˚꩜｡ RED HOOD: REBUILT | CHAPTER FIVE . by cindy
⤷ you finally get the opertunity to get up close and personal with the red hoods psyche. maybe that 'respectful scoop' angle actually works?
You'd just gotten off work. It was around nine o'clock at night.
If you were in Metropolis, you'd have your headphones in, listening to music, romanticising the moment.
But you weren't in Metropolis.
So you had your pearls metaphorically clutched, bag tight against your body and eyes darting around to make sure nothing was coming.
You walk for a while, and everything's fine when a large thump sounds above you.
You scream like you're being brutally mutilated. Eyes closing just in case you're about to die, you'd rather not see it coming.
"AH! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME OR I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"
Then you open your eyes, and it's him.
You scowl at him. "Are you fucking serious?"
You hear his modulated chuckle. "Fuck that was hilarious."
You groan, "Why are you stalking a civilian late at night?"
"Because you didn't use the quote I gave you."
"Why didn't you?" The masked man asks.
And you shrug, "Felt like information people could abuse. Don't know how, but people online are insane. I've seen them take a small piece of information and turn it into a full-blown detective case."
"So you're a journalist with a conscience?"
You chuckle, "Yeah, maybe."
There is silence for a minute.
Then: "You got more questions?"
Wait… he's asking for questions?
"Uh… well… no. But I can think of some." You say quickly. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Think.
You sigh, frustrated with yourself. It's been a long day at the Gazette, and your brain is fried.
Red Hood tilts his head at you.
"I'll be on the rooftop outside your apartment at 10 PM tomorrow."
You squint at him. "Creepy."
"You don't have to let me in. Just letting you know." He shrugs. "Call me over; I'll give you ten minutes."
"Why're you doing this?" You find yourself asking.
He exhales and begins climbing the fire escape.
"Because not many people in your position would've kept that quote to themselves." He says, then disappears.
A day later. You've just gotten back home from work.
It's 9:23 PM. Just over half an hour until the interview. You decide thats ample time for a shower.
You go to your bathroom and strip off, running yourself a boiling hot shower.
Just before you get in, you see the text from your now ex–boyfriend. Chase.
CHASE 🤍: bby pls can we talk? i didnt like how you ended our conversation.
Fuck, he's relentless, isn't he?
CHASE 🤍: i feel like i need to have my feelings be valid and heard babe. cmon. dont be immature
CHASE 🤍: i seriously don't understand why the fuck you got mad at me for saying i wanted u in metropolis. i just miss you babe.
Is he really that fucking stupid?
No. Not worth the mental energy.
You change his contact to 'DO NOT CALL ❌'.
Your phone dings again; put it on silent and get in the shower.
Honestly? You weren't upset over things ending. This would mean you had more time for your career. More time for you.
Except, a part of you thought he was right. Your life was built in Metropolis. Not Gotham.
Your family? Friends? All in Metropolis.
The only friend you had here was… well… Jason? And he wasn't really a friend. Just a guy you knew.
A while later you're out of the shower, and it's–
Fuck. No, no, no. You hurry out of the bathroom in nothing but your towel.
You're at your bedroom window in a millisecond. The one attached to the fire escape as you open the window.
You see him up there. Building across from yours, just like he'd said.
"Sorry! I was in the shower! Come over here!" You call out.
A few seconds later, he's on your fire escape. You see him freeze. You obviously can't see his face, but you can guess what he's thinking.
"Why are you – in a towel?" He asks in that gravelly robotic voice.
"I just told you. I was in the shower."
"Sure." He says plainly, "Better question: Why are you still in the towel?"
You eye him. "I'm not about to waste the only time you're offering me on picking out which pyjamas to wear."
You hear him sigh, "Go change, get your stuff together. I'll give you an extra 10."
You nod and run away from the window, grabbing a pair of pyjamas from your wardrobe, a notebook and pen from your desk, and your recorder.
You plop everything onto your bed, then start changing right there, dropping the towel.
"Jesus fucking – I'm right here." And his tone, despite the modulator, sounded way less robotic. Reminding you that a real person was under there.
You chuckle, "Sorry, give me a sec."
Once your pyjamas are on, you grab everything else you need and come to the window, propping up the recorder on the ledge, pen and notebook in hand.
He leans against the railing of the fire escape.
He nods once. You start the recorder.
"Red Hood," You're trying not to sound like you're buzzing about this opportunity, "Thank you for taking the time to talk with me."
