable. "Should that happen, you will still have a home here. You are one of us now, Jason—a warrior, a member of the League."



Jason glanced down at his bloodied hands, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. He didn't fully trust Ra's—not yet. But the man's words planted a seed of belonging, a dangerous comfort that Jason couldn't ignore.



"Thanks, I guess," he muttered, pushing himself to his feet with a wince.



Ra's allowed himself a faint smile. "Rest now. Tomorrow, we take your training to the field, we are going to work on your stealth."



As Jason left the chamber, the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at Ra's lips. The boy was strong, cunning, and driven by a fire that could either destroy him—or make him invincible. Either way, Ra's intended to wield that fire for his own ends.



****



[Jason Todd's POV]



Jason found himself tied to a chair and unable to move. The vivid image of a clown in a purple suit appeared in front of him as a maniacal laughter with a strong hint of lunacy filled the air.



The clown was about to strike him across the face when he suddenly jolted from his sleep, covered in sweat and panting as he began to gasp for air.



"It was only a nightmare." He muttered, still struggling to breath. 'But why a clown of all things, and why this overwhelming feeling of both fear and something I can only describe as pure hatred.' He thought.



After a short while, his breath became calm and steady. He then laid back in bed, staring at the ceiling in hopes of at least getting some rest that night.

He needed to be well rested for his next training to commence in a couple hours. He shut his eyes and tried to catch some sleep but unfortunately for him, he was wide awake and still tormented by the recurring images of the mad clown.

The League of Assassins' fortress was quiet in the early hours, the halls bathed in the dim glow of torches.

Jason stood at the edge of the main training hall, his muscles tense as he listened to Ra's al Ghul's steady voice. The man had an unnerving ability to command silence without raising his tone, and Jason couldn't help but focus entirely on him.

"You've proven yourself capable in direct combat," Ra's began, pacing slowly. His silhouette moved like a phantom against the flickering torchlight.



"But brute strength and skill with a blade will only take you so far. True power lies in the ability to move unseen, to infiltrate the very heart of your enemy's sanctum without leaving a trace."

Jason straightened, his sharp eyes narrowing.

"Stealth, boy," Ra's continued, his tone like a blade slicing through the air.

"Stealth?" Jason asked with confusion in his tone. "I know nothing about that, you haven't taught me anything about that."



"Stealth is an art which comes to most naturally, but they also undergo training to perfect this art. Tonight, we will see if you have the potential to grasp it."

Jason clenched his fists, nodding silently.



"If you feel backed against a wall or come against an obstacle you can't seem to get by, then think on your feet and take the best course of action your guts tell you to."



Again, he gave no response, just a nod. He didn't need words to prove himself, his actions would speak louder. And hopefully he doesn't screw up and get beaten like a literal thief by those guys.





****



The first part of the lesson was grueling. Ra's led Jason to a secluded part of the fortress—a maze-like area designed specifically for stealth training.



The space was dimly lit, the air damp with the scent of moss and old stone. The walls were lined with narrow ledges and hidden alcoves, while the floor was covered in uneven tiles that creaked if too much weight was applied.



"You are to retrieve an item from the vault at the center of this maze," Ra's instructed, gesturing to a map he had laid out before them. "There will be guards patrolling. They will not go easy on you." His green eyes glinted. "If they catch you, they are instructed to treat you as an intruder."

Jason smirked, the corner of his mouth curling into a cocky grin. "So what's the challenge, old man? Avoid them, grab the thing, and get out?"



Ra's stared at him, unamused. "The challenge, boy, is not to let your arrogance get you killed. Now, go."



Jason's grin faded as he stepped into the maze, the heavy door shutting behind him with a resounding clang.



The silence was oppressive. Jason crouched low, his footsteps feather-light as he moved through the winding corridors.



Every sound, every creak of the floor or drip of water, seemed amplified in the stillness. His senses were on high alert, his breathing slow and measured as he scanned the area for movement.



Ra's had been right: there were guards. They moved in pairs, their footsteps echoing faintly. Jason pressed himself into the shadows, his black tunic blending seamlessly with the darkness.



"Focus," he muttered under his breath. "You've done stuff like this before."



Had he? The thought gnawed at him, a flicker of frustration bubbling up. His memory was still a fragmented puzzle, with pieces that didn't quite fit together.



He knew he had skills—muscle memory that kicked in when he fought or moved—but the origin of those skills was a mystery.

The Lazarus Pit had stolen so much from him, leaving behind a volatile mix of rage and confusion. He clenched his fists, forcing the anger down. Now wasn't the time to lose control.



After navigating several corridors, Jason reached a narrow passageway illuminated by a single torch. A pair of guards stood at the far end, their swords glinting in the light. Jason crouched low, calculating his next move.

Equipped with certain tools Ra's viewed as necessities for the job, he reached into the pouch at his belt, pulling out a small smoke pellet.



With a flick of his wrist, he sent it rolling across the floor. The pellet exploded into a cloud of thick, choking smoke, and the guards coughed, momentarily blinded.



Jason moved swiftly, his steps silent as a whisper. He slipped past them, his heart pounding as he reached the next corridor. He didn't look back.



The vault was ahead. Jason could see the heavy iron door, flanked by two more guards. But this time, there was no cover, no dark areas to hide in, no corners to slip around.



He crouched behind a stone pillar, his mind racing. How was he going to get past them?



The bloodlust stirred, a dark voice in the back of his mind. 'Take them out. They're in your way. Just a quick strike, silent and clean.'



Jason clenched his jaw, gripping the pillar so hard his knuckles turned white. "No," he muttered, shaking his head. "Not like that."

But the urge was overwhelming. The Lazarus Pit had left him with a hunger for violence, a need that clawed at him in moments like this. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.



"Focus," he whispered. "You're not a killer."



The tension in his chest eased as he formulated a plan. He reached into his pouch again, pulling out a vial of sleeping powder—a gift from Talia.



With careful precision, he uncorked the vial and blew the powder toward the guards. The fine dust spread quickly, carried by an almost imperceptible draft. Within moments, the guards swayed, their movements sluggish before they crumpled to the ground.



Jason moved swiftly, his heart hammering as he reached the vault door. He examined the lock—a complex mechanism with multiple tumblers.



"Of course it's not simple," he muttered, pulling out the lock-picking tools as his mind flashes to when Ra's had included them in his pouch.

"I don't have the faintest idea on how to pick a lock." He had protested, but was shut down with a single reply from Ra's.

"Figure it out."

"Like hell am I supposed to figure this out?" He muttered, drawn back to his current situation as he began sticking a tool into the look.



The process was painstaking, every click of the tumblers echoing in the silent corridor. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he worked, his hands steady despite the pressure. Finally, with a soft click, the lock gave way.



The door creaked open, revealing a small, ornate chest on a pedestal. Jason stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room for traps. Satisfied it was safe, he lifted the chest and opened it, revealing the scroll Ra's had sent him to retrieve.



The journey back was just as tense. Jason retraced his steps, careful to avoid the guards who were still patrolling. By the time he reached the entrance, his body was aching, his leg muscles screaming for rest from crouching all night long.



Ra's was waiting for him, his expression unreadable. He held out a hand, and Jason placed the scroll into his palm.



"You succeeded," Ra's said, his tone neutral. "But you were sloppy."



Jason scowled. "Sloppy? I got the job done, didn't I?"



Ra's raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You relied too heavily on tools and tricks. A true master of stealth becomes the shadow itself, needing nothing but their own skill."



Jason bit back a retort, his frustration simmering. "I'll do better next time."



"You will," Ra's said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "For now, rest. Tomorrow, we will refine your technique."



Jason nodded, turning to leave. As he walked away, the bloodlust stirred again, whispering dark promises in the back of his mind. He clenched his fists, determined to keep it at bay.



'One step at a time.' He thought. One step at a time.


....

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The chamber was dimly lit, it's only illumination coming from torches mounted along the cold, stone walls.



The faint scent of aged parchment and sandalwood hung in the air, mingling with the occasional metallic tang of blood from the training grounds below. In the center of the room stood a large sand table, its surface intricately designed to resemble a battlefield.

Miniature structures, trees, and soldiers were carefully placed to simulate the terrain of a besieged fortress.

Ra's al Ghul stood at the head of the table, his posture as commanding as ever. His long, dark cloak swept the floor, and his hands were clasped behind his back as he studied the scene before him.

His eyes, sharp and calculating, seemed to pierce through the very walls of the room. Across from him stood Jason, his stance less composed but no less determined. Jason's arms were crossed, and his brow furrowed as he examined the sand table with intense focus.



"To conquer an enemy," Ra's began, his voice low and measured, "you must first conquer your own impatience."



Jason's gaze snapped to Ra's, and he tilted his head slightly. "Impatience isn't the problem," he said. "It's hesitation that gets people killed."



A faint smile tugged at the corners of Ra's mouth. "Spoken like a warrior, not a leader," he replied. "Hesitation has its place, Jason. The key is knowing when to act and when to wait."

Ra's gestured toward the sand table. "Now," he said, his tone shifting into one of instruction, "imagine this: You are the commander of a small force tasked with taking this fortress." He pointed to the miniature stronghold in the center of the table. "Your resources are limited, your men are weary, and the enemy is fortified. Tell me, how would you proceed?"



