Grifter had once been black ops—Team Seven, the kind of covert government unit that didn't officially exist. Somewhere during those buried operations, he'd been exposed to the Gen-factor.
It left him changed.
Not in an obvious way and nothing flashy. But the difference was there, latent psychic abilities humming quietly beneath the surface, and with sharpened perception. The ability to reach, gently, into the edges of someone's mind if he focused hard enough.
So he focused.
He let his awareness stretch outward in a subtle and controlled fashion, pressing carefully against the perimeter of Red Hood's consciousness. Just a light probe. A cautious peek behind the mask.
And he snapped back almost instantly.
'What the hell…?'
There was no wall, no trained mental barrier, or even a psychic backlash.
What he'd touched didn't feel like the mind of a stable man. It was so fractured and chaotic that it repelled him.
Grifter had brushed against unstable minds before. Combat veterans. Metas unraveling at the seams. But this—
This was something else.
'That's… interesting,' he thought, studying the red helmet a little more carefully now, reassessing.
He hadn't managed to break through. Hadn't extracted a single clear thought.
But the attempt alone told him something important.
The man standing in front of him wasn't guarded in the traditional sense.
He was a mess upstairs.
And if that was true, then it wasn't surprising at all that no one could quite pin down Red Hood's motives. When a mind was that fractured, even its owner might not fully understand what was driving it.
That alone put Grifter on edge against the man before him, sharpening his focus as a new layer of caution settled over him. The distant wail of approaching sirens grew louder with every passing second, a reminder that whatever time they had left was quickly running out.
"I've always wanted to fight Batman," Grifter said casually, rolling one shoulder as if discussing the weather.
"Figured I'd settle for you instead—the guy wearing the same bat on his chest. Word is you're more violent, more merciless." He glanced toward the entrance which led to the streets as the sirens swelled. "Shame the cops are almost here. Things were just starting to get interesting."
The paycheck had been good—more than good, but money wasn't the only reason he'd taken the job. He'd wanted to test himself against Red Hood, Gotham's rumored Batman 2.0.
And maybe, just maybe, that path would lead him to the real thing.
"How about we finish this somewhere else?" he suggested. If he could end things tonight, all the better. Someone like Red Hood felt like the kind of problem that only grew worse the longer you left it alone.
"You must've read my mind," Jason replied, rolling his shoulders once, loosening the tension in his muscles. The idea of calling a truce—even a temporary one—sat poorly with him. Letting a mercenary like this walk away tonight wasn't an option.
'Better to deal with him now. Black Mask doesn't get to see the next sunrise—and I can't afford distractions,' Jason thought.
'You don't know how right—and how wrong—you are, my strange friend,' Grifter mused inwardly, faint amusement flickering beneath his mask. 'Your head's such a mess I couldn't read a damn thing.'
Aloud, he said, "You lead. I'm guessing you know this city better than I do."
Red Hood's helmet tilted slightly, his lenses locking onto him. "And how do I know you won't put a bullet in my back?"
Grifter didn't even pause.
"You don't."
Jason held his gaze for a moment longer, seeming silent and cold, measuring the man in front of him. Then he nodded once.
"Stay close—but keep your distance," he instructed, already angling toward the exit.
"Try to keep up."
Without waiting for an answer, both men moved at the same instant, breaking into a sprint and vanishing into the night just seconds before the GCPD flooded the scene.
- - -
Batman and his team were stretched thin, juggling the containment of a sudden highway explosion and the urgent rescue of civilians caught in its chaos.
The blast had ripped through the roadside, toppling streetlights and scattering debris across the lanes. The source of the explosion remained a mystery, but thanks to Batman and the boys, casualties had so far been minimal.
"It's alright, you're both okay," Nightwing said gently, guiding a father and son from a car that had flipped over when the bomb detonated beneath it while they were in motion.
"You're lucky you both had your seatbelts on," Robin added, his tone firm but reassuring. The father and son clung to each other tightly, adrenaline still racing as the memory of their near-death experience lingered.
As Robin led them to safety, an officer waiting to take custody of the civilians, the boy looked up at him with wide admiration. "Thanks, Robin," he said softly. His father echoed the gratitude, nodding to both Robin and Nightwing, who brought up the rear as the last of the trapped civilians were escorted from danger.
"Just doing my job, kid," Robin said, his tone carrying it's usual edge of superiority. Nightwing fought to stifle a laugh, one that threatened to escape at the wrong moment. The boy they'd just rescued seemed momentarily taken aback, he could see him and Robin should likely be around same age range.
"What?" Robin snapped, turning to Nightwing with his usual stern glare as the officer guided the civilians toward an awaiting ambulance.
"Nothing," Nightwing muttered, a chuckle slipping past his lips anyway. Robin's brow furrowed deeper, his glare sharpening.
Before he could retort, Batman appeared, striding over from a discussion with Commissioner Gordon about the sudden attack and the possible motives behind it.
"Black Mask's company was hit not long ago," Batman said, stopping in front of his sons. "Two explosives detonated in the building—probably an RPG. Luckily, he made it out alive."
Nightwing raised a brow, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "What are the odds our brother in red pulled this highway stunt just to lure us away, then went on to blow up Black Mask's place without us noticing?"
