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.











......







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[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.









.......





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[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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