Jason leaned forward, his hands resting on the edge of the table as he studied the layout. The fortress was surrounded by steep cliffs on three sides, with a narrow valley leading to the main gate. Small figurines representing enemy forces were positioned strategically along the walls and surrounding terrain.



He traced the valley with his finger, then tapped the gate. "The valley is a death trap," he said. "If we try a frontal assault, we'll be picked off before we even get close."



Ra's nodded approvingly. "Good. You recognize the obvious. Now, look deeper. What is the enemy's greatest strength?"

Jason's eyes flicked over the scene, taking in the placement of the soldiers, the height of the walls, and the natural barriers. "Their position," he said. "They don't need to move; we have to come to them."



"Correct," Ra's said. "And their greatest weakness?"



Jason frowned, his mind racing. After a moment, he pointed to the fortress itself. "Their reliance on this position. They think it makes them untouchable, which means they won't expect an attack from an unexpected angle."



Ra's smile widened, and he leaned forward slightly. "Now you're thinking like a tactician." He motioned for Jason to continue.



Jason straightened, his voice gaining confidence. "We'll send a small diversionary force to the valley—just enough to keep their attention focused on the main gate. Meanwhile, we'll scale the cliffs under cover of night, hitting them from behind when they least expect it."



Ra's raised an eyebrow. "A bold strategy. And what of your men? Scaling those cliffs will cost lives."



Jason's jaw tightened. "I know. But we'll lose more if we take the valley head-on. Sacrifices have to be made."



For a moment, the room was silent, save for the crackling of the torches. Ra's studied Jason intently, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke.



"And there lies the essence of leadership," he said. "The willingness to sacrifice for the greater good."



Jason met Ra's gaze, his blue eyes steady but shadowed. "What if you're wrong? What if the sacrifices you make aren't worth it in the end?"





Ra's stepped around the table, his hands clasped behind his back. "Leadership is not about certainty, Jason. It is about conviction. The path you choose will not always be the right one, but it must be the one you believe in."



He paused, standing beside Jason now. "To lead is to carry the weight of every life lost under your command. It is a burden that will never leave you, but it is also what will strengthen your resolve."



Jason's gaze dropped to the sand table, his mind replaying the scenario. He could see the bodies of the imaginary soldiers in his head, hear their screams as they fell from the cliffs or were cut down in the valley. He clenched his fists, the weight of Ra's words settling heavily on his shoulders.



"Conviction," Jason murmured, almost to himself.



Ra's placed a hand on Jason's shoulder, his grip firm. "You have the potential to be a great leader, Jason. But potential means nothing without discipline and foresight. Continue to hone your mind as you do your body, and you will surpass even the greatest of warriors."



Jason looked up at Ra's, his expression a mixture of determination and uncertainty. "And if I fail?"



Ra's smiled faintly, his eyes gleaming with something that could almost be mistaken for pride. "Then you will learn. Failure is the crucible through which greatness is forged. Never fear it, but never accept it."



Jason nodded slowly, the words sinking in. "Understood."



Ra's stepped back, his gaze returning to the sand table. "Good. Now, let us discuss the finer points of your strategy. The cliffs are a viable approach, but have you considered the possibility of undermining the fortress walls?"



Jason's head tilted, intrigued. "Undermining? Like digging?"



"Precisely," Ra's said, a faint smile playing at his lips. "A patient assault can be far deadlier than a hasty one. Let me show you how."



For hours, they worked together, refining strategies and discussing the delicate balance of sacrifice and success. Ra's spoke of historical battles, of leaders who had risen and fallen, each story laced with philosophical musings on the nature of power and responsibility.



The torches burned low, and the chill of night seeped into the room, but neither man noticed. For Jason, this was more than a lesson in tactics, it was a lesson in who he was becoming. And though the path before him was uncertain, one thing was clear: he would not walk it blindly.



The chill in the chamber deepened, but Jason barely felt it. The intensity of Ra's lectures and the sheer weight of the scenarios they analyzed consumed every ounce of his focus.





Ra's moved around the sand table with an almost predatory grace, his hands gesturing fluidly as he spoke of deception, patience, and the art of turning an enemy's strength into their greatest weakness.

"Digging under the fortress walls could take weeks," Jason said, his voice laced with skepticism as he traced the perimeter of the sand-table fortress with his finger. "What if the enemy catches on? What if they counter with an ambush?"





Ra's smiled knowingly, his green eyes gleaming in the torchlight. "That, my dear pupil, is the beauty of misdirection. While they focus their attention on the valley or the cliffs, they will not suspect what lies beneath their very feet. But the success of such a plan depends on one thing."



Jason raised an eyebrow. "And that is?"



Ra's leaned closer, his tone almost conspiratorial. "Time. You must master the ability to bide your time, to manipulate your enemy into giving you the space you need to execute your plans."



Jason frowned, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "Patience isn't exactly my strong suit."



Ra's chuckled softly, a sound that was both amused and faintly condescending. "Yes, I've noticed. But patience is not merely waiting, boy. It is action restrained.





It is knowing when to strike and when to hold back, even if every fiber of your being screams for immediate action."



Jason's jaw clenched as he mulled over Ra's words. They struck a nerve, a reminder of all the times his impulsiveness had led him astray.



But there was something else beneath the surface, a hunger to prove himself, to master not just his physical skills but the mental fortitude Ra's spoke of so often.

"Alright," Jason said finally, his voice firm. "Let's say we go with the digging plan. How do we keep the enemy distracted for long enough?"

Ra's gestured to a small cluster of figurines positioned near the valley. "You create chaos where they least expect it. Perhaps a decoy force raids their supply lines or sets fire to their farmlands. These small acts of aggression will force them to divide their attention and their forces. The more distracted they become, the less likely they are to notice what is truly happening."

Jason nodded slowly, his mind already spinning with possibilities. "So we keep them busy, whittle them down, and then hit them when they're weakest."

"Precisely," Ra's said, his tone approving. "And when the moment comes to strike, you must do so with absolute conviction. A half-hearted attack is a failure before it even begins."

The two fell into a rhythm, exchanging ideas and refining the strategy further. Jason found himself drawn to the intricacies of planning, the way every piece of the puzzle had to fit together perfectly to ensure victory. It was like a deadly game of chess, and for the first time, he felt like he was beginning to understand the rules.

As the hours wore on, Jason leaned back from the table, his arms crossed over his chest. "So that's it, then. Keep them distracted, dig under the walls, and hit them when they least expect it."

Ra's inclined his head. "In theory, yes. But theory and practice are two very different things. Which is why your next task will be to implement this strategy in the field."

Jason straightened, his interest piqued. "You mean... a real mission?"



"Indeed," Ra's said, his gaze piercing. "There is a village to the east, currently occupied by a rival faction. They have fortified their position and taken the local populace hostage. Your task will be to liberate the village using the tactics we've discussed tonight."

Jason's pulse quickened. This was no mere exercise, this was a chance to prove himself, to show that he was more than just the zombie–boy fighter. "When do I leave?"



Ra's smiled faintly. "At dawn. You will have a small force at your disposal, and I expect a full report upon your return."



Jason nodded, determination burning in his eyes. "I won't let you down."



Ra's stepped closer, placing a hand on Jason's shoulder. "Remember, boy—this is not just about winning. It is about understanding the cost of victory. Every decision you make will shape the lives of those who follow you. Lead wisely."



Jason met Ra's gaze, the weight of his words sinking in. "I'll keep that in mind."



As Jason turned to leave, Ra's watched him go, a flicker of something resembling pride crossing his face. The boy was raw, untamed, but there was greatness in him—a potential that, if properly cultivated, could positively influence the course of the League's destiny.



The torches cast long shadows across the chamber as Ra's returned to the sand table, his mind already turning to the future. Jason was more than just a pupil. He was a weapon in the making, one that could one day rival even the greatest warriors of the League. But for now, the boy still had much to learn.



And Ra's al Ghul would ensure he learned it well.


...

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The early morning light stretched over the horizon, casting a soft, golden glow over the distant mountains. Jason stood atop a rocky outcrop, his eyes scanning the barren landscape below.



A chill lingered in the air, but the anticipation of the mission ahead, kept him grounded. Behind him, the rest of his small, hand-picked team of League soldiers waited in silence, their faces unreadable beneath their hoods.



The village to the east, nestled at the base of a series of jagged hills, was the target. A strategically significant outpost held by a rival faction of the League—one that had long been a thorn in Ra's side.





It was said to be heavily fortified, with soldiers occupying the central stronghold and watchmen posted around the perimeter. Civilians had been taken hostage, a key leverage point in this conflict.



Jason's task was clear: liberate the village, but do so in a way that didn't just rely on brute force. Ra's had made that perfectly clear in their training session the night before.





This wasn't about charging in and slaughtering everyone in sight; this was about tactics, and careful execution. His training was about to be tested in the most brutal way possible.





The air smelled faintly of dust, and the wind carried with it the distant sound of a river rushing over rocks.



To the west, a series of craggy hills created a natural barrier, making it nearly impossible to approach the village from that side without being spotted.