"If we were just talking, you wouldn't have that recorder on." He says flatly.
Right. Professional. All business.
You hear him sigh again, mumbling, "No problem."
You look to your notes. "If you could change one thing about Gotham, what would it be?"
He's silent for a moment – "The justice system. It might sound ironic coming from me. But they're pretty corrupt."
You nod, "Speaking of you and justice. Do you feel like you should have to answer for the murders you've committed?" You have to be bold. Lois is. She would be in this situation. Put pressure on him. Healthy pressure. "I mean, I've done the research. Those men, the people you killed, awful people. But why do you get to play God?"
He thinks another moment. As if really trying to make sure he doesn't say something insane or too exposing.
"Actually, yes. I think there is a part of me that wants to answer for what I've done. Practice what I preach and all." He says, "I think now that I'm older, I see that even those people had families. That there were parts of their lives that were important." He continues, "But I can't answer for them for a long time yet. Not when I'm one of the few people who are actually willing to get shit done in this city." His head drops a little. "But yeah. I was younger then. And angry. So fucking angry."
He chuckles darkly – and although you can't see his eyes, you know his gaze is boring into yours.
"The world? How cruel it is to people who don't deserve it?" He exhales, shoulders dropping. "Not saying I'm a saint who doesn't deserve the pain I've gone through, but holy fuck did the world put me on my ass a few times."
"Have you ever told your origin story publicly before?"
"No." He says quickly. Sharp.
You nod, "Would you like to?"
He pauses. But this isn't like the other pauses. This is a shocked silence.
"A journalist asking permission?"
You chuckle softly. "I know. Crazy."
Then: "I was taken by the Joker when I was younger. He'd held me captive for about two years."
"How young?" You ask. And you can tell from the way he doesn't respond; that question crosses a personal line. So you change it. "What'd he do in those two years? Lock you up? Complete solitude?"
"He's the Joker. He ruins people. Breaks you down and rebuilds you as a machine running on fear."
You tilt your head at him. "Did he torture you?"
"We'd be here for longer than ten minutes if I told you, and you only have seven left."
You grimace. You look down at your notebook.
The questions you'd pre-planned.
What are your plans for Gotham?
Do you have a message for the street kids that look up to you?
Why the Red Hood? Why Red? Why Hood?
They all felt trivial now. Maybe you were better at your job than you thought.
You threw the notebook and pen onto your bed and faced him again. Still at the window. Him still leaning up against the fire escape railing.
"Don't tell me to ask you another question. Just answer it or don't. This is my interview." You say firmly.
"I was a teenager." He says just as firmly. "Would you be?"
You sigh. "Tell me something about you that lives under the hood."
"What?" He's genuinely confused by the question.
"The guy under there, I mean. What's one thing he's into? A hobby or a sport or something."
He shifts his weight to one side slightly, just a little fidget.
"Is this an interview or are you making me a fuckin' dating profile?"
You laugh. "Be careful, I'll ask about your dating history next."
"So you are just like all the other reporters, huh?"
"I'm worse because I'm actually good at my job."
He nods. "Yeah, you are. It's scary."
You smile. "Come on. Give me one thing. A hobby, a favourite colour. Anything."
Red Hood looks over one shoulder to the city. Trying to think. Then back at you.
Your jaw drops slightly. "You? The artsy type?"
"No way." You shake your head in disbelief. "You heard it here first. The Red Hood reads Pride and Prejudice and enjoys it."
He laughs; you hear it. Modulated, but real.
"And he laughs?" You add.
He stops abruptly and coughs to cover it.
"You got one minute." He says gruffly. "Last question."
You look at him. Thinking. Then:
"No. I've asked all my questions. I'm done." You smile as you grab your recorder and click it once to stop it. You then wander over to your bed where your notepad and pen are and flick to a new page. Writing down ideas and key points for your next article.
You hear a scoff and look up. He's still there.
"Need something?" You smirk.
He shakes his head, "You're really weird."
"Lucky that's off the record. I could get you cancelled for less."
He laughs, "If I haven't been cancelled for what I've already done? I think I'm immune."
You nod, "Go away, I'm writing now."
He shakes his head, turning to the railing, climbing over it slowly. "You're welcome."
"Thank you!" You call out as he disappears.
Nevermind. You have two friends in Gotham now.
Jason Todd and the Red Hood. Pretty good group, no?
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