"I'd like to say not likely," Batman replied, eyes narrowing beneath a deepening scowl. "But he's proven over and over that he's unpredictable. He takes extreme, unwarranted actions that no one could reasonably anticipate."
Robin tilted his head, thinking it through. "If he's responsible, why blow up the building? He could have easily taken out Black Mask with a sniper."
"Who knows why that crazy son of a bitch does anything?" Nightwing said without hesitation, not bothering to think it over.
"Don't waste your brain cells, kid," He added. "Best to assume he's behind both attacks."
Robin frowned, but before he could respond, Batman's gaze sharpened. "No use dwelling on it now. There's been a report of a shootout in the parking lot of a residential building."
"Just great," Nightwing muttered as the Batwing descended toward them, hovering silently above. "What are the chances he's involved in this too?" he asked as ziplines deployed from the craft, dropping into their midst just as Batman tapped his utility belt.
"I guess three times the charm," Nightwing added with a wry, sarcastic twist as each of them grabbed a zipline.
"Then he's had quite a busy night," Batman replied evenly as the ziplines carried them toward the open hatch of the Batwing.
"More like he's making a lot more work for us," Robin muttered. He didn't like the idea of spending the night constantly reacting to Jason's moves, feeling as if they were being forced to dance to his chaotic rhythm.
That's what they get for sticking their noses into whatever mess he had with Black Mask, Robin thought grimly, as they slipped into the Batwing's open hatch and shot off toward the scene of the reported shootout.
- - -
They moved into a quieter stretch of Gotham, a neighborhood where any earlier gunfire would have long since faded into silence before the police even got a tip. Not that the GCPD never patrolled the area—but the thugs here were ruthless enough that even uniformed officers were at serious risk.
Eventually, they arrived at a junkyard nestled in the heart of the district. Rusted cars and piles of scrap littered the ground, a chaotic landscape that could serve as either an advantage or a disadvantage.
How it would play out depended entirely on who could make good used of the environment to their advantage—and exploit it against the other.
The two men faced each other across the scrapyard, guns holstered out of mutual respect for each other's reflexes. Wasting bullets would be foolish; yet both remained tense, alert to every slight movement, knowing a single misstep could cost them dearly.
"It's a good thing you picked the location," Grifter said slowly, drawing his daggers, fingers tightening around the hilts. "Otherwise, you might have just picked the place where you die."
He dropped into a low, ready stance, eyes locked on his opponent, with every muscle primed for the first strike.
"On the contrary, I don't think so," Red Hood replied, his hand moving toward the hilt of the sword slung across his back. "I almost feel bad for you… if only you hadn't taken this job."
He deliberately drew the blade at a slow pace, almost seeming ritualistic, a display of confidence that left no doubt in his mind about who would come out on top.
"What can I say? A man's gotta eat," Grifter replied, shrugging as he adjusted his stance.
Red Hood's blade sliced a clean diagonal through the air as he settled into his fighting stance. "Your blood won't be on my hands," he said coldly, "but on the man you've chosen to protect, at the cost of your own life. Quite the irony."
"You talk a big game—let's see if you can back it up," Grifter shot back, tossing something to the ground. The moment it crossed the space between them, it erupted in a flash and bang.
Red Hood's line of sight was momentarily obstructed by the explosion, and Grifter seized the opportunity, lunging forward with his daggers aimed to sink into flesh.
But just as he closed in, a flurry of ninja throwing stars shot from the smoke, hurling straight at him, forcing him to stagger back mid-lunge.
"Such a pathetic attempt at an attack," Grifter mocked, effortlessly deflecting the throwing stars with his dagger.
His eyes stayed locked on the smoke, which twisted and shifted like a living thing, as though the man hidden within it was charging straight at him for a follow-up strike.
He planted his feet and swung the blade in his right hand at the shadowy figure bursting from the smoke—only for Grifter to see a flash of Red Hood's brown jacket… and nothing else.
'What!?' Grifter thought, caught off guard, as the corner of his eye picked up Red Hood's figure lunging toward his torso with the sword. 'So fast.' It felt as though the blade would slice right through him, clean as a hot knife through butter.
Reacting on pure instinct, Grifter shifted his weight and leapt backward, spinning away from the strike while bringing the dagger in his left hand to parry and evade the deadly swing.
But the force of the blade knocked him off balance, sending him sprawling to the dirt. His fall rolled seamlessly into a quick recovery, and he immediately lifted his gaze to keep sight of his opponent.
Not a sound of approaching steps had reached him, and his eyes widened in shock. Red Hood had closed the distance almost instantly—his enhanced physique and the momentum from the previous stance putting him well within striking range of Red Hood's sword.
Just coming out of the roll, Grifter was low, and even with his fast reflexes, his options in that split second were painfully limited. One wrong move could—and almost did—cost him everything.
"Shit!" he cursed as Jason's blade arced toward his neck, only to freeze mid-swing. Red Hood remained locked in that strike position, a sudden statue of intent.
'What the hell!?' Jason thought, eyes glued to the mercenary, who exhaled sharply in relief, realizing the immediate danger had passed.
Grifter fully aware of the limits of his psychic abilities, seized the moment as Red Hood wavered at the edge of his telekinetic grasp.
He drew his gun in a swift motion.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
- - -
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