The terrain to the east, on the other hand, was more open but still rife with potential dangers. Jason's eyes narrowed as he assessed the landscape, mentally calculating the best approach.



Ra's voice broke through his thoughts. "Boy."



He turned to face his mentor, who stood beside him, his usual calm demeanor belying the intensity of the situation. Ra's was a master of patience, but he had an unspoken expectation that Jason would succeed.





The mission wasn't just a test of physical strength; it was a test of leadership, decision-making, and the ability to act under pressure.



"The village is held by the Caliphate faction," Ra's continued, his tone steady. "You will find that they are not as strong as they appear. Use that to your advantage. And remember, the key to victory lies not in overwhelming force, but in how you use your resources."



Jason nodded, his gaze never leaving the village below. He could feel the weight of the task bearing down on him. This was more than just a mission; this was his proving ground. A chance to show that he was ready to take on a greater role within the League. That he wasn't just some schizophrenic zombie brat, but a leader in his own right.



"What is the plan?" Jason asked, his voice steady but eager.





Ra's studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You have the strategy from last night. You are to approach from the eastern side. There is a narrow ravine that runs along the outer perimeter of the village.



Use that to move undetected, but be cautious—the enemy has set traps along that route. Once you reach the edge of the village, you will need to neutralize their perimeter guards before you can enter. Then, you will have to assess the situation inside. Remember, not every life is worth saving."





Jason clenched his jaw, his mind working. This wouldn't be easy. His instincts told him to rush in, to strike fast and hard, but Ra's words echoed in his mind. "Not every life is worth saving."





He didn't like that, but he knew it was a necessary part of this world. A soldier didn't have the luxury of sentimentality. It was about completing the mission, no matter the cost.



Ra's gave him one final glance before turning and walking toward the others. "You have your orders. I will be monitoring from here."





With that, Jason nodded to his team and began the descent down the rocky outcrop. The soldiers fell in line behind him, their movements swift and synchronized.



The ravine was just ahead, and the faint rustling of leaves in the wind was the only sound breaking the silence. Jason's mind was focused, calculating every step he took.





As they approached the ravine, Jason motioned for the team to halt. He crouched low, his body pressed against the ground as he peered over the lip of the ravine.





The village was still several miles away, but already Jason could see the fortified perimeter. Watchtowers rose above the rooftops, and the occasional flash of sunlight caught on the armor of the guards stationed at the gates.





The perimeter was heavily patrolled, but there were gaps in the rotation, small windows of opportunity that Jason was trained to exploit. He could see the soldiers moving in predictable patterns, their footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent air.





They were well-disciplined, but they lacked the instincts that came with true combat experience. That was where Jason had the advantage.



"Move out," he whispered, his voice barely audible.



The team moved in tandem, weaving through the ravine with the skill and precision of trained assassins. Jason led the way, his eyes constantly scanning for signs of danger.



He could feel the bloodlust stirring inside him, a dark hunger that was never far from the surface. The Lazarus Pit's influence lingered, sharpening his senses but also clouding his judgment. It was a constant battle to keep it in check, to stay focused on the mission rather than the thrill of violence.





As they neared the outer edge of the village, Jason signaled for the team to halt once more. They were within striking distance of the first perimeter guard, a lone sentry standing watch near a crumbling stone wall.



Jason's heart rate quickened as he assessed the situation. The guard had his back to them, oblivious to the approaching assassins.



Jason motioned for two of the soldiers to flank the guard while he moved in closer, his steps silent on the rocky ground. He could hear the man's breath, shallow and slow, a sign of complacency. Jason smiled darkly. This would be easy.



He moved quickly, his body a blur of motion as he approached the guard from behind. With one swift motion, he reached out and covered the man's mouth, stifling the surprised gasp before twisting his neck. The guard collapsed to the ground, dead before he had a chance to cry out.





Jason straightened, wiping blood from his hands as the other soldiers moved in to secure the body. "One down," he muttered, his voice low. "Let's keep moving."



They continued their advance, taking down guards one by one with ruthless efficiency. Jason's mind was in the zone, his every move calculated and precise.



Adrenaline coursed through him, but he kept his focus, resisting the pull of the bloodlust that threatened to consume him.



By the time they reached the inner walls of the village, the team had taken out the majority of the perimeter guards. Jason's heart was still racing, but the thrill of the hunt had dulled. He could feel Ra's watching him from afar, his presence a constant reminder of the expectations placed on him.



"This is it," Jason whispered. "We breach the inner gates, neutralize the rest of the guards, and free the hostages."



The team nodded in unison, ready for the final phase of the mission. Jason gave the signal, and they moved as one, approaching the heavily guarded gates. It was time to put everything they had learned to the test.



They struck quickly, their movements fluid and lethal. The guards at the gates were no match for the speed and precision of the League's assassins. Jason led the charge, his sword flashing in the sunlight as he cut down the first soldier in his path. The others followed suit, each soldier taking out their target with ruthless efficiency.



Jason's blood pumped faster as the fight escalated, his senses heightened by the thrill of combat. But this time, he was more in control. His movements were measured, calculated. He had learned to fight with purpose, not out of rage. It was a difficult balance, but one that he was starting to master.



As the last of the guards fell, Jason turned to face the village's central stronghold. The hostages were inside, waiting for him to free them. But he couldn't afford to be reckless now. He had to think, to plan. The mission wasn't over yet.





"Clear the building," Jason commanded, his voice steady. "We move in together, stay sharp."



The soldiers nodded, their faces masked with determination. They advanced on the stronghold, ready for whatever lay ahead. Jason's mind raced as he considered the next steps. They had succeeded so far, but the real test was still to come.



Would he be able to keep his cool when the stakes were at their highest? Would he make the right call when the lives of the hostages depended on him?



The final phase of the mission had just begun.





Jason's eyes locked onto the stronghold ahead, the looming structure casting long shadows as the sun began to dip beneath the horizon. The weight of the mission settled over him as his pulse quickened. He could hear the faint sounds of movement within the stronghold, the muffled chatter of the guards who still lingered within. Time was of the essence.





He motioned for his team to fall into a formation, each of them instinctively aligning themselves behind him as they crept closer to the entrance of the building.





The air was thick with tension, the cool breeze now carrying the faint scent of smoke from nearby fires. Jason's instincts hummed with anticipation, every step he took quiet and calculated.



The moment they entered this stronghold, they were no longer in control. The enemy would be, and he had to be ready for whatever came next.





"Stay sharp," Jason whispered, his voice barely audible.



The soldiers nodded in unison, their expressions masked by the hoods of their cloaks. Jason took the lead, eyes darting from shadow to shadow, every inch of the path ahead mapped in his mind.





His blood surged, the pull of the Lazarus Pit a constant reminder of the rage that lay beneath his skin, but he pushed it down, focusing on the mission at hand.



***

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

They reached the stronghold's entrance: an ancient, arched doorway reinforced with heavy wooden beams. Jason gestured for the team to spread out along the walls, their bodies melting into the darkness, as they moved like phantoms through the shadows. The tension was palpable.



Jason crouched next to the door, glancing over his shoulder to ensure everyone was in position. He signaled to one of the soldiers, who silently approached, carrying a set of lockpicking tools.



The soldier worked swiftly, expertly manipulating the lock mechanism. A soft click echoed in the silence, and the door slowly creaked open.



Jason's breath was steady, despite the rising pressure. His mind was focused, each step calculated as he led the way inside.



The entry hall was dimly lit, the stone walls adorned with faded tapestries and the remnants of past grandeur. The atmosphere felt ancient, heavy with history and the faint smell of mildew.



Jason's boots barely made a sound on the cold stone floor as he moved deeper into the stronghold, the rest of the team following his lead.



They reached the first corridor, a narrow passageway that wound through the heart of the stronghold. The walls were lined with old armor and weapons, and the air felt thick with the weight of centuries-old secrets.



Jason motioned for his team to stop and listen. The faint sound of footsteps echoed from ahead, signaling that guards were still patrolling the area.



Jason's heart began to beat faster, but not with fear. It was the rush of anticipation, the thrill of being on the edge, where every decision mattered.



He was acutely aware of the adrenaline coursing through his veins, but he didn't let it consume him. Instead, he used it, channeling it into focus.



He signaled for two of the soldiers to flank the passage while he and the remaining team member moved forward. They reached the next corner, peering around it just enough to spot the two guards stationed near the door leading deeper into the stronghold.



Jason studied the guards. One was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, while the other was walking the perimeter, his eyes scanning the area lazily. Jason had a brief moment to assess. This would be a clean take-down if done correctly.



With a subtle motion, he signaled the team. They moved as one, silently and fluidly. In the blink of an eye, the guard nearest to them collapsed without a sound, his throat slit before he could even react. The second guard barely had time to turn around before Jason was on him, a blade flashing across his throat.







He caught the guard's body before it hit the ground, lowering it gently to avoid noise. He exhaled slowly, his breath steady, though his heart beat with the rush of the kill. The bloodlust was still there, swirling beneath the surface, but he didn't let it take over. He focused on the task. One step at a time.



