"A better… Batman?"
With a strained grunt, Batman forced the pain in his shoulder down and out of his awareness. He clasped both hands together above his head and brought them crashing down, hammering against Red Hood's raised arm which had him locked in a chokehold.
The instant his boots hit the ground, Batman surged forward. His knee drove into Red Hood's solar plexus with brutal force, knocking the air from his lungs. As Red Hood folded from the impact, Batman followed through with a sharp kick across his face, sending him tumbling across the rooftop before he rolled and sprang back to his feet.
"You're ruling through intimidation and murder," Batman shouted, his voice edged with fury as if sheer volume might finally get through Red Hood's thick skull. "You're nothing but another criminal."
"You might be right, but I'm what this city needs," Red Hood fired back, anger flashing hot beneath his control as he charged straight at him.
Batman was bare-handed, and Jason knew it. Beating him like this—fist to fist—would stroke Red Hood's ego, sure, but it would also force a measure of respect. Not that Jason needed it, but he wanted Batman to see him.
Defeating Batman outright was never the plan that night. But giving him a solid beating? That might help hammer the message home—might finally crack through the stubborn certainty Bruce deluded himself in.
"I don't have a problem with you refusing to end the bastards who won't change," Red Hood shouted mid-swing. His fist snapped upward in a vicious uppercut that lifted Batman clean off his feet, sending him tumbling backward over the sweep of his cape. "After all the chances you give them—that's why I'm here."
"Is that your newfound purpose?" Batman shot back as he recovered, their fists colliding again as the fight resumed with renewed ferocity. His voice was stern, heavy with something that sounded uncomfortably like disappointment. "Killing? Is that how you plan to spend your second chance at life?"
He sounded less like an enemy and more like a father trying—and failing—to steer his rebellious son back onto the right path. But the kid was too far gone, too stubborn to listen. And if words wouldn't reach him, maybe a good beating would.
Batman shifted into an attack combo, relying on years of experience and honed technique. Jason was better than he'd ever been as Robin—sharper, faster, more dangerous—but his skill still hadn't reached Bruce's level.
Blow. Blow.
A sharp kick snapped into the side of Jason's knee, forcing him down onto that knee. Batman pivoted immediately, swinging his leg toward Jason's head.
Jason caught the kick.
With a surge of strength, he forced himself back to his feet and hurled Batman away from him, sending him skidding across the rooftop as the fight threatened to spiral even further out of control.
"It's nothing as grand as a life's purpose," Red Hood said, answering Batman's earlier question as they circled each other.
"But when I came back to Gotham, I realized the city was overdue for sanitation. So I took it upon myself to make sure the filth gets disposed of through the proper channels."
"No matter how you dress it up," Batman replied, unrelenting, "there's still no justification for killing."
There was no telling how the night would end. Capture. Escape. Rescue Joker, that was if he wasn't already dead. Or maybe something worse. So Bruce made the most of the conversation while it lasted—while Jason was still close enough to hear him.
"There you go again…" Red Hood muttered under his breath, lowering his head as he slipped back into a fighting stance. Batman mirrored the movement, recognizing immediately that he'd struck a nerve.
This time, Batman took the initiative.
He charged.
They collided, trading blows in rapid succession. As the fight wore on, Batman began to notice it—the increase in Red Hood's pace. His strikes came faster now, heavier, paired with sharp, efficient counters. Batman was forced to shift into a defensive rhythm, the unsettling realization creeping in that it felt less like fighting Jason Todd…
…and more like facing an alternate version of Deathstroke.
'What exactly did you do to him, Ra's?' Bruce wondered grimly as he slipped past a punch. In the same motion, he produced a small disc seemingly out of nowhere, weaving behind Jason and slapping it onto his back in one clean, fluid movement.
The device detonated instantly.
A concussive blast hurled Red Hood across the rooftop, tearing him off his feet as he clawed desperately at the device, struggling to rip it free.
"Fucker!" Jason shouted as he managed to shrug out of his jacket—but it was already too late. The momentum carried him past the edge of the rooftop and out of sight.
Batman moved toward the ledge, eyes narrowed, intent on confirming Red Hood's condition from the fall.
Before he reached it, a canister shot up from below and clattered onto the rooftop. The moment it landed, it erupted—vomiting out a dense rush of thick white fog that swallowed the rooftop whole, reducing visibility to nothing.
Batman snapped his cape up over his nose and mouth, his senses at full alert.
"I guess we're both walking armories," Red Hood's voice echoed through the fog, distorted and impossible to pinpoint.
Batman held his stance, scanning the shifting haze, fully prepared for the inevitable counterattack.
He was skilled enough that sneaking up on him was nearly impossible.
Nearly.
Ra's al Ghul and Lady Shiva had taught Jason techniques that allowed him to erase his presence entirely when hunting an enemy.
Detaching his thoughts—and whatever emotions still threatened to surface—from the action at hand, Jason melted into the fog. He moved deliberately, circling, letting the sound of his boots scrape and stomp just enough to bait Bruce's attention, each echo carefully placed to pull his focus in the wrong direction.
Batman held his ground, breathing slow and controlled, tracking the false signals—until a fist came from nowhere.
The punch smashed into his jaw at point-blank range. The impact sent him crashing to the rooftop, blood spilling from his mouth as his head snapped to the side.
He rolled and forced himself back up, spitting out blood—and a broken tooth—onto the concrete.
"Damn," Jason's voice echoed through the fog, mockery laced into the single word.
Batman turned his shoulders, dropping into a guarded stance, his eyes darting through the haze. His teeth clenched hard, and his patience wearing thin. He was done with the games.
