[Jason Todd's POV]
Flashes of Jason without the hood on—darting across Gotham's rain-slick rooftops bare footed, while being chased relentlessly by men dressed in League outfit and without faces, ripped through his unconscious mind like some cursed highlight reel. They had nothing but a black void around their faces.
His body twitched and turned beneath tangled sheets, reacting like someone
locked in a fever dream. The tension wouldn't break—until the Joker's face surfaced in the fog of his nightmare.
His eyes snapped open like a crackhead jolted by withdrawal, wide and bloodshot.
Jason shot up, his chest rising and falling in quick breaths. The air in the room felt stale, thick with the leftover humidity from last night's sweat-soaked torment.
His sheets clung to his skin like damp clothes after a storm, the mattress beneath him sticky with the evidence of whatever the hell his body had just been through. It felt like he'd just finished an intense workout or wrestled a demon in his sleep—hell, maybe both.
"Fuck…" he muttered, his voice hoarse as he raised a shaky hand to his head. It ached. Not like a sharp migraine, but a dull, swaying sort of ache—like the come-down of a mild hangover mixed with the sluggish drag of being drugged.
He felt weird. Off. Not sick enough to be concerned, just... off-kilter.
Disoriented.
Food and water might help—always did.
Groaning, Jason rubbed at his eyelids and wiped his hand down his face, trying to shake off the lingering weight of sleep. It was like waking up after getting roofied—except he'd been conscious the entire damn time, living every minute of last night's chase in real time. But his recollection of last night's chase was a bit…vague, almost meshed up with the recollection of his nightmare.
He needed to be grounded. To feel something real. So, naturally, he reached up and ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it back to clear his vision.
"Why does it feel like I was both the driver and the passenger?" he muttered, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the cracked mirror by the wall.
His eyes were sunken, his jaw tight with tension. A hint of stubble lined his face, and a faint bruise ghosted along his collarbone—remnants from last night's rooftop escapade.
"Damn... I slept through the whole day," he mumbled, yawning as he swung his legs off the bed. His joints cracked. "Body's really putting that nocturnal factor to good use, huh?" he added dryly, stretching as he made his way to the kitchen.
The apartment was dim, the only light coming from the orange hue spilling through the cracked blinds. Dust hung lazily in the air, swirling in tiny golden orbs with every step he took across the wooden floor. The hum of the ceiling fan did little to cool the place; it still felt like a sauna.
And lately he's been thinking this place has served it's purpose of helping him lay low until he hot his bearings, now he could get a better place. Hopefully one with the perks this one provides.
He opened the fridge, the cool burst of air a welcome relief as he grabbed a bottle of water and scanned the shelves for something easy—pulled out a pack of bread, some cold cuts, cheese, mustard, and whatever else he could throw into a half-decent sandwich.
Hunger gnawed at him like a pit bull. He was parched too, the kind of thirst that felt like his throat had been scrubbed with sandpaper. That sweat-drenched wake-up call definitely didn't help.
As he prepped a few sloppy but satisfying sandwiches, he poured himself a glass of orange juice and took a long sip, letting the citrus bite bring some clarity back to his senses. One sandwich down, he munched while still making more, movements slow but steady—like his body was remembering how to function properly again.
From where he stood, he could see the TV across the room. The news was on—some talking head blabbing about last night's power outage and the mysterious chopper crash in the Narrows. Jason barely looked. Instead, he pulled out his phone, scrolling idly while he chewed.
Good. The bank transactions had gone through. His new 'business partners' were keeping up their end of the deal. Smart.
Because if they hadn't, he would've paid them a visit they wouldn't forget.
Now that he had them under control, it was time to think ahead. He needed someone in the government. Someone with enough influence to move things if needed. Bruce had Gordon. He needed someone too.
Digging up dirt on politicians... Not exactly what he thought he'd be doing when he came back to Gotham, but these were strange times. And politicians always had dirt—piles of it, just waiting to be unearthed. All he had to do was find one with real sway over the cops.
The mayor. Perfect target.
A guy like that—smiling for cameras, kissing babies, pretending to give a damn—there was no way he was clean.
Jason would find the cracks in the facade.
"Wait… does this even align with my goal for Black Mask and Joker?" he asked himself aloud, chewing slowly now as the thought rolled through his mind.
He leaned against the counter, lost in thought.
"No... I'd need a connection like that for Joker."
He nodded to himself. "Stay the course. Get to Joker through Black Mask. Clean house. Then? Then I can introduce my crowbar to Roman's thick skull."
Jason grinned at the thought—dark, satisfied. The Joker, the freak who got off on pain and chaos, would get exactly what he craved. And more.
And if Ms. Li didn't flip on Black Mask and seize his throne, he'd have to turn to Big Lou and Sofia—have their families carve up Roman's territory cleanly. No messy gang war. Just a fast, silent power shift. Better than letting the vultures tear the city apart.