They moved through the stronghold with lethal efficiency, eliminating guards one by one. Each encounter was swift, silent, and calculated. Jason was in his element.





The world felt clearer, his mind sharp and focused as he relied on his training. This was no longer about for the thrill of violence. This was about control—about mastering his surroundings and using them to his advantage.



Eventually, they reached the inner sanctum of the stronghold. The main chamber was large, its walls adorned with more ornate tapestries and shelves filled with ancient books and scrolls.



There was a large table in the center of the room, scattered with maps and documents. It looked like a command center, and he knew that the leader of the faction would have to be somewhere inside.



As they entered, the soldiers spread out, taking up strategic positions around the room. Jason stepped forward, his eyes scanning the dark for any signs of movement.



And then, he saw it, a silhouette of movement in the far corner. A figure, cloaked in within the dark, watching them.



Ra's had been right. The leader was here.



Jason's breath steadied as he sized up his opponent. The figure stepped into the dim light, revealing the leader's face—a sharp, calculating gaze, framed by a greying beard and a hooded cloak. The man didn't seem surprised by their arrival; in fact, he appeared almost expecting it.



"So, the League sends their most promising assassin," the leader said, his voice smooth, almost amused. "So now the League send's kids to do their biding."



"That's to show the League needs just one kid to end the likes of you, big guy." His voice steady but tinged with the weight of what was at stake, sizing up the leader's every move.





The man had an air of calm confidence, but Jason knew better than to underestimate anyone in this line of work. He then signalled for the others to get inside.



The leader's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Perhaps. But it's not always that simple, is it? You've been trained well, but there's one thing you've yet to learn."



Jason's brows furrowed in confusion. "What's that?"



"That not all battles are fought with swords, Jason." The leader's voice was laced with an eerie calmness. "Sometimes, the greatest weapon is the mind."





Jason's senses flared as he immediately felt the air shift around him. The door slammed shut behind him, locking them inside.





"Fuck!" He cursed under his breath, realizing too late that this had all been a trap.





"What's the play now?" one of the soldiers whispered.



Jason's mind raced. He had to act quickly. They'd been led into a position of vulnerability, and the leader wasn't alone.



He heard the sound of doors opening on either side, and he turned just in time to see several more guards emerging from hidden compartments in the walls. They were surrounded.



"Kill them all," Jason said with cold certainty. His voice was low, but his command was final. The mission wasn't over yet—not by a long shot.



The battle erupted In the confines of the chamber, swords clashing, blades singing through the air. Jason's mind slowed, calculating his every move.



The bloodlust surged within him, but he kept it in check. His body moved like a machine, each strike, each maneuver calculated with brutal precision.



He fought through the enemy forces, his body fluid and relentless. But as they took down the last of the guards, the true test began. He stood, breathing heavily, his eyes locked onto the leader, who was still watching from across the room.



"You're stronger than I expected," the leader said, his smile faltering. "But you are much too naive."



Jason's grip tightened on his blade. He was done the chit-chat.



With a single, powerful leap, he charged toward the leader, ready to end this once and for all.

"This ends now," Jason growled.



The leader didn't move. Instead, he reached into his cloak and withdrew a small vial, uncorking it with a quick flick of his wrist. He tossed it toward Jason, the liquid inside shimmering in the dim light.





Jason's instincts screamed at him to dodge, but it was too late. The vial shattered in the air, releasing a cloud of toxic gas that hit him square in the chest.





His vision blurred, and his body began to feel heavy. He fought against the poison, but his limbs grew weaker with each passing second.



The bloodlust that had been simmering in him boiled over, but in this moment of weakness, it consumed him fully.



He staggered, falling to his knees, his breath ragged and shallow.



"You've lost," the leader said softly, walking toward him.



With disoriented thoughts, Jason struggled against the effects from the poison. He hadn't lost. Not yet.



With a final, desperate push, he lunged forward, taking the leader by surprise. The two collided, and Jason's blade found its mark.



The mission was over.







****





[Jason Todd's POV]





I trudged through the corridors of the fortress, each step feeling like an eternity after the chaos of the mission. The poison from that damn vial was still crawling through my veins, sluggish but persistent, trying to drag me under.





I could feel the burning in my chest, the thirst for violence that the Lazarus Pit had embedded deep within me. That familiar, maddening pull—the bloodlust that never quite let me go.



But I wasn't about to let that happen. Not here. Not now.



I wiped my blood-soaked hands on my cloak and pushed the door to Ra's study open with a quiet grunt. The room inside was just as sterile and imposing as always.



Massive bookshelves lined the walls, filled with dusty tomes and ancient scrolls. The desk in the center was impeccably neat, as if Ra's had never seen a moment of disarray in his life.



I hated it. Everything about this place felt like a mausoleum—cold, precise, and lifeless.





Ra's sat behind the desk, one of his many unreadable expressions fixed on his face. Without looking up from whatever nonsense he was studying, he spoke.







"You've returned." It wasn't a question. It was a statement, as if he had been expecting me the entire time. "Report."







I stood there for a moment, watching him, as if he was some distant relative I didn't particularly care for. This was the man who had taken me in, the man who had resurrected me and trained me, but I didn't feel much of anything for him. It wasn't hate, nor was it gratitude. It was just… indifference.







"Your little trap nearly worked," I said dryly, walking over to the table. I leaned against the corner, staring at the dark lines on the map he was studying. "Almost got me with that toxic gas, but I managed to finish the job. One less stronghold to worry about."







Ra's looked up at me then, his dark eyes flicking over me with a calculated, almost amused glance. "I never expected you to fail, Jason. But your ability to recover from mistakes is impressive."







I raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. "So, you planned it all along? To test my reaction or something?"



He didn't answer right away, instead choosing to study me like a scientist observing a specimen under a microscope. It didn't bother me. Nothing ever did when it came to him.



"Yes, and no. The test was not for you, but for your instincts," Ra's said, folding his hands in front of him.



"You are learning to think, to act beyond impulse. But the bloodlust, Jason—your rage. It remains your greatest enemy and yet it could be your greatest weapon if you learn to wield it."



I felt the familiar surge of anger and frustration. It was always the same with him, wasn't it? The same damn speech, every time.



That part of me I couldn't control—the part that wanted to rip everything to shreds. I clenched my fists, pushing down the growing heat in my chest, trying to ignore it.



"I know," I muttered, trying to focus. "I'll get it under control. You don't need to remind me."



Ra's didn't respond to that, instead taking a long pause before speaking again.



"Perhaps not. But that is why I've arranged something for you."



I frowned. "Something?"



Before I could even register what he meant, the heavy wooden door behind me creaked open.



A presence—cold, sharp, and utterly controlled—cut through the room like a drawn blade. The soft click of boots against the polished floor followed, each step measured, confident.





The air itself seemed to shift in deference as she entered. Her long, dark trench coat flared slightly with her movement before settling back against her frame, a deliberate kind of fluidity that spoke of someone who never made an unnecessary motion.

I turned just as she stopped a few feet away, my gaze immediately locking onto the figure who had entered.



She was tall—too tall for most women, with a grace that somehow felt lethal even in the stillness of the room. Her posture effortless yet exuding a quiet, lethal authority. And the moment she spoke, I knew this wasn't just any League assassin.





Ra's, ever composed, gestured slightly in her direction, his voice smooth with a hint of amusement.



"You most likely do not know whom our guest might be," he said, his words carrying an unspoken weight.



He paused for a fraction of a second before continuing, letting the moment stretch just enough.



"This," he finally announced, his tone carrying a note of reverence, "is Lady Shiva."

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

My eyes flicked to the woman standing before me. The name Lady Shiva rang in my ears, and even before Ra's spoke it, something in me had already recognized her as someone different, someone above the rest of the League's assassins.



She didn't need to announce herself. Her presence alone did that.



She stood with effortless stillness, the kind that only came from absolute control of her body, of the space around her, of the danger she carried like an unspoken promise.



Her gaze was cool and unwavering, studying me with the detached curiosity of a predator assessing a new opponent.



I had seen skilled fighters before, but she was something else entirely. No wasted movement, no unnecessary tension in her frame. Just quiet, waiting power. The kind that didn't need to be flaunted because it was simply fact.



Her black outfit hugged her figure like a second skin, but it was her eyes that caught my attention.



"Lady Shiva…" I repeated under my breath, more to myself than anyone else. I'd heard the name before—whispers, rumors, stories of a woman who could dismantle an army with her bare hands.



Now, she was standing in front of me. But why was she?



"Impressive," Shiva said at last, her voice smooth, unhurried. A single word, but it carried weight.



I wasn't sure if it was praise or merely an observation.



Ra's, watching the exchange with quiet amusement, finally spoke again.



"I thought it only fitting that you meet." His gaze flicked between the two of us, as though he was placing pieces on a board. "After all, if you wish to be the best… you must learn from the best."



My jaw tightened slightly. I had trained under some of the League's most brutal instructors, pushing my body beyond limits I thought possible. And yet, something told me this was about to be different.





Lady Shiva. The world's deadliest assassin, as I've heard in random whispered conversations among the others at the training ground.



I couldn't help the sarcastic smirk that curled on my lips as I stood up straighter, eyeing her with more interest than I cared to admit. "Great. Just what I needed. Another 'professional' to show me the ropes."





