Scene: First Contact (a.k.a. This Could Have Been Avoided)
Crime Alley is too quiet.
It’s the kind of quiet that means people are watching. Waiting. Holding their breath.
Jason’s grip tightens on his helmet.
—for the idiot currently standing in the middle of the street, arguing with a broken vending machine.
“…I know you have snacks in there,” the guy says, jabbing a finger at the glass. “Don’t play with me. I can hear them.”
The so-called “civilian.”
The one who’s been getting shot at for weeks and somehow not dying.
The one Crime Alley refuses to talk about.
The one everyone’s protecting.
None of them include whatever the hell this is.
The words cut clean through the alley.
Take in the helmet. The stance. The guns.
Jason steps forward, boots heavy against pavement.
“Funny,” he says flatly. “That’s not what people call you around here.”
“…What do people call me?”
“Okay—no. No, that’s—that’s funny. Good joke. Solid delivery. Little threatening, but—”
“Why are you using my name.”
“I’m not playing—what are you talking about??”
“The name. The territory. The pattern.”
“You show up when I do. You take the same fights. You protect the same people.”
Danny looks deeply offended.
“Okay first of all—rude. I shoot better than you, I just don’t brag about it.”
That was not the response he expected.
“That’s not the point! What do you mean your name?? I’ve never called myself Red Hood in my life!”
“…you expect me to believe that.”
“Yes?? Because it’s true??”
“I don’t even have a name thing! I just—exist!”
“That’s not how this works.”
Jason lowers the gun a fraction.
“…then why are people treating you like you are.”
“…okay, see, that’s been bothering me too.”
Danny throws his hands up.
“I thought it was, like, a ghost thing! You know—wrong place, wrong time, spooky vibes, maybe I accidentally offended a cult—”
“You’re being targeted by assassins.”
“They’re not using anti-meta weapons.”
Danny points at him accusingly.
“That’s the weird part! Where’s the theme?? Where’s the consistency?? If you’re gonna try to kill me, at least commit to the aesthetic!”
Danny paces now, animated.
“I’m used to ghosts, okay? There’s rules. Drama. Personal vendettas. These guys? Just—bang bang, die. No personality!”
“…you’re telling me,” he says slowly, “you’re not Red Hood.”
“And you don’t know why people think you are.”
“And you don’t know why you’re being targeted.”
“…you got shot yesterday,” Jason says.
“Yeah, and? I got better.”
“I mean, not like—” Danny gestures vaguely. “—better better. Just, you know. Walked it off.”
“You walked off a bullet wound.”
“Well! You see! Funny story—”
Jason turns, firing twice—precise, controlled.
Jason raises the gun again.
“…I mean,” he says carefully, “define human.”
Jason goes very, very still.
Somewhere in the distance, another gunshot echoes.
That’s not the problem anymore.
2087
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