Finishing his last sandwich and sipping the rest of his juice, Jason wiped his mouth and set the glass down with a clink. His headache had finally dulled—probably just dehydration after all. Still, something inside him felt... foggy. Unsettled.
He knew the cure.
He made his way toward the bench press in the corner of his apartment, tucked between crates of ammo and half-repaired weapons.
Time to sweat this out the old-fashioned way.
He loaded the bar with heavy weights, the clink of iron plates echoing through the room. Then he laid back on the bench and wrapped his hands around the cold barbell. With a deep breath, he pushed it off the rack.
It lifted with almost no effort. Jason blinked. "What the fuck...?" he muttered, gently lowering it back onto the supports.
He tried again.
Thirty-five reps—clean, fast, fluid—no tremble, no struggle. That was a weight he used to max out at twelve reps on. Twelve.
And even then, it left his arms burning for the next set. Now? He could've done fifty and still gotten up for a jog.
Ever since coming back to Gotham, his body had felt... different. Stronger. Faster. Almost like he was pushing past normal human limits. The kind of physical boost you'd expect from a guy like Deathstroke. Only... Jason was stronger. Faster. Sharper.
But it has been subtle, until now. He'd ignored it at first. Brushed it off as adrenaline, or maybe muscle memory from all those brutal League training sessions.
But now?
It wasn't going away.
And the night of the rooftop chase—that was the proof. His speed, his agility—it had reached a peak he'd never experienced. Every leap, every twist across the skyline felt effortless. And he hadn't even been winded.
Even when Damian came flying out of the shadows with his little assassin tricks and went for the legs, Jason moved on pure instinct. His punch had come fast, hard—too hard. He had to pull it back last second, tone it down. He hadn't wanted to kill Ra's al Ghul's grandson. Or Talia's son. Or... Bruce's.
That fact still sat heavy in his chest.
Even with this power coursing through him, he wasn't invincible. A dead man is still a dead man. And Roman? That bastard would sell a piece of his own soul to get Jason's head on a spike.
So no—this wasn't just a gift. It could be a liability. He has to study himself and learn to control and adapt his new stats.
But one thing gnawed at him more than anything else; 'How did I know to pull my punch?' That question stuck with him, burrowing deeper.
Because the answer... probably lived in the three missing years of his life. The dark, blank space he couldn't recover.
'The closest I know about such attribute, is that they are results of the Mirakuru serum. I do not recall ever being experimented on, not even to save my life. Or could I? Some twisted resurrection experiment after I washed up dying off the coast of Lian Yu?
Or was it responsible for his missing memory.'
He didn't know.
But he intended to find out.
- - -
[Batcave]
Later that evening, Bruce stood in full Batman gear, the cape resting heavily across his shoulders. Or better put—his daily fit. Because let's face it, Bruce Wayne was the alias. Batman was the true identity. Unlike most heroes who wore masks to become someone else, Bruce wore his to be himself.
The Batcave hummed quietly with the low buzz of the mainframe, the sound of soft typing echoing between distant stone walls. Fluorescent lighting glinted off the rows of preserved suits in their glass cases and the array of Batmobiles parked like sleeping beasts in the shadows.
"How was the Science Fair?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the surveillance feeds cycling across the monitors. He could feel Damian behind him, creeping silently, hoping to get the drop on him. Maybe it was to boost his pride, to prove he could sneak up on the man even his granfather acknowledged.
"Tch. Nothing special. I took first place—as expected." Damian dropped out of stealth mode like it was nothing, slipping back into his usual cool and collected demeanor, standing tall with arms crossed. "The other kids didn't stand a chance. Their morale nosedived after my presentation."
Bruce finally turned his head, just slightly. "It's good you're excelling in school," he said calmly. "But don't look down on the other kids. You can be better without stepping on people to do it."
Teaching Damian humility after a lifetime of being raised by the League of Assassins wasn't something he expected to achieve overnight, but still—there was no better time to start than now.
Batman's gaze shifted back to the monitors, eyes scanning camera angles of alleyways, rooftops, and industrial docks. The city never slept. Neither did he. After a moment, he asked without looking, "How about your friend? The one you mentioned the other day."
Damian's expression tightened a little. "His resilience at trying to befriend me really does get on my nerves," he muttered, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth—a hint of something that might've been fondness if he wasn't actively trying to suppress it.
Bruce gave a small grunt. "You need friends your age. At least one."
"I don't need friends. They can be liabilities." Damian's reply was sharp, automatic. But Bruce heard the hesitation beneath the surface.
Silence followed. Just the low whirring of Batcave tech and the distant, rhythmic drip of condensation echoing off cold stone walls.
"Dick made an annoying gesture last night," Damian spoke up again, eyes flicking across the cave until they landed on a specific glass display case. "And it's been bugging me ever since."
Bruce raised a brow, subtly. "What gesture?"
"He…drew my attention to something." Damian gestured toward the display containing Dick's old Robin suit, now pristine and preserved behind reinforced glass. "But then I noticed something."