Ra's, sitting there so composed, didn't even flinch at my sarcasm. Instead, his lips curled slightly. "She will be in charge of your combat training. She will help you wield and channel the overwhelming feeling of bloodlust you struggle with."



I snorted. "Right. Like that's gonna work. I'm a lost cause."



Ra's raised an eyebrow, his gaze hardening slightly. "Do not mistake me, boy. You may believe your rage is your ally, but it will consume you. It will destroy everything you could become."



Lady Shiva's eyes narrowed slightly, and she took a step forward, her movements like water, fluid and graceful. She wasn't looking at me like I was an annoying brat. No, she was sizing me up, evaluating me, her sharp eyes flicking over me like a hawk assessing its prey.



"You think you can control it?" Shiva's voice was smooth, almost taunting. "That it's a matter of will? Of desire? You are wrong."



I raised an eyebrow at her, the sarcasm returning in full force. "You sure know how to make a guy feel confident about his future."



Shiva didn't flinch. Instead, her lips twitched into something like a smile—only colder, deadlier. "I am not here to stroke your ego, boy. I am here because Ra's asked for a favour."



She stepped closer, her gaze never leaving mine. "Ra's is right. Your rage is your weapon, but it is also your weakness. What you think of as strength is nothing more than a blind impulse. You have no control. And that's where I come in."



I crossed my arms, leaning against the table, still skeptical. "And how exactly are you going to do that? Teach me to meditate, chant some matras?"





Shiva didn't smile at that, but I could see a flicker of something dark in her eyes. "I'll teach you to fight with purpose. I'll show you how to channel that violence, because you will never be rid of it. You can only learn to master it."





I rolled my shoulders, cracking my neck in a way that suggested I wasn't convinced. "Right. And what makes you think you can teach me something I haven't already figured out?"



I taunted, trying to make it seem like I wasn't all that desperate for her help. After all, Ra's asked a favour from her with little to no regard of my thought on the matter.



Shiva took a long pause, then replied, her voice low and certain, "Because you've been fighting the wrong way, Jason. You've been using your rage as a crutch. But if you learn to fight without it controlling you, you will become unstoppable."



I paused at that. Something in her words struck a chord deep within me. It wasn't just the way she spoke. It was the certainty in her voice. The promise of something more.





I wasn't sure if I was ready for it, but I was damn sure curious.



"Fine," I said, pushing off from the table and walking toward her. "But don't expect me to make this easy."



Shiva's cold smile returned. "I wouldn't have it any other way."



The room fell silent for a moment, and even Ra's didn't break the tension between us. His eyes flicked between me and Shiva, a subtle approval in his gaze.



I could feel the weight of what I was about to undertake settling over me. This wouldn't be easy. In fact, it would be hell. But I had survived worse, and if there was anyone who could teach me to control the beast within, it was her.



I took a deep breath, steadying myself for what was to come.



"Alright then," I muttered, my voice laced with determination. "Let's see what you've got."





Lady Shiva's expression remained unreadable, but I could see the slightest flicker of a challenge in her eyes.



And that was all the invitation I needed.



The next morning, the fortress felt even colder than usual. I was already awake, sitting cross-legged in the center of my room, trying to find some semblance of peace.



I rubbed my palms against my face, trying to shake off the remnants of last night's field training.



The poison was still in my bloodstream, but it wasn't the physical exhaustion that was messing with my head. No, it was the hunger for hostility that I couldn't escape. The more I tried to push it down, the more it clawed at me.



Today, Lady Shiva was going to break me, or teach me how to control it. And I had no idea which one was worse.





I forced myself to my feet and walked down the cold, echoing hallways of the fortress. The walls felt like they were closing in on me, suffocating me with their silent, oppressive air.





My mind wandered to the brief conversation I had with Ra's yesterday. He didn't care about how much pain I went through. For him, it was always about the end goal, the grand design. But Lady Shiva...





She had a different look in her eyes when she spoke to me. Something about her made me feel like she saw the chaos inside me and recognized it, not as something to control, but as something to shape.



I arrived at the training grounds, the courtyard just beyond a set of thick stone doors. The faint morning sunlight cast long shadows across the cracked stone ground, illuminating the space where I was supposed to fight today.





Lady Shiva stood there already, waiting, her presence so still it felt like she was carved from stone, with a piercing gaze in her eyes.



I took a deep breath as I stepped out into the courtyard. "I'm here," I said, my voice rough from the lingering effects of the poison.



Without a word, Shiva nodded, her gaze never leaving me. She was studying me, sizing me up in a way that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.





"Good," she finally said, her voice as cold as the air around us. "Let's begin."



She moved faster than I could react, her hand darting out, aiming for my throat. I barely managed to sidestep, my instincts kicking in just in time. But she was relentless. Each strike was precise and calculated, there was no wasted motion in her attacks.



I countered, slamming my fist into her side, but she absorbed the blow like it was nothing. She was fast, and more importantly, she was controlled.



I could feel my blood surging, aggression building. It was like a fire igniting inside me, and all I wanted was to unleash it. I wanted to tear her apart.



But Shiva saw it before I did. She blocked my next punch with ease, twisting my arm behind my back with a fluid motion that sent a sharp pain through my shoulder.



"Control it," she hissed in my ear, her grip unrelenting. "You can't fight like this."



Her words were like a slap across the face. She wasn't just talking about technique. She was talking about the rage that I was too weak to control, the rage that I had relied on for over a month. I struggled, my blood roaring in my veins as I tried to break free, but she held me in place with ease.



"Fight," she instructed, twisting my arm further. "But do it without pugnacity."





I gritted my teeth, trying to force my mind to focus. But it wasn't easy. I could feel the rage clawing at the back of my mind, drowning out everything else.



I snapped my head back and threw an elbow into her stomach, pushing her away. She staggered back for half a second before regaining her stance.



She didn't seem surprised by my outburst. In fact, she seemed almost pleased.



"Good," she said. "You're learning. But you need to learn to fight through the rage, not with it. Your power comes from your mind, not your anger."





I took a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest. The bloodlust still bubbled beneath the surface, but I wasn't sure how to control it. I wanted to destroy her. I wanted to continuously smash my fist into her face until it was nothing but pieces on meat, blood and bone on the floor.



But Shiva had already moved again. This time, her leg swept under mine, knocking me off my feet. I landed hard on the ground, the air leaving my lungs in a rush. She stood above me, her eyes gleaming, her stance relaxed.



"You cannot win by either giving in or trying to fight your aggressive instinct alone," she said, her voice calm but carrying a weight to it. "Anger is a weakness. A distraction. It clouds your judgment."



I blinked up at her, my chest rising and falling rapidly. She wasn't wrong. It felt like every fight was a struggle to maintain control, to keep my temper in check long enough to finish what I started.



Shiva extended her hand to me, her expression serious. "Get up."



I grabbed her hand, letting her pull me to my feet. My muscles burned from the exertion, but it was a different kind of exhaustion now. It wasn't the physical fatigue no more, it was something deeper, something in my mind that I couldn't quite grasp.



"Show me what you can do without the rage," Shiva challenged, stepping back. "When you can fight from a place of calm, you'll be unstoppable."



I didn't know if I was capable of that. I had always fought with rage, immersing myself in the barely resistible thrill for violence. But as I squared up against her again, I realized something: she was right.



***

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

There was no future for me if I kept fighting like this. No matter how strong I got, I would always be a slave to my own emotions.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment, trying to find some clarity, some calm. I could still feel the bloodlust gnawing at me, but now I had to learn how to control it. I had to use it—not let it use me.

When I opened my eyes again, Shiva was watching me, waiting. "Well?"

I exhaled slowly, trying to clear my head of all the noise. The anger still lurked at the edges of my thoughts, but I focused on my breathing, on the stillness.

I threw a punch, but this time, it wasn't wild. It wasn't desperate. It was clean, controlled. Shiva blocked it, but I could see the slight surprise in her eyes. I followed up with a swift kick, using my body's momentum, not relying on the surge of hostility inside me.

She stepped back, nodding in approval. "Better. But it's only the beginning."



We continued sparring, and as we fought, I felt a little less tethered to the rage. It was still there, but now I could see it for what it was—a tool, not a master, not a crutch.



With every move, I grew more aware of the power I was harnessing. And with every punch, I knew Shiva was testing me, pushing me to my limits.

After what felt like hours of grueling training, I was panting, sweat slicking my skin. I could feel the bloodlust gnawing at me, but now it felt like I had a leash on it, something to keep it in check.

Shiva stepped back, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from her forehead. "That's enough for today."

I dropped to my knees, my body aching from the exertion. But it was a good kind of pain, the kind that made me feel like I had actually learned something.

Shiva's voice broke through my exhaustion. "You're not there yet. But you're getting closer."

I grinned despite myself, the first real smile I'd allowed myself in days. "Yeah? Well, I'm not done yet."

She gave a small, approving nod before turning to leave. But before she stepped away, she turned back to me, her voice cold and direct.

"Remember, Jason. Your anger could be a driving tool. But only when you control it."