Another strike came from his blind side—but this time he reacted instantly, twisting away and catching Red Hood's arm mid-swing.
Jason adapted just as fast.
A sharp kick slammed into the back of Batman's heel, knocking his base out from under him as it swept him off the ground and falling on his back. As Bruce stumbled, Red Hood drove his other fist into Batman's torso. The air exploded out of Bruce's lungs in a harsh cough as the blow folded him inward.
He hit the ground hard.
The smoke began to thin as Jason followed him down—one brutal punch to the abdomen, then another snapping across his face.
The exposed portion of Batman's jaw was already swelling, bruised and slick with blood. Crimson streaked down from his mouth, mixing with blood drawn from torn skin where Jason's gloved fist had split it open.
Bruce had fought gods. Monsters. Men with superhuman strength.
And yet the pain blooming inside his chest was blinding—deep, internal, one his armor couldn't fully absorb.
For once, Red Hood said nothing. No snark. No taunts.
He seized Batman by the leg.
"Better brace yourself," Jason warned, his voice low and flat.
Then he ran.
Batman was dragged across the rooftop by his ankle, cape whipping violently behind him. He clawed at the concrete, trying to anchor himself, but Jason's grip didn't budge. The pull was relentless.
Bruce reached into the sleeve of his glove, fingers closing around a slim, sharpened tool—just as Jason changed tactics.
Red Hood came to a sudden halt near the edge of the rooftop, boots digging in. Batman felt a violent upward yank as his body was ripped off the ground.
Then Jason hurled him.
Batman shot across the street below, body spinning as he hurtled headfirst toward the building opposite. The distance was too short, the force too great—his cape barely had time to deploy, let alone slow his fall.
Wind roared past his ears as he struggled to stabilize mid-air.
Thinking fast, Bruce reached behind his waist and drew a compact grapple gun—one he'd quietly lifted from Red Hood during their earlier exchange.
It was crude. Makeshift. Nowhere near the caliber of his own.
But it was all he had.
And at that moment, it only needed to do one thing.
Save his life.
Batman squeezed the trigger.
A sharp hiss cut through the night as the grappling hook fired, cable screaming taut as it shot back toward the building he'd just been thrown from.
"Oh no, you don't," Red Hood muttered.
He drew one of his pistols in a single smooth motion and fired. The shot was flawless. The bullet struck the grappling hook dead-on, knocking it off course and sending it spinning uselessly away from the wall.
With his escape cut short, Batman had no choice but to brace himself.
He crashed through a window.
Glass exploded inward as he hit, instinctively rolling through the impact. He came up inside an abandoned bedroom, glass crunching beneath him as he regained his footing.
A heartbeat later, Red Hood followed—bursting through the same window.
Jason hit the floor in a roll, bleeding off his momentum, and immediately went back on the offensive. He threw a straight punch the moment he rose. Batman dove sideways, creating space as the missed strike drove Red Hood's arm straight into a nearby wardrobe, splintering wood on impact.
Batman didn't hesitate.
He launched himself forward, boots slamming into Red Hood's chest. The impact sent Jason crashing into the wall behind him, the wardrobe door tearing free from its hinges as his trapped arm ripped it loose.
Using the recoil of the kick, Batman flipped and closed the distance again, charging while Jason struggled to regain his balance.
As he moved, Bruce slipped a pair of brass knuckles from the sleeve of his glove, snapping them into place over his gloved knuckles.
He swung for Red Hood's exposed ribs.
The shattered wardrobe door snapped up at the last second, intercepting the blow—but the force shattered it in half, knocking Jason's guard aside and leaving him exposed for just a moment.
Batman took it.
Two heavy punches slammed into the jaw of Red Hood's helmet in rapid succession. The strikes weren't meant to break bone—the helmet would take that—but the concussive force was aimed at rattling his brain. It could briefly send him in a daze and scrambling his senses.
He followed through with everything he had.
An overhead kick crashed into Red Hood's head, sending him flying through the wall and into the adjoining room, the drywall collapsing in a cloud of dust.
"Cute," Jason deadpanned as he pushed himself up, brushing debris from his shoulders. He reached up, unclasped his helmet, and tossed it aside.
"If only you put this much enthusiasm into beating criminals to the brink of death," he added with a dry, almost amused chuckle.
"Ever stop to think about how much good you could've done with that strength," he continued, voice sharp with disdain, "instead of walking this murderous path?"
The disapproval in Bruce's gaze hit harder than any punch.
The rage that had fueled Jason moments earlier faltered, twisting into further heartbreak. The ache of a kid realizing his father would never see things his way.
"Well, I wouldn't be walking this path if you'd done what you should've," Jason shot back, refusing to let his resolve slip. It was the only thing holding him together now. "Sometimes, ending one life saves hundreds of Gotham's innocents."
"Even so," Batman replied through clenched teeth, the conflict clear in his voice, "I won't abandon the principles that define me as Batman."
Jason scoffed. "I'm not talking about killing Penguin or some two-bit crook who still knows right from wrong."
His voice rose as he spoke.
"I'm talking about him."
He kicked the door beside him open, sending it crashing inward—and finally revealed the reason they were both there that night.
The Joker—or what remained of him—lay sprawled before them. The familiar clown Prince of Crime Bruce had chased throughout his entire career was barely recognizable now.
His body was broken, swollen, and smeared with dried blood, beaten so severely that for a fleeting, horrifying moment, Batman found himself wondering what kind of monster Jason had become for him to do something that inhumane.
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