He pointed from one display to the next. "That one's Dick's. That one's Barbara's. But this one—" He paused, pointing toward another suit. "This one isn't his. And I know it's not mine either. I was never allowed near it. So… whose is it?"
Bruce froze.
That case.
That suit.
He didn't want to lie. Couldn't bring himself to. And so, he turned to face his son fully for the first time since the conversation started. His voice came low, soft—weighted.
"That's Jason's," he said, and even though he kept his face stoic, Damian heard the unmistakable grief woven into the breath behind the name.
Damian caught it instantly. That undertone of loss. It settled into the silence like a fog.
He hesitated, unsure of how to follow up. He'd never seen his father falter like that, never heard his voice soften like a grieving man's.
"Is he…?" Damian couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. But Bruce already knew what he meant.
"Yes," Bruce said simply, eyes locked on the suit in the case.
A long pause stretched between them.
"I'm… sorry." Damian's voice came out quieter than he expected. He stood there, feeling something new crawl into his chest—empathy, maybe. "I know there are moments when we must be warriors… but there are also times we must allow ourselves to feel. Otherwise those buried emotions—they can break us from the inside."
Bruce didn't respond immediately, but he appreciated the words. In his own way, Damian was trying.
"What happened?" the boy asked, drawn in by the sadness painted across Bruce's face. He'd seen that look in strangers who'd lost loved ones… never in his father.
Bruce shifted his weight and leaned one hand against the console. The glow from the monitor flickered across his jaw, highlighting every weary line that age and regret had etched into it.
"After being too strict with Dick, I thought I'd give Jason more freedom," he said, voice calm but laced with years of guilt. "I should've been paying more attention. He wanted to prove himself. Went off alone. And then that monster killed him."
He turned his gaze toward the far corner of the cave where he kept his collection of some notable takeaways from his rogues' gallery. Among them—Joker's playing cards. That grotesque smile is forever frozen in ink.
With a heavy exhale, Bruce added, "He died because of me. I'd do anything to fix that."
Damian was silent. There were no rehearsed responses for something like this. No clever retort. No League of Assassins training that prepared him to comfort a grieving parent.
"It wasn't your fault," he finally said, heading toward the exit ramp of the Batcave. His voice echoed slightly off the stone walls. "He died doing what he believed in—being a hero. There's no greater honor than dying for a cause."
He paused at the threshold, lingering with his hand on the stair rail. His cape swayed gently behind him as the air vents kicked on overhead.
"Whether it was your fault or not… that's not for me to say. I wasn't there. And I wouldn't pretend to understand your pain. But I get it now." With that, Damian left his father alone with the silence.
Bruce stood there. Still. Silent. Haunted.
And then the memories came rushing in—uninvited and overwhelming.
The explosion.
The sharp pain in his chest as he flew toward that burning warehouse, hoping, praying he wasn't too late. The sight of Jason's broken body—burned, lifeless. His cape scorched. The walls smeared with ash. He'd cradled his son's corpse in his arms, whispering useless apologies into the smoke as if they'd bring him back.
The funeral. The weight of that coffin. The moment Alfred had to steady him when his knees nearly gave out behind closed doors.
His breath hitched.
One hand moved instinctively to his chest as if trying to ease a phantom pain. Tears stung at his eyes, and for once, he didn't fight them. They carved silent trails down his cheeks, catching in the corners of his cowl. The reflection of Jason's costume glimmered in the glass, overlaid with the image of a man shattered inside.
This—this was why he became Batman. To stop this kind of pain. To protect the innocent. To ensure no child ever lost their parents the way he had. To deal justice so fierce that it makes criminals think twice before they begin their daily dose shenanigans.
Bruce Wayne was just a mask now. The real him—the one who barely slept, who threw himself into the night with bruises and broken bones—was here, in this cave, mourning a child he couldn't save.
And to make it worse, the man responsible still lived.
The Joker.
That sadistic clown who killed just to hear the punchline. Who would happily blow up a school bus full of kids and laugh as the world burned. Bruce had sent him away again and again—Arkham, Blackgate, back to Arkham—and every time, he got out. The system failed. Again and again.
And each time, more blood.
Jason's blood.
Unbeknownst to him, Jason was back-from the grave. Broken. Changed.
No longer the same boy. Hell, not even a boy anymore.
But that was a problem for tomorrow. Right now, he had to protect what was still his.
Damian.
He clenched his jaw.
He wouldn't lose another son.
His mind played some images—Red Hood with a crowbar, standing over someone. That same crowbar sticking out of someone else's chest.
What if the next time, it was Dick?
What if it was Damian?
"No," Bruce muttered under his breath, straightening, wiping the tear droplets away with the back of his gloved hand. The warmth had drained from his face, and the Batman returned.
"I won't let that happen. I can't let that happen. I must stop him."
And just like that, the man who had been grieving… disappeared into the cowl. The Bat was back.
And he had a mission.
- - -
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