I nodded, already feeling the weight of her words sinking in. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I could see a way forward. Maybe, just maybe, I could control the overwhelming urges inside me.

And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't afraid of it.



***



The training ground felt even more brutal today—like the air itself was charged with anticipation.

The vast stone courtyard, surrounded by high walls, was empty except for Lady Shiva and us. The floor was slick with morning dew, the stones cold beneath my feet. The scent of moss and dampness lingered in the air.

The harsh sunlight cast long shadows as the sky slowly brightened. It had been three days since Lady Shiva started training me, and while my body still ached from the previous sessions, there was a new sense of control brewing within me.

Control… the kind that kept the bloodlust chained down just long enough for me to focus.

Today, I was supposed to face off against Damian, who was also training under Shiva. Damian, Ra's al Ghul's grandson, had been a constant thorn in my side since I first arrived at the League's fortress.

There was an unspoken rivalry between us, a kid who always wanted to prove who was stronger, faster, more skilled.

Lady Shiva stood in front of us, arms crossed, as usual, her gaze cold and calculating. She didn't speak a word as she observed us.

"Damian," she finally said, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Jason, today you two will engage in a practice match. Show me what you've learned."

I could hear the smugness in Damian's voice as he responded. "I hope you've improved, Jase. I'll make sure to go easy on you." He was clearly enjoying this, his confidence bordering on arrogance.

"Oh, please. Don't hold back on my account, little prince. I wouldn't want to ruin your ego." I shot back, a smirk tugging at my lips. The sarcasm practically dripped from my voice.

He might have been Ra's al Ghul's heir, but there was something about his cocky attitude that made me want to knock it down a few pegs.

Damian narrowed his eyes at me, clearly not appreciating my words, but he didn't say anything else. His eyes were sharp, calculating. He was waiting for the moment of his get-back.

We both stood opposite each other in the center of the courtyard, the morning sun casting an orange glow on the stone beneath our feet.



It was eerily quiet, the air tense with anticipation. I could feel the lust for blood beneath my skin, clawing, scraping at the edges of my mind. But I didn't give in. Not yet.

Lady Shiva gestured for us to begin. Without hesitation, Damian lunged at me, his movements sharp and precise, his small but well-toned frame moving like a snake.

He aimed a swift kick at my midsection, one of those moves that felt like it would break a rib if it landed. I dodged easily, shifting my weight to the side and spinning out of range, but I was impressed. The kid was fast. Too fast.

"Not bad, brat," I muttered under my breath, barely dodging another quick swipe of his katana.

Damian's movements were quick, fluid, and calculated—exactly how I expected that geezer's offspring to fight. His strikes were relentless, each one designed to wear me down, to find an opening.

He didn't hesitate, not even for a second. Each time I deflected or dodged his attacks, I could feel the frustration building in him. But I couldn't afford to underestimate him, this kid might be smaller than me, but he was still deadly.

I evaded another strike, narrowly missing the edge of his blade as it sliced through the air. "Keep it up, Damian," I called, trying to keep my tone light. "You'll need more than that to tag me."

He growled under his breath, his eyes narrowing with each failed strike. Damian pressed forward, trying to force me into a corner with a series of well-timed attacks.

A flurry of attacks came at me—slashes, punches, low sweeps. I blocked and dodged, each move calculating, deliberate. I could feel the power of the attacks behind his strikes, but they were predictable. And I knew that was his weakness.

As the fight progressed, my body began to settle into a rhythm. I began to slow my movements, concentrating on my breathing.

A subtle breathwork exercise that Lady Shiva had taught me to keep my overwhelming surges in check. In through the nose, hold, then out through the mouth. It was helping, a little. But not nearly enough.

Damian's movements grew more frantic as he pressed harder. He launched a spinning kick at me, aiming for my head.

I stepped back just in time, and his foot missed by a hair's breadth. But I could see the frustration building in his eyes. He was getting desperate, and that was exactly what I wanted.

"You're starting to lose it, kid," I teased, leaning back just enough to dodge another wild swing. "Come on, focus. Where's that ass whooping I was promised?"

Damian gritted his teeth, his eyes flashing with anger. "Shut up."

With a growl, he launched himself forward, his katana aimed directly at my throat. This time, I couldn't dodge. But I didn't need to.

I sidestepped the strike at the last moment, grabbing his wrist and using his own momentum to throw him off balance. He stumbled, and before he could recover, I twisted his arm behind his back, pinning him to the ground.

"I told you, kid. You need more than speed," I said, my voice light, almost casual. I wasn't even winded. But I could feel the slight rush of adrenaline coursing through me as maintain a calm demeanor.

Lady Shiva stepped forward, her gaze impassive as she watched us. She didn't say anything, but I could tell she was pleased with the way I'd controlled the fight.

Damian, however, was having none of it. He yanked his arm free and scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily. "You got lucky. That's all."

I raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corner of my lips. "Sure, kid. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Damian's glare could have burned through steel, but I didn't care. The match was over, and I had won. No contest.

Lady Shiva finally spoke up, her voice cool. "Enough. You both showed improvement, but there is much more to be done. Damian, you must learn to control your anger as well."

She glanced at me, a small glint of approval in her eyes. "Jason, well done. You've learned to fight without the bloodlust overwhelming you. But you still have much to learn about control."

Damian huffed and crossed his arms, obviously frustrated, but I could see the respect in his eyes now.



He might not have admitted it, but I knew he was beginning to recognize my skill. And I wasn't about to let him forget it anytime soon.

"Next time, you'll be the one on the ground," Damian muttered, gritting his teeth in frustration.

I shrugged. "We'll see, kid. We'll see."





***



Damian stormed out of the training courtyard, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. The cool morning air did nothing to soothe the fire burning in his chest.



His pride, his honor, had been wounded, and the sting of defeat was unbearable. Jason's smug grin and casual tone replayed in his mind like a taunting echo. *"We'll see, kid. We'll see."* The words grated on him, fueling his anger.



He didn't look back as he marched through the fortress, his boots echoing sharply against the stone floors. Servants and League members scattered out of his path, sensing the storm brewing in his demeanor.

Damian didn't care. Let them see his fury. Let them know that Damian al Ghul, heir to the Demon's Head, was not to be trifled with.

By the time he reached his chamber, his breathing was ragged, his mind racing. He slammed the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the room.

The chamber was sparsely decorated, a reflection of his disciplined upbringing—a bed, a desk, a weapons rack, and a single window overlooking the mountains. But Damian barely noticed any of it. His focus was inward, on the humiliation he had just endured.

He paced the room, his mind replaying the fight over and over. Jason's movements, his taunts, the way he had effortlessly countered Damian's attacks. It was infuriating.

He had trained his entire life under the tutelage of the League of Assassins, honed his skills to near perfection, and yet Jason—a rookie in the League—had bested him.

"No," Damian muttered under his breath, his voice low and venomous. "This isn't over."

He stopped pacing and turned to the weapons rack, his eyes locking onto the katana resting there. The blade gleamed in the dim light, a symbol of his heritage, his skill, his 'right' to dominance.



He grabbed it, unsheathing it with a swift motion, and held it before him. The steel reflected his face, his eyes burning with determination.



"I will not be humiliated," he said aloud, his voice steady now, though the anger still simmered beneath the surface. "Not by him. Not by anyone."

Damian's mind raced with strategies, techniques, and training regimens. He would push himself harder, train longer, and refine his skills until they were flawless.



He would study Jason's weaknesses, exploit his overconfidence, and turn his own arrogance against him.

Damian had been taught from birth that victory was not just about strength but about cunning, patience, and precision. And he would use every tool at his disposal to ensure that the next time they crossed blades, Jason would be the one on the ground.

"This is not the end," Damian declared, his voice cutting through the silence of the chamber. "This is only the beginning."

He sheathed the katana and placed it back on the rack, his movements deliberate and controlled.

The anger was still there, but it was no longer a wildfire. It was a controlled burn, a fuel for his resolve. Damian al Ghul does not lose. He shall conquer.



***

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Jason Todd's POV]



The compound was eerily quiet today, which was unusual for the League of Assassins. Normally, the halls echoed with the sounds of clashing swords, grunts of exertion, and the occasional barked order from Ra's al Ghul. But today? Silence.



Even Ra's himself had left for some mysterious business, leaving the rest of us to our own devices. For once, I had nothing to do but lounge around in my room, sprawled out on my bed like a cat soaking up the sun. It was a rare moment of peace, and I wasn't about to waste it.

My room was sparse, almost sterile. The walls were bare stone, cold and uninviting, with a single narrow window that let in a sliver of pale light.

The bed was simple—a thin mattress on a wooden frame—and the only other furniture was a rickety chair and a small table cluttered with a few books on combat techniques and a half-empty water bottle. It wasn't exactly homey, but then again, I wasn't here for the décor.

I'd been training nonstop for weeks, pushing my body to its limits, trying to unlock whatever secrets my fractured mind was hiding.

Ra's had been drilling me in meditation, combat, and strategy, but none of it seemed to help with the one thing I couldn't control: the rage.

It bubbled up without warning, a seething, violent urge that made my hands tremble and my vision blur. During sparring matches, I'd lose myself completely, driven by a bloodlust that left my opponents battered and broken. The others had started to avoid me, their eyes filled with a mix of fear and disgust. Even Ra's, with his infinite patience, seemed wary of me at times.

The worst part was the blackouts. I'd come to mid-fight, my opponent on the ground, barely conscious, and no memory of how I'd gotten there. It was like something inside me took over, something primal and uncontrollable.

Ra's said my body was remembering, that my instincts were resurfacing, but that didn't explain who I was before all this. Who had I been? What had I done to make violence feel so… natural?

I sighed, rolling onto my stomach and burying my face in the pillow. The questions were endless, and the answers were nowhere to be found. Maybe I didn't want to know. Maybe ignorance was better than whatever truth was waiting for me.

The sound of a heavy thud against my door snapped me out of my thoughts. Before I could even sit up, the door swung open, revealing Damian Wayne, the self-proclaimed "world's deadliest assassin." He stood there with his arms crossed, his usual smug expression plastered across his face.

"Hey, skunk hair… You up?" he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

I groaned, not bothering to lift my head. "With all your training, weren't you taught how to knock, baby face?"

Damian's eyebrow shot up, and he stepped further into the room, letting the door slam shut behind him. "Baby face? Really?" he said, his voice laced with mock offense. "Is that the best you've got?"

I rolled over onto my back, staring at the ceiling. "As you can tell, I wasn't trying. Now get out of my room."

He Ignored me, of course, striding over to the far corner of the room and grabbing the rickety chair. He dragged it across the stone floor, the legs screeching loudly, and plopped it down next to my bed.

Sitting backward on it like some wannabe rebel, he rested his chin on his arms and fixed me with a piercing stare.

"So," he began, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity, "what's your story?"

I turned my head to glare at him. "What do I look like, your babysitter?"



His expression darkened, and for a moment, I thought I'd struck a nerve. "I don't need a babysitter," he snapped, his voice sharp. "Never had one, never will."

I shrugged, unimpressed. "Go spar with someone if you're bored. Leave me alone. I need a nap."



Damian smirked, leaning back in the chair. "Oh, please. Even with one arm tied behind my back, I could take down two guys in a sparring match."



I raised an eyebrow, propping myself up on one elbow. "Then go do it blindfolded. Throw in an extra guy if you're feeling cocky enough."

He paused, considering my words for a moment before brushing them off. "I meant, why are you here? Training with the League, under the direct supervision of both my mother and grandfather? The only one who's ever had that kind of attention is me, and there's a good reason for that."

I couldn't help but laugh. So, Ra's and Talia had kept my resurrection a secret, even from their golden boy. No wonder Damian was so curious. He probably thought I was some kind of rival, a threat to his precious legacy.



"That's for me to know and for you to zip it," I said, lying back down. "Mind your own business, or you might catch a fist to the face one of these days."

Damian's smirk widened, and I knew I was in trouble. "How about this?" he said, leaning forward. "A real fight between us.



A spar to complete domination. If I win, you tell me everything—how you ended up here, your relationship with my grandfather, and why you're such a quick study. If you win, I'll drop the subject. Forever."



I groaned, shoving my face into the pillow. Of course, he'd come up with something like this. The little brat knew how to push my buttons. But the idea of wiping that smug grin off his face was too tempting to resist.



"A hand-to-hand combat?" I asked, peeking out from the pillow.

"No," he said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Swords. We put our lives on the line."

I sat up, staring at him. "You're serious?"

"Deadly," he replied, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

I hesitated for a moment, weighing the risks. Damian was a prodigy with a sword, and I was… well, I was still figuring things out. But the thought of finally putting him in his place was too good to pass up.

"You've got a deal," I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "But don't come crying to me when I hand your ass over to you—painfully."

Damian stood, his smirk turning into a full-blown grin. "Good. Be at the sparring ground in ten minutes." He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "Oh, and Jase? Prepare to lose."

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving me alone in the cold, empty room. I sighed, running a hand through my hair. This was either going to be the best decision I'd made in weeks or the worst. Either way, it was too late to back out now.

- - -

The sparring ground was a large, open courtyard surrounded by high stone walls. The floor was covered in a thin layer of sand, which crunched underfoot as I stepped into the arena.


Damian was already there, twirling a practice sword in his hand with the kind of effortless grace that made me want to punch him even more.

"Took you long enough," he said, tossing me a sword. I caught it mid-air, testing the weight in my hand. It felt… familiar, like an old friend.

"Let's get this over with," I said, taking my stance. "I've got a nap to get back to."

Damian smirked, raising his sword. "Don't worry. This won't take long."

The first clash of blades echoed through the courtyard, and I felt a surge of adrenaline. This was going to be fun.




- - -



[General POV]


The sparring ground buzzed with quiet tension as Jason strode onto the field, his boots crunching softly against the stone floor.


The cool night air flowed in from the open archways, carrying with it the faint hum of distant wind. Torches flickered along the perimeter, casting long shadows that danced across the walls.

At the center of the arena, Damian was already waiting, a wicked grin tugging at his lips as he twirled a short sword in his hand with practiced ease.

The boy stood poised, his small frame deceptively relaxed, but his eyes gleamed with the sharp focus of a predator.



Jason stopped a few feet away, rolling his shoulders as he took in the scene. The swords were identical—straight blades with leather-bound hilts, designed for speed and precision rather than brute force.

He bent down, grabbed his weapon from the rack, and gave it a few experimental swings, the blade cutting through the air with a satisfying hiss.

"Ready to lose, old man?" Damian taunted with reference to Jason's streak of white hair, his voice dripping with arrogance.

Jason smirked, resting the flat of the blade against his shoulder. "Old man? You've got jokes, baby face. Let's see if you can back them up."

The two circled each other, their movements slow and deliberate, each sizing up the other.

Damian struck first, lunging forward with a precise thrust aimed at Jason's chest. Jason sidestepped with ease, his own blade darting up to deflect the strike.

The clang of steel against steel echoed across the arena as the fight began in earnest. Damian moved like a whirlwind, his strikes fast and calculated, forcing Jason to stay on the defensive.

The boy's small size gave him an edge in speed and agility, and he used it to full advantage, darting in and out of Jason's reach like an annoying fly that refused to be swatted.

Jason, on the other hand, fought with a mix of brute strength and calculated patience. He parried Damian's relentless strikes with practiced efficiency, his larger frame giving him the ability to absorb the impact of the blows without losing his footing.

Damian's smirk grew wider with each passing moment. "Not bad, old man," he taunted between strikes, "but you're moving slower than I expected. What's the matter? Too much lounging around?"

Jason's jaw tightened. "Keep talking, kid. It's gonna make beating you all the more satisfying."

Damian pressed the attack, driving Jason back with a rapid flurry of strikes aimed at his torso and shoulders. For a moment, it seemed like the boy had the upper hand, his blade coming dangerously close to landing a hit.

But Jason wasn't about to let a little brat show him up.

Biding his time, Jason spotted an opening as Damian overextended on a particularly aggressive strike.

In a single, fluid motion, Jason pivoted to the side, hooking Damian's sword arm with his free hand while sweeping his own blade up to knock the weapon clean out of the boy's grasp.

The sword clattered to the ground, but Jason didn't stop there. He spun around, disarming himself by tossing his own sword far out of reach.

Damian barely had time to react before Jason's fist connected with his jaw, sending the boy stumbling back.



"No more swords," Jason growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Let's see how you do when it's just fists."

Damian scowled, wiping a small trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "You'll regret that," he spat, charging forward with a feral determination.



What followed was a brutal exchange of punches, kicks, and grapples. Damian was quick, his strikes sharp and precise, aiming for weak points in Jason's defenses.

But Jason's sheer size and strength gave him an undeniable edge. Every hit he landed sent Damian reeling, the boy's smaller frame struggling to withstand the impact.

Damian managed to land a solid kick to Jason's ribs, earning a grunt of pain, but it wasn't enough to stop the older fighter. Jason grabbed the boy's leg mid-kick, yanking him off balance and slamming him to the ground with a thunderous thud.

"You're fast, I'll give you that," Jason said, his voice steady despite the exertion. "But speed doesn't mean much when you can't hit hard enough to put me down."

Damian growled in frustration, flipping back onto his feet with a skillful maneuver.

He rushed Jason again, throwing a series of rapid punches aimed at his face and chest. Jason dodged most of them, blocking the rest with ease, before catching Damian's wrist mid-strike.

With a sharp twist, Jason spun the boy around and pinned him in a chokehold, locking his arms firmly around Damian's neck.

"Give it up, kid," Jason said, his voice calm but firm. "You're good, but you're not 'that' good."

Damian struggled against the hold, his movements becoming more frantic as the seconds ticked by. Jason loosened his grip just enough to avoid seriously injuring the boy, but he didn't let go.



Damian struggled, his pride refusing to let him yield, but Jason's grip was unyielding. With a final, brutal punch to the back of Damian's head, Jason knocked him unconscious. Damian's body went limp, his face pressed into the cold floor of the arena.



Jason stood, breathing heavily, his knuckles bruised and bloodied. He looked down at Damian's still form, his expression unreadable. There was no triumph in his eyes, only a grim satisfaction of whooping the kid.



He had won, but the cost of victory was etched into the silence that followed. The arena was quiet now, the only sound the faint echo of Jason's footsteps as he walked away, leaving Damian behind.



- - -


pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Jason carried Damian's unconscious form through the stone halls of the League's fortress. His boots echoed loudly against the floor, the weight of the boy on his shoulder barely registering. A few League members passed by, their curious glances flickering between Jason and the limp body draped over him.


"What?" Jason barked at one particularly bold assassin who stopped mid-step to stare. The man quickly averted his gaze and continued on his way.

Jason smirked to himself. The League members feared him—not that he cared. Most of them whispered behind his back, calling him a savage or a monster. And honestly? They weren't entirely wrong.

The Infirmary was a small, sterile room tucked away in one corner of the fortress. Jason shoved the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, unceremoniously dumping Damian onto one of the beds.

The sound of the boy groaning made Jason grin. "Welcome back, little brat," he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall.



Damian's eyes fluttered open, squinting against the harsh light of the room. He groaned again, sitting up slowly and rubbing the back of his neck. "You… cheated," he muttered, his voice hoarse.



Jason raised an eyebrow. "Cheated? Really? You're the one who suggested swords, kid. You didn't exactly specify that I couldn't throw them out of the fight."

Damian glared at him, though the effect was dampened by the bruise already forming on his jaw. "You didn't have to hit so hard," he grumbled.

Jason smirked, walking over to grab a chair and sitting backward on it, mimicking Damian's earlier stance. "I went easy on you," he said, leaning forward. "Trust me, if I wanted to really hurt you, you wouldn't have woken up so fast."

Damian opened his mouth to retort, but a new voice interrupted them.

"What is going on here?"

Both of them turned to see Talia standing in the doorway, her sharp eyes scanning the scene with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity. She was dressed in her usual black assassin's attire, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.


"Nothing much," Jason said casually, leaning into his chair. "Just teaching your kid a lesson in humility."

Talia's gaze flicked to Damian, who was still sitting on the infirmary bed, glaring daggers at Jason. Her expression softened slightly as she took in her son's battered state.

"Damian," she said, her voice stern but not unkind, "what have I told you about challenging opponents without fully understanding their capabilities?"

"I can handle myself," Damian replied stubbornly, his arms crossed.

"Clearly," Jason said, smirking.

Talia shot him a warning look, but Jason just shrugged, unapologetic.


"You underestimated him," Talia said, turning back to Damian. "And you paid the price for your arrogance. Let this be a lesson to you."

Damian's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue.

"And you," Talia said, her gaze shifting to Jason. "Did you really need to go so far? He is still a child."

Jason stood, his smirk fading slightly. "He challenged me," he said evenly. "I warned him. If you don't want him getting his ass handed to him, maybe you should teach him to pick his fights more carefully."

Talia's eyes narrowed, but she didn't respond. Instead, she crossed the room and placed a hand on Damian's shoulder.

"Rest," she said softly to her son. "You'll need your strength for tomorrow's training."

Damian nodded reluctantly, lying back down on the bed.

Jason turned to leave, but Talia's voice stopped him at the door.

"Jason."

He glanced over his shoulder.

"My father will hear about this," she said, her tone neutral but laced with meaning.

Jason smirked. "Looking forward to it."

With that, he walked out, leaving Talia and Damian alone.

Jason made his way back to his quarters, his mind still replaying the fight. As much as he hated to admit it, the kid wasn't bad. He had potential—raw, untamed, and frustratingly arrogant potential.

By the time Jason reached his room, the torches in the halls had burned low, casting the stone walls in a dim, flickering light. He pushed open the door to his plain, sparse chamber and collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh.

The fight had been satisfying, sure, but it left a strange taste in his mouth, like a word at the tip of his tongue but is unable to recall it.

Damian's relentless determination unknowingly reminded him of… well, himself. The kid had that same stubborn fire Jason used to have, back before everything went to shit.

Jason closed his eyes, the faint sound of the wind outside lulling him into a restless sleep.

Tomorrow would bring another day of training, and violence. But for now, at least, he could rest—if only for a little while.

- - -

The morning sun barely peeked over the horizon when Jason was summoned to the Ra's al Ghul's chamber. The fortress was unusually quiet, the usual bustle of training exercises and assassins moving through the halls absent at this early hour.


Jason had a bad feeling about this, but he kept his face blank as he approached the towering double doors of Ra's al Ghul's study.

Two guards opened the doors silently, their expressions stoic as they stepped aside to let him in. Jason entered, his boots clicking softly against the polished stone floor. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the faint glow of the morning sun filtering through the narrow windows.

Ra's sat at the far end of the room, his hands folded neatly on the ornate desk in front of him. He was as composed as ever, his piercing green eyes fixed on Jason with an unsettling intensity.

"Ah, Jason," Ra's said, his voice calm and measured. "Do take a seat."

Jason hesitated for a moment before complying, dropping into the chair across from the Demon's Head. He slouched slightly, his body language casual but his muscles tense, ready for whatever this meeting was about.

His initial thought was that he was summoned due to the tomfoolery between him and Damian, and of which hand landed the Demon'd head grandson at the infirmary.

"I understand," Ra's began, "that you and my grandson engaged in a rather… spirited sparring session last night." His prior thoughts were spot on.

Jason smirked, leaning back in the chair. "Spirited is one way to put it. The kid asked for it."

Ra's tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Indeed. Damian is brash, overconfident, and far too eager to prove himself. Traits I have attempted to temper, though clearly with limited success."

Jason shrugged. "Sounds like a 'you' problem."

Ra's ignored the comment, leaning forward slightly. "And you, boy—what do you think you proved by defeating a kid?"

Jason's smirk faded. He hadn't expected that question. "Look, the kid needs to learn when to back off. He's not invincible, no matter how much he wants to believe it."

Ra's studied him for a long moment, his gaze sharp and calculating. "You misunderstand me. I am not questioning your actions—I am questioning your motivations."

Jason frowned, his hands curling into fists on his lap. "Motivations? What are you getting at?"

"You hold yourself apart from the League," Ra's said, his tone almost gentle. "You train, you fight, but you do not belong. Not truly. You cling to the remnants of a life you cannot even remember, and yet you reject the path we offer you. Why is that?"

Jason's jaw tightened. He hated the way Ra's could get under his skin with just a few well-chosen words. "Maybe I don't want to belong," he said, his voice cold. "Maybe I'm just here to figure out who the hell I am and then get the hell out."

Ra's leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "You seek answers, yet you resist the very tools that could provide them. Your body remembers, Jason. Your instincts, your skills—they are fragments of the man you were. The League can help you rebuild yourself, piece by piece. But only if you embrace what we offer."

Jason's fists clenched tighter, his knuckles turning white. "And what's the catch, huh? Swear loyalty to you?"

Ra's allowed a small smile. "Loyalty is earned, not demanded. But you would do well to remember that the League saved you—gave you a second chance at life when you had none. Perhaps it is time to consider what you owe in return."

Jason shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I don't owe you anything," he growled. "You brought me back, sure, but you didn't do it out of the goodness of your heart. So spare me the speech about gratitude."

Ra's remained seated, unruffled by Jason's outburst. "As you wish," he said calmly. "But consider this, Jason: the path you are choosing to walk now is a lonely one. You may reject the League, but in doing so, you reject the only family you have left."

Jason's chest tightened at those words, but he didn't let it show. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, slamming the doors shut behind him.


Ra's deliberately chose his words with precision to implant the notion of a lonely, purposeless life in his mind. If he desired a life filled with meaning, he would willingly join the League of Assassins.


- - -


Back in his quarters, Jason paced restlessly, Ra's words echoing in his mind. 'The only family you have left.' The phrase grated on him, stirring up a storm of emotions he couldn't quite name.

He glanced at the mirror hanging on the wall, his reflection staring back at him with a mix of frustration and confusion. Who the hell was he? What kind of life had he lived before all of this? The blurry flashes of memory that haunted him—fights in dark alleys, the sound of laughter that felt achingly familiar—only added to his frustration.

Jason punched the wall beside the mirror, the impact sending a dull ache up his arm. "Screw this," he muttered, grabbing his gear and heading for the training grounds.

If he couldn't figure out who he was, he'd settle for what he was. And right now, what he was—what he'd always been—was a fighter.


- - -

[The next day]


The training grounds were as inhospitable as the League itself, tucked deep within the shadow of an ancient mountain, veiled by thick mists that hung like a perpetual fog. The air was thick with the scent of wet stone and sharpened steel, the ground covered in loose gravel and dirt, worn smooth by years of constant use.

Towering structures of black stone loomed in the distance, like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching long over the field. Above them, the sky was a brooding expanse of grey, heavy with the promise of rain.

A series of wooden practice dummies, their faces carved into grimacing masks, stood in various positions across the grounds, a testament to countless hours of training and sacrifice.

Nearby, a large open space stretched for hundreds of feet, the perfect setting for combat drills, where warriors honed their skills beneath the watchful eyes of the League's most feared masters.


Today, it was Lady Shiva who commanded the field.

- - -

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick